Yesterday, I went to Kampot - Srei, Ti, and Mara, our staff there had asked me to come and see how our ten families living with AIDS were doing. The drive out was beautiful although some of the roads were not so beautiful. We walked through rice fields to meet these families. There they were in a clearing, a member of each family standing and waiting. As we began to talk, I shared the story of my daughter, Miriam - how her mom had died of AIDS and how Miriam had at first tested positive for the HIV virus. I showed them her picture. One of the men said, "My daughter was put up for adoption when my wife and I knew we had AIDS." We were saddened by his announcement, but it opened the doors for us to be able to share.

Their story is one of poverty and loneliness. Each of these people owns just a small plot of land, not large enough to grow rice and not large enough to feed their families. Each husband had left to work on the Thai border, and in the long absences from home each had slept with taxi girls and contracted AIDS. In the several months when they could be home each year, they had passed on the virus to their wives. All of them fell very ill with AIDS-related ailments. Their neighbors held them in scorn, they feared them, and they would no longer allow them to be part of the community. Their children were taunted at school, to a point where they no longer attended. They were unable to work in the markets, and so they began to starve.

Ti was a volunteer with our program in Kampot when we opened there two years ago; he asked Srei to come and meet with these families. Srei did, and they joined our savings program. They couldn't save much but Tabitha talked to them - and this was enough to get them started. All of them commenced retroviral drugs provided by a non-government organisation (NGO) - but the drugs were not enough. The continued isolation from their community and their inability to feed themselves kept them in a state of despair.

After a year Srei and Ti decided to install three wells near the homes of three of these families; things changed dramatically. Each family began to grow vegetables near their homes. It is amazing to see: a metre for limes, a metre for morning glory, several banana plants, mango trees, guava trees, chili peppers, sugar cane, etc. Each fruit or vegetable had its allotted space of a metre or two. Soon they were earning money and eating on a daily basis. They began to be able to purchase simple things such as pots and pans, dishes and glasses, blankets and mosquito nets.

However, the thing that changed the most was the gift of water to their neighbors. Clean water was already available 3 kilometres from their homes, but now the wells brought clean water to within 50 metres of their neighbours. They came and asked if they could also use the water. The families gave their blessings, and with that gift of water came reconciliation and forgiveness. All of them are now an integral part of the community, their children are back in school and no longer being taunted.

I asked them if they were angry with their neighbours. "No", they said, "Tabitha gave us love. We were so long without love and now we give our love to our neighbours. The water is plentiful and clean and cool. There is so much love to share. We can provide for our families every day; we can share with our neighbours everyday; we can tell others how to get help every day. There are 600 of us in this district - we all need your love and to share this love with others." I then asked, "Are you afraid of dying?" They answered, "No. We used to be afraid of dying - it took all our energy just to get through each day - but now, having the well, each day we think of what else we can grow, what else we can teach and what else we can share with others around us."

On behalf of all our families - each of whom suffers so deeply in so many ways - our staff, and my family, we wish all our supporters the love of Christmas - the love you have given to the least of these here in Cambodia.

Merry Christmas to each of you and all the best for the holiday season. (Janne Ritskes)

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