sia

sienna sent me this story of this little girl. i didn't write it. Angela Hess, sienna's former room mate, did. i like the simplicity and power of this article. you should really read it. even if you don't feel like staring at the computer screen for however long it takes to get through it. i didn't feel like reading it ither. then i got past the first sentence--i was hooked. i trust you shall be too.

I wish I could’ve given her a dollar.

I wish I’d known her, and I wish she’d asked me. I don’t know what she needed a dollar for, but I would’ve given her one.

Then again, maybe it’s not really about a dollar. Maybe it’s about other things I want her to have. Like childhood and love. Or a life without fear.

Nearly three months ago, ten-year-old Sia stole 50 Liberian dollars—less than one US dollar. She took the money from her stepmother, who she lived with. Her birth mother had abandoned her years ago, and her father was in jail.

Sia’s stepmother decided to punish the little girl in a way she’d never forget. She poured kerosene all over Sia’s hands, and then she forced them into a blazing fire. She held them there for about five minutes—until parts of Sia’s fingers were gone and her palms were covered with third degree burns.

She held them there until much more than Sia’s hands were damaged.

The little girl arrived at the Mercy Ship about two months after she’d been burned. A doctor from a Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) Belgium hospital in Gbarnga, Liberia—about three hours’ drive from Monrovia—brought Sia and her grandmother to the ship. Sia had been in the MSF hospital for two months, but her doctors there could do nothing more. She needed major surgery to graft skin onto her palms. So the doctor from MSF drove Sia to the Mercy Ship, hoping that Dr. Tertius Venter, a South African surgeon with years of experience treating burns, could help.

By the time she reached the ship, Sia was terrified. She knew she was at another hospital. They’d cared for her well at MSF, but to Sia, “hospital” was a place where she’d had her dressings changed and, over and over, seen her gruesome hands. “Hospital” was synonymous with pain and trauma.

On the ship’s ward, Sia cowered defensively in the corner, refusing to let any of the doctors and nurses approach her. She wouldn’t let them get near her hands. Gone, along with the skin on her hands, was her trust in the people who promised to care for her.

She wouldn’t let down her guard. The medical staff called in an anaesthetist to put Sia to sleep so they could take a look at the burns. Just hours after she arrived at the ship, Dr. Venter scheduled her for a skin graft, a procedure that would move skin from her thigh to her hands.

The next day, I visited Sia on the ward. She sat in bed #31, staring up at a television several feet away. She didn’t seem terrified anymore; she wasn’t hiding. But she was quiet and guarded. She should’ve been a carefree ten-year-old, but she wasn’t.

All because of a dollar.

I talked to her, but she was distracted—maybe by the TV, maybe by knowing she’d have surgery the next day. We had a hard time understanding each other; while we both spoke English, it was definitely not the same English. Sometimes she responded to what I said, and other times she didn’t. She seemed to understand, though, when I asked her if we could be friends. And she told me we could.

I went back to visit my new friend the next night. One of the nurses told me that Sia would spend a few weeks recovering on the ward. The little girl sat in her bed, watching the same movie she’d seen the day before. She looked worn out, partly because she’d been under general anaesthesia for the third time in three days.

Through a translator, this time, I asked Sia if I could bring her anything. She asked for a balloon. I told her I’d see what I could do.

Two days later, I found her on the ship’s aft deck, getting some fresh air with a nurse and a few other patients. Four boys introduced themselves to me; three of them were named Junior. They were talkative, energetic, and friendly. In sharp contrast, Sia was reserved. The other kids hung on monkey bars and jumped rope; but her bandaged hands, looking like small white boxing gloves, and her taped-up leg kept her from joining in. My heart sunk as I scanned my surroundings, suddenly aware of how many things Sia couldn’t do.

I didn’t see her for the next few days, but Sia was changing. When I visited again, she almost smiled when she saw me. I pulled up a chair next to the swing she was sitting on. This time, I had a balloon with me. “Look what I brought you!” I said. “A balloon,” she responded, with quiet excitement. She took it from my hand and put it on her lap. We sat for a while, watching the other kids play basketball. I asked her if she wanted me to blow up the balloon so we could play with it. “No,” she answered. “I’m taking it to my brother.”

I tried my best to hide my shock. How was it possible that someone who had been shown such hatred could be so unselfish? She could’ve been thinking, “I deserve to have this thing,” but instead she thought about giving?

She kept the yellow balloon on her lap as I pushed her on the swing. I jumped out in front of the swing and flew through the air, pretending that she’d given me a powerful kick with those tiny little legs. And then the best thing happened: she laughed.

It wasn’t a belly laugh, by any means. And it wasn’t a laugh that made me think I was funny. It was a laugh that proved that this little girl was becoming a kid again, that she was coming back to life.

Just a few days later, I watched Sia and her grandmother walk down the ship’s gangway. Sia wore a purple dress and carried a small puppet in her still-bandaged hands.

Someday she’ll be able to use it.