But I want to say that, in a way, it’s not very different where we live. Our countries are so developed that the government guarantees some measure of financial aid to handicapped people or their families. So here we find other pretexts to not include what’s different, as if it were some kind of invisible norm.  Evidently, here we have services that are very advanced, financial assistance (even though it is becoming harder and harder to find) for social projects, modern homes where we enjoy television and weekly outings.

But let’s talk about inclusion. How do we make it happen? What value does society assign to people affected by intellectual or motor disabilities?

The truth is that it’s easer to find an excuse than to open our hearts and lives to difference. I know this is true: In secondary school, I was the first one to make excuses when I was late ... !

In under-developed countries, poverty offers a pretext for the exclusion of difference. In developed countries, it is actually the affluence of the government that allows people to not do much—I pay taxes; the government gives money to disabled people; I think it all works quite well.

But the look in their eyes—that doesn’t change. And that’s where the real difference can be seen.

I visited a very small family the other day, a mother and her son. Take a look at his photo, below, and meet Nicolas. 

Nicolas and his mother live alone, in a house paid for by her niece who lives in the US. She works every day, and since her son cannot move from the bed, she shuts and locks the door, opens a window, and leaves the house for several hours. The house is nice; it has a garden behind it, flowers, proper walls, no garbage on the floor. There are crucifixes everywhere on the walls and plantain bananas on the floor.

Nicolas is one of the most welcoming and patient people I know. He moves slowly, but he smiles all the time. Nicolas is happy; I’m certain of it. In fact, the situation isn’t really bad. They eat every day and laugh together; each of them has a room (actually, mom sleeps in the kitchen in a beautiful hammock made of multi-coloured cords), and the neighbourhood is almost tranquil. I say almost because there are rumblings that a new gang of Maras has moved into the neighbourhood, behind their house. (The Maras are street gangs, often made up of young people known for their violence. In short, another group excluded from society....)

As I said, their situation isn’t really that terrible, but the situation of the country is a different matter. During the interview, Nicolas’ mother allowed only a few tears to escape during the three hours we spent with her. The question I asked was simple; the response simpler still.

I wanted to know how she saw her son’s future.

“I don’t see a future for my son. I simply hope we are lucky enough that he dies before I do....”

This wasn’t an angry complaint; nor was it a plea for anything. She said it with such grief, in such an anguish of love. She knows very well that no one will take care of Nicolas. That’s just the way it is. She is there; so is he; so they live together and she takes care of him, and he makes her smile, live, he makes her love the daily routine. It requires a great deal of patience to take care of Nicolas. And it takes a great deal of patience on Nicolas’ part to tell his mother he loves her, without words.