areas. Running water in the dilapidated homes was nonexistent. Children ran barefoot, threadbare clothing barely fit for dirty rags. A little girl, no more than five years old, stood alone, her thumb pulled into her mouth, a dusty-yellow cotton shift skimming the lines of her malnourished frame. Jericho heaved a deep sigh.
Noting the change in his friend’s disposition, the man’s initial excitement defusing quickly, Peter offered commentary. He pulled the vehicle off to the side of the road and shut down the engine.
“My homeland is still recovering from our days of political oppression and the subsequent war. Tribal animosity, corrupt politics and military tyranny had crippled us. Some parts of the country are still too volatile to think about traveling. But we are slowly becoming stabilized. Look at the city of Kampala. It thrives! It is the new Uganda! It is what this whole country shall one day become.”
Jericho nodded his head slowly. “But the children look so dejected.”
“Our children are hungry and homeless and there is no money to care for them. Thousands have been abducted by the Lord’s Resistance Army to be child soldiers or sex slaves. Many more have been orphaned by the AIDS pandemic. Our sons and daughters have had a hard road to travel.”
“Why isn’t more being done to help them?”
Peter paused, a flicker of a tear rising to his eyes. “We are doing all we can,” he answered, his words falling into a whisper.
“What can I do?” Jericho asked, turning to look his friend in the eye.
Peter smiled. “You are doing it, Dr. Becton. You are here, my friend.”
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