Kathy Eldon - In the Heart of Life: A Restless Soul, a Search for Meaning, and a Bond That Death Couldnt Break

To my beloved Amy and Michael, who have never, never, never given up on me

You would know the secret of death.

But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life?

KAHLIL GIBRAN, THE PROPHET

Contents

AS A YOUNG WIFE AND MOTHER, I MOVED TO KENYA IN 1969 WITH MY husband Mike and our two small children, Dan and Amy. The wide-open spaces, sparkling sunshine, and brilliant colors of Africa were a rainbow paradise after the gray confines of our London suburb, and almost immediately I felt that I had discovered my roots and my true homethen barely aware that all human beings have their origins in East Africa. I came to share the African belief that a spirit exists in each of us and in everythingin the rocks and plants, the trees and animals, the clouds and sky, the stars and sunthough I couldnt accept their belief that those spirits survive death.

But, despite the stimulation of my life as a journalist and an executive in a travel company, like so many others had before me I began to succumb to another aspect of Kenya. Captivated by the concept of life lived as a safarian exciting journey into the unknownI became exhilarated by the promise of danger and the seduction of life lived on the edge. Entranced by a new sense of freedom to be and do anything I wanted in a land of far horizons, I lived and loved passionately, even recklessly, soaring higher and higher, as if each day daring death to strike.

And it didonce and nearly twice.

This is the world in which Dan and Amy were growing up, and Dan threw himself into it as wholeheartedly as I did. Still a young boy, he was adopted by a Masai family, sharing their brew of fresh cow milk with curdled blood, and tracking wild animals with their young warriors. In his teens, he raised money to lead a team of fellow students from four countries to take funds and supplies to a refugee camp of destitute victims of the civil war in Mozambique. But both he and I tempted fate once too often. I lost my job and my home in KenyaDan, much more.

Many years later, in 1993, after I had left behind my life as a wife and writer in Kenya, I was working on a film in Los Angeles. One morning I was awakened by a telephone call telling me that Dan, then covering the Somali civil war as a Reuters photojournalist, had been stoned to death by an angry mob in Mogadishu with three of his colleagues. He was twenty-two.

Numb with grief, Amy and I immediately flew back to Kenya for Dans memorial service, held on the hills overlooking the vast and glorious expanse of the Great Rift Valley. There our family was joined by hundreds of people from around the world to celebrate the young man who, during his brief life, had become a world-class photographer, global traveler, and passionate crusader for justice. The next day, when we scattered his ashes near the hut of the Masai family who had adopted him as one of their own, I knew I was saying goodbye to our beloved son forever. That night, engulfed by a pain more intense than any I had ever experienced, my brain began swirling with thoughts, memoriesand questions. Desperate for release, I yearned to sleep and never awaken again.

Over the next few days, my desperation increased, and only the realization that my daughterwhose loss was as immense as mineneeded my support kept me going. Hoping to find comfort in the company of friends, I flew to London, where I had an apartment; but still I was tortured that Dans vibrant spirit had been extinguished just as he was beginning to fulfill what he described as his mission on earth. Even more agonizing was my feeling that I, in some way, bore responsibility for his death. Unable to speak with him, to apologize, ask forgiveness, or seek direction for my shattered life, I knew I would be haunted forever by the incompleteness of our relationship.

But then something very strange happened. One morning the telephone rang and Debbie Gaiger, a young woman I had met at Dans memorial service in Kenya, asked to speak to me. Im sorry to disturb you, she apologized, but I need to tell you something.

Debbies voice revealed both hurt and bewilderment as she explained that she had known not only Dan, but also the three others who were killed with him. Finding the tragedy even harder to bear because her private life was a mess, she had searched for help in London, where she was now living. After traditional therapies failed, she had booked an appointment with a highly respected psychic, Mollie Martin, but the visit hadnt gone as she expected.

I didnt say anything about what had happened in Somalia, Debbie said, and Mollie didnt know anything about me, but the first thing she said was, Youre worried about your four friends, the ones who have just died. You cant stop replaying their death over and over in your mind. Theres one in particular hovering around you, the charismatic oneyoung, with the elfin face. Its almost as though he couldnt deal with everything he was seeing and it was time for him to go. He was such a beautiful character, a teacher.

Youre really sure you didnt tell her anything? I asked Debbie, thinking she might have let slip a few clues about the tragedy in Mogadishu.

Nothing, she vowed. Absolutely nothing. And I have the tape of the interview to prove it.

Hearing Debbies story, I decided to go and talk to Mollie Martin myself. If she was claiming my sons spirit was still able to communicate with this world, I wanted proof. Booking under a false name in case she had read anything about Dan, I drove to a quiet street in Chelsea and rang her bell. Over the intercom a womans voice asked me to let myself in and wait downstairs until she was ready.

While I was turning the pages of a book on the table in the hallway, Mollie Martin called me from the top of the stairs and ushered me into her drawing room, elegant with its old furniture and paintings. She gestured me to one end of a white sofa, while she sat at the other. She seemed a no-nonsense sort of person.

Dont tell me anything, she commanded, sounding like a strict governess. Im afraid I cant guarantee results, but Ill do my best. I pulled out a pad and paper and waited. Youre very angry, she said, her voice softer.

I could feel my mouth tighten. Of course I was angry. I was furious, enraged, heartbroken. But would she know why?

Your son has died very suddenly, she said. But although he is no longer here physically, he is very much alive. He is a teacher, and he will continue to teach. In fact, he will encourage and help people he will never meet. He is lovely to work with, a remarkable young man. He was an old soul, and wasnt afraid of death. In fact, he was walking with death and knew that his life would be short.

Amazed at this extraordinarily accurate image of Dan, I felt my innate skepticism battling with my desire, as a grieving mother, to believe that the impossible might be true.

Hes the baby of a group, the hippy, she continued. He looks about eleven years oldsuch an open face. You should be very proud. By the way, did you know he used to carry a photo of you? I nodded. I had found it in his pocket in Nairobi and I had it with me now.

Now, do you have any special questions about him? she asked, looking at her watch. Clearly my time was up, so I screwed up my courage to ask the most important of the many questions that had been haunting me.

Is he okay?

He says hes getting settled, she assured me, but hes still anxious for you to be aware of his presence. Like you, he sometimes feels sad. Because he is physically apart, he misses you, but he can see you.

She sat forward and looked at me intently. You have tremendous work ahead of you that will be profound and will have an intense creative focus, she said. Youll be speaking and writing, and youll be involved in high-profile events around the world, traveling almost constantly. Your son will help you. He had a great purpose, and so do you.