Summit I: July 4 – July 7

I waited two hours for the bus to Nairobi to leave Arusha. I waited another two hours for the bus to pass through customs at the Namanga border. I waited another collective hour for random road stops by armed soldiers checking the passports of everyone on board. It’s not that I appreciated the consequential dump onto unfamiliar urban streets at midnight. But I wasn’t particularly bothered by the wait, as I knew I would eventually arrive in Nairobi, and pace was beyond my control.

I arrived at the International Women’s Summit on HIV/AIDS the following morning not knowing what to expect or how I would be able to participate, on this typical sporadic-Kate-adventure, unregistered and unaffiliated. Before I could reach the security checks the Kenyatta International Conference Centre, I was greeted by angelic voices of a rejoicing Kenyan choir. Guards and gates loomed ahead but in the courtyard immediately before me, a choirmaster’s arms bounced rhythmically, leading dozens of joyous performers and bystanders. He grabbed the dainty hand of a woman in a kimono and slippers who joined his hip shaking. A South African woman jumped into the circle, followed by a wrinkled Irish grandmother, who later comically whispered to me “That was outside my comfort zone!” A veiled Egyptian woman is pulled in, reluctantly at first, but soon willingly grooving along with the rest. We are all together, moving, shaking, singing. This interactive morning ritual became more unbelievable to me each morning I returned (with a smile, sense of purpose, and $90 I somehow finagled a three day pass), as I realized who these women around me are. These are mostly HIV-positive women, from incredibly diverse societies yet facing the same harrowing daily challenges. I came with curiosity, they came with courage, and the intent to share their experiences and make change – policy change, behavior change, reality change.

This celebratory morning enthusiasm deflated through opening remarks from ‘acclaimed' international guests: an enormous balloon of hope punctured by dangerous political sound-bytes. Dr. Margaret Chan of the WHO asked, “How will we catch up?” as she reconfirmed that for every person put on antiretroviral therapy (ART), six more infections occur. She frames WHO’s next massive goal - universal access to ART by 2010 – with an obvious warning that “we do not have the luxury of time”. Dr. Peter Piot of UNAIDS laments that “We are moving too slowly” towards 2010 and that “the queues for ART are only getting longer”. “I am an optimist” he says, unconvincingly, throwing out a few feeble quips that with “zero-tolerance for injustice” we will see “catastrophes in opportunities” and he “ will do everything in my power…” but “we can do better”.

“Preaching to the choir”, I cannot help but quip back. These are the tireless grassroots workers who are doing better everyday out of necessity, not your comrades at WHO and UNAIDS who have the resources and leverage to speed up bureaucracy and service delivery…and too often do not.

Warren Buckingham, the Kenya PEPFAR representative, who has been living positively for nearly 20 years, pleasantly reversed my cynicism. He testified to women being vessels, vectors, and victims of HIV and his voice trembled in humility, “I know you don’t need me to tell you that men have perpetuated these three V’s. ‘Buck’ proposed a new history, “one of Victors”, taking the blame and proposing a joint male-female strategy – how refreshing.

But this inflation fizzled as the national government issued their formal statement. A minister introduced Honorable President Kibaki to the audience, who wishes us “fruitful deliberations” - as if this is merely an exercise in political exchange and not a real ask for change? - “And a warm stay in our country”. Reading blandly off his script of a “vision of a society where girls and women live fulfilling lives” I doubt he realizes how unacceptable it is that he reigns over a country where they cannot. “AIDS can no longer be ignored,” he blurts out. Thanks for the tip, the audience throbs.

Kibaki’s closing remarks transport me back to BDM lectures on the logical corruption of countries with a small “winning coalition” (amount of people who truly have a say in who rules). Here at the first ever Summit of Women and HIV/AIDS, he looks up from his script and with a smile suggests we, “I see many of you have come from very far away. Sample our tourist attractions, for adventure, holiday, wildlife, safaris, culture and sport tourism. I encourage you to take some time. I don’t think anyone will worry you about taking 3 or 4 days. I think it will be a long time until you return. See more of the country around you!” His fear is so palpable, practically dripping off the podium: He is afraid we’ll come and go without dumping dollars into an economy out of which he creates his paycheck.

A ping-pong match of politician’s empty promises of politicians and urgent pleas of working women structures the Summit, but unlike other large conferences I have attended, the latter largely generates the energy and agenda. Every room contains rows of tables lined with microphones and translation headsets, thoughtfully allowing all participate. I join in workshops with my peers from around the world (although I do get asked if I am 16 on several occasions), where among many specifics of the pandemic, I learn about diverse Prevention strategies: a death penalty from the Netherlands, the role of mothers in sexual health in Burundi, gender-based conflicts facing Trinidad and Tobago, and the struggle in Taiwan to balance increasing condomisation with more abstinence and faithfulness. Later in a breakout session women like Susan are free to address the entire Summit, or rather her interpreter. : “I am a woman, I am deaf, and HIV positive,” she signs madly, “Considering this triple discrimination, I am lucky to be alive.”

Sessions overflow with passion and for hours on end I am all ears. I cringe at the incredibly inaccurate portrait of a visionless, dying Africa that my society at home has crafted. Previously silenced women demand, “How can we afford a conference if we can’t feed our families? We shouldn’t have to choose.” Africa is here, not as the international image, not as Kibaki, but as these mamas working together to improve their reality. Africa tells me, “It’s not just about sitting at the table, it’s about setting priorities.” Africa tells me, “You must be able to articulate your vision and passion.” Panelists do not have time to fully address the multitude of interrogations that follow their presentations, but there is satisfaction having released concerns into the atmosphere, purging the worry out of the body, expressing it into the political environment, and realizing so many share your struggle, and your will to survive. Africa tells me, “Know your rights. Identify what you have and pursue it relentlessly- Be Specific.” Wisdom pulsates through every word, and I think, experience is clearly the best teacher. Africa tells me, “Justice delayed is justice denied.” Women know that testing is the way forward, but cannot test compulsorily because the rate is so high among police and military forces.

Africa tells me, “Don’t internalize negative messages, or else they will become reality.”

We can shape our reality. This energy of possibility teems over at four packed public Town Hall meetings where - despite a huge photo of President Kibaki looms overhead under fluorescent lighting - the Kenyan coat of arms, hangs on the wall and speaks truth to the Summit: “Harambee” emblazoned across a shield, proclaiming in Kiswahili, “We are Together”. I lean over and ask a woman to translate the Kiswahili on a t-shirt for me that decorates so many at the forum on Sexual and reproductive health and rights for positive Women. “Haki za kimapenzi ni haki za ki inadawu”. She ponders for a moment and whispers, “Wherever you are you need a lover.” I accept this but will try for a second opinion, until she lean over again and changes her mind, “The truth of love is the truth of human beings.” I eventually learn the ‘actual’ translation to be “Reproductive rights are human rights”, and prefer the poeticism of her more honest expression.

Presenters spoke urgently, unlike the politicians who opened the Summit, and I found it difficult to catch everything, so heavily accented to my ears at a fast pace. They speak madly, knowing that the 2.5-hour time limit is far too restrictive for such an incredibly expansive issue – their survival. Here I feel Dr. Chan’s comment; there is no luxury of time to speak slowly and clearly, like those who aren’t really saying anything.

I witnessed legitimate conflicts and women arguing productively, not the endless pendulum of male-dominated international affairs. A representative of the Global Campaign for Microbicides and a minister of the Kenyan government go head to head on Female-Initiated Prevention Options. After an explanation of the promise of microbicides (gels and creams with the ability to prevent the sexual transmission of HIV when applied topically. Dr. Ruth Oniango counters back, voice powerful under strong, shining cheekbones, “I’m sorry. I can’t talk about these pills and creams when my people need food. How about food prescriptions first?”

I am continually tripped up by my attempts to explain the power of this conference to you without sounding like another aloof ad campaign. “HIV is a challenge for me to be a better person and everyone else to be better people”, says Marie Bopp Allport, of the Pacific AIDS Foundation. I am asking you to join me in this challenge, and complete a small exercise with me. I ask this not to convince you to care, for I assume you already do. I’m asking you to do this to refresh your insight and reenergize your compassion, active, as I know it already is. (I hope you’ll always challenge me to do the same.)

Think of a time you have been insecure. Not just unsure of how to act, but also confused, alone, and in pain. Maybe college students can associate with a night of passing the limit – all you want is for this to be over, to be sick and fall asleep in your bed. Business-people perhaps have been in a plane in heavy turbulence? Please God, let me just get through this, let this be over. Children facing their first frightening solo lap of a swim lesson. Taking a test in exhaustion, making a deadline in rushed time, paying a rent or tuition under tight cash.

How did you succeed? Did someone help you, or did you figure it out yourself?

I fell incredibly ill on Friday night after eating reheated rice and beans from the hostel canteen. Voluntary guarding kicked in and I wrestled away excruciating abdominal pain for 8 sleepless hours, praying for morning, praying my appendix was not exploding, praying for comfort. None came. I wished to be home where there are doctors on duty, medicines in stock, and enough toilet paper in my bathroom that I didn’t feel the need to ration it out, as I got sick again and again. I wished for assurance, to know exactly what was wrong, or mom to tell me it’s going to be OK.

Whether this pain was heaven sent or a fortunate coincidence, I realized quickly what it meant as I dragged myself to the last day of the Summit. I think too often we assume resource-constrained communities will figure it out themselves. They have to, after all, right?

I endured one night if insecurity. My pain was without a definitive end. I did not have the assurance of a doctor, nor of my mother. But I could survive one night. What about the millions for whom there is no mom? Pain isn’t temporary, pain is reality.

I duck into Room 2, the end of a session on “Children and HIV”, and catch the moderator asking 14-year old Dorothy, slim and HIV positive, what we can do to help her, because we too often try to help others without asking what they need first. She sits, a pile of bones, and collects her words; “I need a better house, better clothes, and food so I can be stronger than I am.” Her simplicity sends a chill through my body.

Her 16-year-old guardian Caroline is asked to speak as well. Caroline sighs and bites her lip hard; she is clearly making every effort not to lose it in front of this large audience. An audience of mothers, of women, a massive whisper of “Pole ” (sorry) breathes forth from the crowd. Caroline looks down and between jagged breaths states strongly, “What we need is help. Things we cannot afford. Food.” She stops, breathes, restarts, “I also need to go to school. I need a guardian, a person to look after me.” She needs Mom.

Africa tells me, “we’re talking about the survival of a generation – we are losing an entire generation”

These are 2 of 15 million AIDS orphans many running “child-headed households” – children robbed of the security and love of parents so crucial to human development. I leave the conference with new inspiration but new concern specifically for the terminology with which we now speak of AIDS issues, words that mask the harsh reality. “Conflict situations” masks the woman gang raped by 21 soldiers at once – the soldiers who are meant to protect her. In the midst of so many inspiring words my one concern, walking away reluctantly from the same singing choir on the closing ceremony, are the words. We come up with terminology for tragedy and we automatically distance ourselves from it.

However, the Summit left me reconsidering why I have chosen this work. I always say because it’s the only sensible thing to do; AIDS is 100% preventable and 100% treatable and the pain it is wreaking worldwide is a reflection not of a lack of resources or knowledge, but a failure to disseminate information and distribute resources. Unlike the pace of the bus that brought me to Nairobi, we DO have control over the tools that will stop the AIDS pandemic. If there must be a wait, it should always be FOR something. Specific. To which the promising party will be held accountable.

Unlike conference and summits where promises and pledges are make and then historically broken, many women took to their soapbox specifically to point out that we are not here to make promises. These women know full well promises mean nothing. We are here to share, they say. We all must share our experiences, our expertise, our ideas, our advice, and then bring it home to our communities and families and share with them. May I be doing my small part by sharing the experience with you, so that it is not a stagnant pledge to promote justice, but an active pledge of promoting justice. Present tense.