October 15, 2007

Dear Friends,

As I was walking the dog today, an elderly woman approached me and asked where she could find the Italia Building. I didn’t intend to walk to the building, but offered to set her off in the right direction. As we walked along, it became apparent that she was confused. She said that she had been to church and had lost her way home. So I decided that perhaps I really should accompany her home. Walking further, she admitted that she couldn’t remember the name of her street or apartment number. I asked if she lived alone. She said yes, but she had a son and daughter who lived in the city, “a long way away.” We arrived in front of the Italia Building (a major landmark, and very tall), and she said that she didn’t recognize anything. (She didn’t even recognize the Italia Building.) I was becoming desperate and she was obviously becoming exhausted. I tried to call the police from a public phone. It didn’t work. I saw police standing on a corner, across a broad and very busy street. Before we were able to cross the street, the police had disappeared way down the block. My companion couldn’t walk faster and couldn’t be depended on not to wander off in another direction, if I had tried to go after the police.

A pedestrian passed and I asked if the community police still had a temporary outpost—a sort of camper, (way) up the street. He said that it had moved, still within walking distance, but a bit farther. My companion was visibly wilting. Finally we arrived at the outpost, where she could sit on a bench while I talked to the six police who were there.

I explained that she seemed to be suffering from dementia, that she insisted that she lived near the Italia Building but didn’t recognize it or the surroundings, and that she needed help. I also gave them the name of her son. They just looked at me throughout my explanation. Then one said that there was nothing that they could do. I suggested calling the son. No response. I suggested taking her someplace where she could rest and be watched over, at least until family was notified. They insisted that it was impossible to convey her anywhere, because their police car had space in the back seat that is used only for “criminals and people with AIDS.” The rear seats had been removed, and there was only metal to sit on. There was never any suggestion that she might sit in the passenger’s seat up front, possibly because it would mean being accompanied only by the driver (something I have never witnessed here—police always go at least in pairs). In any case, she did not want to enter the car.  Finally, I exclaimed that if she were their mother, they would do more than just give reasons why they, as “community police” couldn’t do anything. I also irritated them when I said that I had the sensation that I was talking to trees, because of the lack of help she was receiving. By this time she was wandering off. Finally two went over to talk to her and said that they would go back to the Italia Building with her—walking the entire way. I protested about her obvious fatigue to no avail.

Then, still irritated by my comment about talking to trees, one of the remaining police demanded to see my ID. I asked if I was being accused of any crime. He responded no, and I said in that case I would only show my ID in exchange for his. It became a stand-off and he retired to the interior of the camper. Another suggested that I wait on the bench to know the outcome of the others’ attempt to find the woman’s home.

As I sat on the bench with our ever-patient dog, contemplating the uselessness of Brazilian police, one of the younger ones came over and said that, really, there was little that they could do. There was no authorization to take any of the actions I had proposed. The irritated one had assured me that he was following the protocol for such cases, but when I asked where I could see it and what number it had, there was no response. But the younger policeman added, in this conversation apart, that the outpost had no phone (only the personal cell phones of some of the individuals—and of course no phone book) and that the “official” possibilities were basically one: to call for help to take the poor woman to a police station, which would have no facilities to help her. My experiences with police stations do not contradict his emphatically negative view. He said that his grandfather suffered from Alzheimer’s disease and that he knew its tragedy. I said that perhaps at least the priest of her church could take steps to see that she did not go to and from church unaccompanied. And maybe someone should try to contact the son. He said that although he was Pentecostal, he would undertake, on his own, to talk with the priest. Then he added that he blamed the family for not looking out for her.

By this time the two who had accompanied her returned without her. I asked what had happened, as I imagined that she might have collapsed on the way. In fact, they had found her apartment building on the other side of the street from the Italia Building. The doorman said that she had often lost her way home. The young policeman felt that this was a sure sign of familial neglect. I am not totally convinced. While it’s true that in Brazil families are frequently remarkably cohesive and caring, I remember the year-long difficulties my brother and our friends had in convincing my father, in the early stages of his dementia, to move to where he would receive adequate care. (When he finally moved, it took him a week to declare how much he loved his new assisted living home, an enthusiasm he retained until he died five years later.) I thanked the pair for having helped her and left, reflecting on the difficulties of a very complex social reality that have criminally inadequate funds for caring for “the least of these.”

Of course, people of faith do help, but how many also fight to cut taxes without concern for the consequent absence of necessary social services and the corrosion in the attitudes of civil servants who are thereby unable to do their jobs? And while families do have obligations that are not always fulfilled, there really are cases where, without tax-paid intervention, tragedies occur. Perhaps people of faith are called on to have faith that, with their active help, their taxes will be spent on socially (and spiritually) desirable ends. Isn’t this being our sister’s keeper?

Yours in mission,

Linnis Cook

The 2007 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, p. 41