A LIFE OF DIGNITY
It was June 2007. I was on my first visit to Mali and I was with Barbara Frost, our Chief Executive and Idrissa Doucoure, Head of West Africa. It was summer and the temperature was well above 35 degrees Celsius. Fatim, our Country Representative in Mali had arranged a visit for us to the village of Tienfala in Koulikoro region in south-western part of Mali.

“Tienfala is a very special village”, Fatim explained. “Most of the people have been affected by blindness caused due to trachoma”, she said. Trachoma is spread by insects that breed in dirty water and causes serious blindness. “In this village, we are trying our initial experiments in inclusive provision of water and sanitation services so that the disabled can also access these services”, she said.

Disability is one of the key barriers for accessing services including water and sanitation. These services are designed for the so-called able bodied. Disabled people are rarely asked about the options that they would like to be factored in to ensure their barrier free access. More often than not, they are marginalized, excluded, unorganized and voiceless. Many governments estimate that people with disabilities constitute 2-4% of the population – and hence, they are dismissed as being in a numerical minority. Others, including the World Health Organisation consider those with disabilities to be in the 10-15% range of the population. Clearly, there is a case for better visibility of those who are disabled and enumerating them.

But Tienfala was indeed very different. You did not need statistics to tell you the story. A walk around the village was enough to see clearly that many people were indeed blind or partially sighted. There were some cases of people with locomotor disabilities as well. We started going around, talking to the people on water and sanitation, and other matters concerning them. At the far end of the village, we stopped at the house of an old lady.
As we entered the small compound that housed her mud-thatch house, she stared at us blankly, sitting on a low stool. Fatim introduced ourselves, and her face lit up. Her big smiled revealed her toothless gums, but there was no denying the fact that she was very happy to meet us. Profusely welcoming us, she got up slowly, but steadily from her perch, with a help of a walking stick. “Tell us your story”, Fatim asked her, “and tell us if life is any different for you now”, clasping her frail shoulders. She must have been around 80.

“I was blind from a very young age”, the old lady started. “Life was very difficult. Our family was poor. And without my eyesight, it was very difficult to get around and do something on my own without relying on somebody’s help. As I grew up, lonely and isolated because of my blindness, things became more difficult. I did not get married as no one wanted to marry a blind girl. Eventually, my family members either moved out or died. I was all alone, all by myself. I was surviving only on the mercy of the local community, who occasionally brought me water and food. I had no place to go to the toilet. I had to get down on all fours, find my way around to a place where I could relieve myself, but then was always worried if others would see me. Living at the far end of the village also meant that I was not involved in any community activities”.
“I had resigned myself to a life of indignity, feeling unwanted and useless. But then these people (pointing out vaguely in the direction of Fatim and her colleagues) came around. When they saw that there were many blind people in the village who had difficulty in collecting water, they created a fence around the handpump and laid the path leading to the handpump with pebble, with some bricks lining up all the way, so that we could find our way to the handpump more easily”, she said, brightening up as she talked about her new experience. “Of course, because I am too old and weak, I don’t go regularly to the handpump and collect water – occasionally I do, but mostly, other people help me. It is easier for them now as they too do not need to walk long distances to collect water, and so it is easier for them to support my needs as well”, she said.

“But the biggest change for me has been my toilet. I have a toilet now in my small compound. There are bricks and stones that mark the way to the toilet and so I can find my way very easily – and it is just outside my little house. I know it is a secluded and private area, so I need not worry about my privacy. And they have raised the toilet seat, so that I don’t have trouble finding out where the toilet is. Earlier, someone did help me with a small toilet, which was a hole in the ground so that I did not have to relieve myself in the open. But then, I had to find the hole with my hands to make sure that I am sitting at the right place. Now, that is no longer required. I find it very comfortable, and this is the best thing that has happened in my life”, she said, the huge smile returning back to her face !

“I thought I was destined to live a life of indignity. I am very old now and I don’t have much time left. But I am so pleased that some people recognized my needs and in my last days, I am able to lead a life of dignity”, she said, visibly moved and overwhelmed. “It is the first time in my life that I felt wanted and that someone really cared about me”, she said, her voice cracking. “I cant see you, and I cant give you anything in return – but what I can do is to sing a song for you, and dance for you, to express my gratitude and appreciation for all that you have done, and bless you all that God gives you all that you want”. With that, she threw her walking stick aside, and broke into a song and dance, in a tremulous voice, whirling around slowly, but with determination. Her face was again lit up with joy as she did that. We clapped in unison to keep up with the beats of her song. After a few moments she stopped and laughed in embarrassment, suddenly becoming very coy about what she had just done – expressing her joy ! Laughing to herself, she said down and waved to us with both hands, a sign of a blessing.

There was not a single dry eye in the crowd. It was one of the most moving moments in my life. And each time I narrate this story, or think about it, or even as I write about it now, I can feel my eyes welling and the lump in my throat !
I don’t know if that old lady is still alive. Probably I will find that out when I visit Mali in 2012. But even if she isn’t, I am filled with so much joy and pride that WaterAid played that little role in transforming that lady’s life !