She stood in the hospital ward leaning her head against the narrow space between two doors. Her black hair was braided in neat rows that wrapped around the back. Bent with exhaustion, she did not seem to notice us passing or to be aware of the small crowd of patients camped on blankets in the corridor. Her posture said that she had been waiting for a very long time. Maybe no longer than others scattered around the hospital and camped outside on the grass, but with a heaviness that verged on crashing through to the floors below. Her dogged vigil spoke of a mother’s love for a child she could no longer protect, unable to console, bereft of remedies, offering her solitary gift of presence. In this chaotic, somewhat scrubbed ward filled with strangers, at least she had a place to stand.