BY IKUJI NAKAYA

It was time to go to work. I forced myself out of bed, brushed my teeth, still feeling the buzz from too much sake I'd had the night before. Made a cup of coffee, grabbed the newspaper and turned on the TV to check morning headlines. The first thing to do at the office was to browse the major newspapers, looking for any breaking situation that would require immediate action. Phones rang constantly in a room filled with cigarette smoke.                                                                                  Ikuji Nakaya

 Afternoon is the time to go searching for fresh material and write articles before the daily deadline. Nighttime is an important time for many Japanese reporters to get good stories. Some will go out drinking with news sources, and others visit their homes to learn about behind-the-scenes development of ongoing issues. Tension never eases until after 2 a.m., when the newspapers close the deadlines for their morning editions.

It was exciting. As a journalist, I was able to meet many people in highly responsible positions with ease. The press have power. At my age, my salary was at the top level in Japan. Friends envied my career. I enjoyed my position. Gradually, however, I started to feel as if my life was too predictable. Work, get married, have a couple of kids, buy a house, continue to work in order to pay back the housing loan and pay for the kids' education, save enough money to live after retirement and to afford potential medical costs. Many of my colleagues worked such long hours that it was not a joke when a son of my colleague saw his father and asked his mom, "Who is this strange man?"

I began questioning myself about work, social position, money, marriage, kids, all of it. "Why do I have to work so much?" "Who am I working for?" "Why struggle to live a life that is so foreseeable?" "I only have one life. What am I doing with it?"

After some time of contemplation, I decided to leave Kyodo News, where I had worked for eight years, and I flew to Thailand in search of sun. I needed a vacation. The ocean breeze was calling me. I lay on the beach, listening to waves. I jumped into the emerald-green water, swimming with the little tropical creatures until I started to wonder whether I was still human or had already become a fish!

Returning to Bangkok, I called a Franciscan friar whom I had met once in Japan. For me, the Franciscans have always seemed like a home-away-from-home, as it was St Francis who had paved the way for my conversion to Catholicism. I was so impressed by his ultimate simplicity and realistic approach (although sometimes so realistic that it appeared unrealistic!) to life. I had met Brother John Summers, president of the Franciscan Foundation in Thailand, when he had visited Japan to attend an Asia-Pacific meeting of the Franciscan Order. I was helping the meeting organizers to receive participants from abroad. Thank God he remembered me, and he invited me to come to his place, about 60 kilometers from downtown Bangkok.

"Are you sure this is not a Hyatt resort?" was one of my first questions. I was stunned by the natural beauty around the retreat center and AIDS hospice where Brother John lives and works. Tropical trees, ponds, birds - you name it, and you probably can find it here, except maybe for elephants. There are beautiful bungalows that would make you feel like you were at a Mediterranean resort.

Death is part of daily life in Lamsai. People spend their last moments of life residing in that beautiful setting. When I was younger, I used to visit the hospital to see my dying grandmother, with whom I had spent most of my life. Hence, death was not necessarily a new experience for me. But she was 87 years old. Although it was difficult to watch someone special die, somewhere in my mind I knew that she was about to end her journey in this world. People had loved her. She had loved them as well. In contrast, the average age of the people at this facility in Lamsai was about 32 years - my own age - and they had been abandoned by their families and friends. I was shocked.

After leaving the beaches of Thailand I had planned to go to India, where, to my understanding, many people visit to seek the meaning of life. I believed that in order to find life's meaning, facing death would be indispensable. After all, once we are born, the only certain thing we know about the future is that we all die one day.

I realized quickly that what I was searching for was right here in Lamsai - people facing death every day. Visiting India was no longer necessary for me, at least for the time being. I pondered over the distress these people went through after finding they were infected with HIV. With no cure available yet, they are receiving a death sentence. And discrimination! Many of my friends show great sympathy for people with AIDS, but still, some are reluctant to get close to them. "I can't stand breathing the same air," one friend said. "I know its not nice, and I feel pity, but I just can't help it." This friend decided to support us with goods instead.

I asked John, and he kindly accepted my request, to remain in Lamsai as a volunteer. Due to my limited ability to speak Thai and my lack of medical experience, my wish to support the hospice with its daily activity did not materialize. So I tried to find other ways to take part in the project. I started writing essays in Japanese about the people I met in Lamsai. I began to beg for funds, mainly from Japanese donors.

I taught one patient how to make Japanese paper cranes. Despite his weak eyesight and difficulty in maneuvering his hands, his goal was to make 200 cranes. He died, however, after counting 156. Another man of my age was so filled with compassion that he volunteered to take intensive care of a patient with severe skin complaints, but he fell ill himself and died after an unceasing headache and breathing difficulties.

One woman from Cambodia, who probably was already sick before coming to Thailand, had walked through the jungles after selling her 12-year old daughter for 120 U.S. dollars to pay for her own medical costs and to bribe people to help her cross the border illegally. She was caught, however, by Thai immigration officials and was sent to Lamsai. The hospice staff initially had a hard time with her, as nobody spoke Cambodian. I'm sure that barrier made her feel even more helpless and lonely, but eventually her jolly character made her one of the most beloved patients.

A 19 year old girl came to Lamsai after being sold by her parents at the age of 14, and later turned critically ill. She loved chocolates and instant noodles. Sometimes she was a little naughty, but I never forget her charm! One time, a handsome 24 year old man "escaped" the hospice in his pajamas and hitchhiked back to Bangkok to meet his boyfriend. Unfortunately, he was not welcome there, and he was sent back to the hospice. He died two or three days after he came back to Lamsai. Did he die abruptly of despair? Or did he go to say his last goodbye to his love? Only God knows.

These are only a few examples of my encounters with the "little flowers" of Lamsai. It seems a bit strange, now that they are all gone. They were sick, but they were young - it was too early for them to leave this world. The average length of stay at the Lamsai hospice is three weeks. Most die in peace. A passage from John 3:8 occurs to me: "The wind blows wherever it wishes, you hear the sound it makes, but you do not know where it comes from or where it is going."

Whether they are "flowers" or the "sound of wind," they are sure beautiful. Their death, however, is a challenge. I did not know that people with AIDS suffer so much from multiple symptoms: fever, headache, diarrhea, difficulty in breathing, paralysis, skin complaints. Imagine just having a simple headache for a couple of hours! All I can do is to hold their hand and hum a Japanese lullaby.

What did these people do to receive such suffering? Because they killed? No. Because they stole? No. Is it to compensate for something they had done in the past? No, because there are many people who live similarly and do not suffer the same circumstances. Is it then God's grace to give them such hardship? Well I know how St Francis greeted Sister Fire when he went through surgery, so I must admire those who can accept difficulties in such a graceful way. The answers to these questions, I don't know. Maybe I never will know. The only thing I do know is the reality I see: People are in pain physically, mentally and spiritually. What can we do?

What would St Francis do? He started with whatever little step he could take. He didn't go looking for lepers. "The Lord led me among them," he says. They were there already. He always started with reality, and his actions were simple and straightforward. There are many people, including myself, who go looking for reasons and explanations, forgetting reality and the simple things we can do immediately.

I am still far from the point of being able to welcome death as a sister, the way St Francis did. But one day, when it really happens to me, like a theif coming in the night, I hope I will be ready. Until she comes, I will just have to go step by step facing life with all its realities. I shall not escape.

My faith is challenged each day with the passing of my friends at Lamsai, it is also through them that I am strengthened - by their will and struggle to live. HIV might destroy the flesh, but it cannot destroy the soul. As long as I live, they will live with me. And when my turn comes, I guess I will leave it up to God.