The scene was a simple one, a room with some lab equipment, two benches to sit on while one waited for the results and two lab technicians who were probably working for a mere fraction of what they could make in the West.

Next to me was a young woman about 18 or 19 years old, accompanied by two men who seemed to be relatives. She also had her blood drawn and being spun around in a centrifuge as she was awaiting the results whether she was HIV positive or not. The three were whispering amongst themselves, the young woman was extremely nervous. I could sense her fears of the results that were to come in a few minutes. I closed my eyes for a moment and uttered a silent prayer on her behalf. I began to sense her inner pain and agony. Her fright, her fear of the impending doom and my heart went out to her in compassion.

The centrifuge kept spinning, unaware of the impact the result of this test was to have upon a young woman next to me. The Lab Technician came up to me with a slide and announced "You have malaria, and a pretty severe case." My thought was, thank you for announcing it and being so caring about it, but then this was not a plush Doctors office somewhere in the USA. I had just paid $5.00 for the visit and $6.00 for the malaria test, so what did I expect, a person familiar with Emily Post and her ways of etiquette when announcing that someone had an illness. My body knew what she was saying already and it was no real news, but a mere confirmation to me.

I remained seated on my bench since I wanted to hear the results of the young woman's test. It was not long before the same lab technician came to her with a bowl from the centrifuge and said without any emotions "You are HIV positive." No counseling, no quiet reassurance, no compassion, just another verdict of impending death for an Ugandan woman. It would not make the next issue of "The Monitor," or "The New Vision." No, she was simply another statistic for the UN studies of AIDS in Sub-Saharan Africa. She was another number, a part of the 30% of Ugandans infected with the dreaded disease. The plague of Africa had struck once again a life at the edge of its prime, not to empower it to live but to snuff it out.

She was crying as she got up to walk out. I followed behind them and felt what she was feeling. I felt her ache, her hopelessness, her despair, her loss, and her impending doom. I stopped them and looked her into her eyes. Her name was a Florence and she lived in a nearby slum. She was a maid for a well to do Ugandan. Her boss had insisted that they make love or otherwise she would lose her job. The two men with her were brothers and they too were crying, something a bit unusual for African men.

I reached out and took her hands. There were no words, there was touch, eyes meeting and she knew I cared. She looked at me and asked, "Why do you care Muzungu (white man)?

She did not understand that looking at her, I felt she could be my daughter. She did not understand that there was a connectedness between people who understood pain and that in this moment I could feel what she felt. There was no need for words; the touch of a hand and the hug that followed was enough.

I saw Florence several times after that. I saw her as her condition worsened and she became progressively ill. I also saw the changes in her, changes that were outward and inward. There was the outward deterioration and in a sense an inner renewal. There were still tears but there also was a deep realization that death was another door for Florence out of this present condition into one where no longer there was suffering, hunger, pain that was both in her and around her. That is what gave her the strength to both live and die.

She had a way of making me laugh as I drove down to her project through the muddy, red churning clay after a heavy rain. I was thinking as to how we would ever get out of here since I did not have a four wheel drive vehicle that day.

The facility was a ramshackle collection of clay and mud buildings put together with whatever was available. As I walked around the site I was struck by the contrast of a lush golf course right adjacent to this slum. Only in Africa was my thought, the contrast was somewhat overwhelming.

Inside there was no electricity and it took me awhile to get adjusted to the dim light. The waiting room was a sight to behold and too bad I did not get a picture that does it justice. There were boxes and boxes of donated condoms stacked against the wall. A cross hung over them, a table with a Bible on it and a wooden carved model of the male organ which was used to demonstrate how to use condoms to those coming into the clinic. There were posters about AIDS and its dangers and in the middle of them was one that simply said, "Jesus is Lord." I could not help but smile, as I had never seen something like this in my life. The images were a bit overwhelming; humorous on the one hand but also a message about the reality of life in this slum. Anne was making a difference in whatever way she could use donations from American Churches, the local Hindu Society, UNICEF and the European Ladies Club.