A Song Amidst the Noise

Weeks before the 2007 Kenyan election ended in riots, I boarded a plane in NYC and headed to Nairobi.
As an Operation Smile medical photographer I was required to take photos of patients before, during and after surgery. The room had hit capacity with handsome surgeons changing the lives of children. Yet, the person who stole my heart was a 10 year old girl who when she smiled raised her eyebrows, twice.
Caroline had two surgeries, which required her to be at the hospital an entire week. She became my touchstone. Each morning before going to the OR and every evening, at the risk of missing the ever elusive hotel bus, I’d go to Recovery to get my smile followed by two eyebrow raises.
I needed those smiles to get me through the time away from the hospital. They were two separate worlds. The hospital was brimming with children and laughter and the hotel mood was tense. When the news reported the latest coverage on the upcoming election the locals would gather at the hotel bar cheering with clenched fists. I had no idea what they were saying, in fact, the only new word I’d learned on the trip was my name, and that was something Caroline taught me.
It happened after her first surgery. She was so silent if she hadn’t used my hand to wipe away her tears I might’ve thought she was sleeping. I asked if she wanted anything and she spoke to her auntie in Swahili. Caroline looked at my surgical cap, smiled, and raised her eyebrows, twice. Her aunt informed me Caroline wanted me to take my hair down. For the next 5 minutes she stroked my hair. We were all silent and then her auntie told me my hair was so soft and they had never seen anything like it before. Neither had I, a 10-year-old girl so thin I’d easily carried her around the hospital had just awoken from a 3-hour surgery, where one third of her foot was removed, and she was stroking my hair and smiling. Her auntie asked me my name and when I said Leah she turned and spoke quietly to Caroline. With a smile on her face Caroline raised her eyebrows twice and put a hand over her mouth as she giggled. Her auntie smiled as well and informed me, “Your name means ‘to cry’ in Swahili.” From then on whenever I stopped to visit they said my name with grins and great affection.
When I had a chance to Google the Swahili meaning of Lia I smiled, without raising my eyebrows, and saw there at the end of a list that included to cry, to weep, have despair, or lose hope was the definition that fit: To sing. And my heart did.