One World.

In a small community in eastern Guatemala, its nine families all battle HIV, including many of the children. A small site offers limited treatment with dirty floors, peeling paint, and no plumbing. But in this small community lives a relentless spirit unsurpassed anywhere else.

Most of the kids have lost parents to the disease, and others have been abandoned by apathetic parents. Too many of the girls have fallen victim to sexual abuse, and the wives with HIV contracted it because of their husbands’ infidelity. Only two nearby churches support the families, far outnumbered by the others who ostracize them for their disease. The explanation is that HIV and AIDS is punishment from God for their sins.

You go to visit one of the homes. At the base of a hill stands a small cemetery with ten colorfully derelict headstones. As you head up the treacherous path, it becomes increasingly narrower until you are treading on a mud path only six inches wide. Tall grass grabs at your ankles, and rocks shift underneath with each uncertain step. When you finally meet even ground, small bean plant rows etch the hillside. You see a small group of huts, and you call out to a humble homeowner who opens a small, decrepit door. The woman has no front teeth, but she puts a denture-like flipper in her mouth to expose a full smile as you file in.

Inside the house, the temperature is unbearably hot, and standing there surrounded by flies is miserable. The hut is nothing more than a small square, barely big enough for the single bed inside. Shoes and bananas and household items are stacked precariously upon one another against the walls.

It quickly becomes clear how sick the woman is by her hollow, skeleton-like figure. She explains that her husband scrupulously seeks field work each day, and that she would normally be selling fruit on the street if it were not for your visit. You are shocked to learn that one son is nine years old and the other is a teenager; they do not look this old. She explains that one son is the proud care-taker of the beans you passed.

They do not attend school because they cannot afford it, but education does not equate to a better life anyway. Survival means battling the daily weakness HIV brings and working simply for the right to eat. You pray for the family, give them a bag of food, and you begin trudging down the hill in distracted silence. But one of the boys chases after you with bananas – a final display of hospitality.