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March 10, 2008
The Wishing Ceremony
Two weeks ago I visited my dear friends Con and Marion Cloete at Botshabelo, their incredible eco-village for AIDS and economic orphans, in the Magaliesburg mountains an hour from Johannesburg in South Africa.
It was an amazing visit!
On the last day of my trip I was invited to join Marion, her three daughters and about thirty kids of all ages for what they call a Wishing Ceremony. (The group included Hopalang, pictured above, from my trip to Botchabelo last year.)
The Wishing Ceremony is something I will never forget. We walked single file through the bush and up a winding path to the top of a small hill. Some of the kids held hands and some simply walked alone, sweetly comfortable with themselves.
On the top of the hill sat a gnarled old thorn tree with a pile of stones under it. We sat beneath the tree, in a circle, around the stones.
The ceremony was beautiful and incredibly powerful. Marion asked all of the children to pick up a stone and in turn, place the stone on the pile while making a wish for themselves and anyone else they would like to wish for.
Most of the children in the group have lost one or both of their parents to AIDS. As a South African I am disgusted to say that many in the group (some as young as four or five) have been raped or prostituted, an epidemic in South Africa where a child is raped every four minutes.
In the safety of Marion’s wishing circle child after child spoke of their wishes and hopes.
One tiny girl hoped that her mother was not crying anymore now that she was in heaven.
One little boy said he hoped the man who raped him was not hurting other children. As he spoke a big tear ran down his cheek and dropped into the pile of wishing stones. When he sat down Marion reached out and pulled his little body toward her, holding him tightly as she kissed the tears on his cheeks.
Another boy who was about six thanked Marion for taking care of all the kids in the village.
Hopalang, who is four, didn’t say anything, but as he placed his stone on the pile his smile told me he was wishing the love, support, and nurturing that filled his pot-bellied little body, would never stop
Maki, a beautiful girl who was fifteen or sixteen, cried desperately for her mother and father who both died of AIDS and left her with nothing but painful, terrifying, gut-wrenching memories.
Marion wished that the children in the group who were in terrible, emotional pain would soon find the smiles that had been stolen from them.
I was touched beyond words.
To end the ceremony Marion made a last wish for all the children in the world who were being raped, hurt, or orphaned at that very moment.
When she finished speaking the children all reached over and placed a final rock on the pile. As that happened, I felt this incredible sense of wellbeing envelope my entire body. I think it’s the closest I have come to what one might call a religious experience. I can honestly say that at that moment I truly felt the presence of the guardian angels who were standing behind each and every child in the group. I think I heard the gentle rustle of their wings as we stood in silence although it could have been God’s sigh moving the tall savanna grass around us.
We all stood quietly around the pile of rocks with our arms around each other as our wishes rose from the huddled group and swirled toward the heavens in a wonderful plume of hope.
Nobody spoke as we made our way back down the path to the village.
I hung back as we passed the village cemetery and stopped off at a grave that was marked by an infant’s bottle and a stuffed animal. (There is not enough money at Botshabelo to have gravestones and because of this most the children’s graves are marked by the children’s own meager belongings like bottles and stuffed animals.)
The grave I stopped at belongs to Demi (pictured above), a little girl I met on my last visit to the orphanage. Demi was 12 days old when I met her. Her mother had died during childbirth and Demi was born prematurely. Demi and I bonded instantly and I held this tiny little twelve- day old baby the entire day. I wanted to take her home so badly.
Demi died during her sixth month due to complications from premature birth and awful medical ineptness.
I kneeled down at the grave and spoke to Demi. Suddenly, thoughts of her and the emotions stirred up from the Wishing Ceremony opened the floodgates.
I began to sob.
A hand suddenly touched me on the shoulder. It was Hopalang, the four year old. (He is an old soul though and way older that his years.)
Ever the inquisitive little investigator he had wandered over from the group to see what I was doing.
“It's okay to cry,” he said, patting me on the shoulder as I crouched alongside the grave.
I looked up at this amazing child and smiled.
He wiped my cheek with his pudgy little hand.
Then he patted me gently on the head.
I hoisted Hopalang onto my back and carried this true angel, and a bursting heart, down the hill and into the village.
Posted by trevor at March 10, 2008 12:55 PM