Story of a picture

 

When I step into that gate - the golden gates of heaven, I'll ask Moses or Abraham whoever I'll see first, to take me to the Lord. I'll humble myself when I finally see His Highness. I'll bow my head down in submission. I won't shake his hand because maybe He's just light or a cloud as I've always believed. Fear would be smeared all over my face but I would gather courage and ask God why he gave me two left feet, just lightly. I know He won’t smack me on the face. When growing up someone taught you that God is not to be questioned. That you don’t confront God because everything he does is perfect. Well, for me I do. For many reasons I do.

The long tension of the election process finally ceased. The dust slowly settling from a far and the frontrunners are having a lifetime moment. The blue litmus paper steadily turning yellow. We are here nonchalantly calm, at a corner licking our wounds under the strewn broken tables and chairs. For a fifth time, well that hurts. Remaining is just a glimmer of hope. Hope is a close associate of belief. We live by hope, nothing is ever certain and if so, it’s certain in a certain way. Triumph has good looks, its appealing to the eye. It’s well dressed and has a nice fragrance. Getting free of your oppressors, beating poverty, seeing life differently and living with a peace of mind. That is the triumph that was sketched on the face of Diego Frazao, a 12 years old Brazilian member of the Afro Reggae band.

Diego was a passionate being about Afro reggae. His music teacher taught him and several other kids how to play musical instruments, and they would all play to raise money for sick children. Afro Reggae is a non-profit organization that provides hope and an escape mechanism from penurious and crime-ridden environments for children. Not much has been said about Diego, when you read about him you are left pending. You are left floundering in quagmire of quandary. I didn’t get to know much about him as I would love to, not much is said about his parents, if he ever had siblings, his shoe size and the likes. I don’t even know whether Chapos and lentils slapped him as they slap me or he just fancied barbecued meat, feijoada and quindim. I wanted to know more about him, as plentiful as you can see in this picture.

Boy, I have a photo of you though. I can write a million words but would still be left with a million others. Parada de lucas is a slum where life becomes intimidating if you’re born poor, and worse if you’re born black. Drug trafficking and forcefully being used in prostitution coupled up with children trafficking and abduction for ransom made it a miracle for a child like Diego to win the battle against life. Diego was sick from birth, on and off the hospitals. At the age of 4 he developed leukaemia and his school journey was in its last legs. He developed an interest in music; he wanted to become the best violinist. He became known because of his family's extreme poverty and his music talent. That’s when he met Evandro, a social worker who became his music teacher. He lifted Diego from poverty and abuse through music. Diego found love - he finally had a taste of affection and care. The wave of bad luck however, was not gone too far and when it came back, it swept away Evandro. It came back careless and ruthless.

This picture worth a million and one words was taken at Evandro’s funeral. Diego was playing his teacher's favourite music. An emotions-filled ceremony where you let tears flow with ease. You don’t have to hold them back or wipe them dry because they tell a story that words couldn’t tell. You let them collect at your chin, fall on the ground and go with them the pain. The other members of the band were not much overwhelmed. Diego’s face tells a story, well written and effectively punctuated. This photo was said to be one of the most emotional photos of recent history.

Diego later became a star of a band called HOPE. Dealing with poverty and slum life­­ – fighting leukaemia and the grief of losing his teacher saw Diego suffer stress and depression.  The picture from his teacher’s funeral sold his brand, and he got a gig on Brazil's flagship TV Globo’s end year concert. Diego was just starting to make little wins; the journey had just commenced when he parked the truck along the beautiful alley because it was experiencing system failures. He called everyone from the back of the truck to help push to jump-start the engine. The truck coughed for a little while and the engine died o'er. A steep slope was just ahead, perchance that would be of help.

The truck started steadily and gained free momentum but the engine still did not come to life. The colourful little truck along a beautiful street. It moved at a high-speed past the bottom of the valley road and started climbing erratically. Just then, it rolled back to the base of the valley and came to a halt. A violin music was playing and suddenly it was all blur. The western scrub jays flew around and a strange animal crying feebly could be heard from a distance. Diego died in February that year. The felon was pneumonia and leukaemia - they ganged up to take away a young bright life. Diego left the world, his footprints still on the beautiful alley and his violin leaning on the flowers.

After his death, Diego received several awards. Just not there to see them. Was born sick, lived in a dark hollow, had superb ambitions, lived in poverty for a while and got sick one more time. His journey could have continued a little more. Just a little more would have felt better. His face makes me hear sad violin music in my head. I get the message of hope that they conveyed in the Afro reggae band. Hope that was not strong enough to keep illness at bay, but strong enough to keep the children left behind believing. Cheers to the joy that his violin music brought to the lives of his generation and more to come. I have added a question to my list, on that day I’ll ask Him why Diego didn’t live just a little more.

 

Bases

Sites at penn state  

Shutterlybulky