Hospitality and injustice

When we arrived for lunch, she wasn't home. After taking the path around to the back where her doorway is and finding the place empty, the line of us turned around and headed back to the open space in front of the cluster of homes. The 13 of us stood around awkwardly wondering where our hostess was. Our translator asked the other women nearby if anyone knew her and where she was but the answers he got were short and unhelpful. Aren't you her friends? He asked them. We mused about where she could be, if we were late, how long we should wait but we didn't have to wonder long because soon she appeared. She was in a hurry to greet us all. She greeted many of us with kisses and when she got to me, she grabbed my hand and pulled me to walk with her back to her home. I was so happy to be here again. Last year, my lunch with her was an unforgettable time of friendship and hospitality and today would prove to be no different.

Now we follow the path again and as we enter the doorway we each have to duck down to enter the one-room home. There are no chairs in the room but there is a bed, a mat on the floor and a couple of low plastic crates. As we enter the room one by one, it is apparent that seating will have to be strategic. Let's see, I'll go here and you go there. Our hostess is not concerned, she continues beckoning the line into her home. Oh look, there's a kitten in here too. One of us unknowingly steps on its' tail- howl. And this is how we ended up: Seven of us on her bed. (Muddy shoes? No problem, just climb on!) Three of us in a row on her son's sleeping mat on the floor and two of us on crates on the floor by the cook stove. Our translator squats in the doorway.

As we sit here on this bed, I see my teammate next to me struggling with emotion. He loves this family and especially the seven-year-old, HIV positive, boy who lives here. Two years ago when my friend met Little One it was instant bond and for the first time my teenage friend felt like a responsible dad. 

How can this fatherly instinct produce anything but internal torture to the young man who has to go back to America after two weeks? As we sit here and take in the intensity of the moment, the young man buckles under this family's reality. It's dirty. There are bugs. It's dark. It's small. No bathroom or kitchen or playroom. It can't be true, but it is. This is where his heart-son, Little One, lives. This dark and smelly pathway to his home is where he plays. But now, Little One, climbs up to his favorite lap to play and tears and emotion must be subdued to give him playful moments together. Deep breath, Young Man. Little One gets a hold of my camera and takes photos of everything and everyone, capturing the moments and funny faces from a child's-eye-view. The photo taking session provides the comic relief that we all need.

The food is ready. It's been warming on the fire. She ladles potato stew on top of the enjera bread which is served at every meal and puts it on our laps. There are two or three trays for sharing and we begin to feast. The food is amazing and we pass it from hand to hand, mouth to mouth. We all eat our fill and somehow it keeps coming from the bottomless pot on the fire.

After the meal is over, the coffee ceremony begins. 

She fans the coals which prompts the jebena (traditional coffee pot) to boil. Coffee- roasted, pounded and steeped to perfection, just for us. The tiny cups are passed around, balanced on knees and sipped with appreciation. And now comes sharing time.

Through our talented translator, I thank her for her hospitality and for welcoming me here again. “Last year you welcomed me and my son, Dawit, but this year you welcome me and all of our team to your home. We are very honored to be here in your home.” She thanks and blesses and blesses and thanks. And then she shares more of her life. There is always more than you can see and today I'm shocked at what the “more” is. The story of this woman's rejection and shame runs deep and soaks her story with pain. She was left by her husband because of their difference in beliefs. She follows Jesus and he follows Mohammed. She would not change for him and so he left. After discovering that she and her son were sick with HIV they came to the city for treatment. They came to this area, Kore, to this home, carrying the secret of their illness with them. For a while, things were looking up. She began selling corn on the side of the road, her son started school and she was receiving help from a sponsorship program. But all of this came crashing down when she naively confided her story to a women she thought was a kind friend. This “kind friend” instead made the news public and because she was also the landlord of the area homes, she raised her rent to almost double. She also forbade her use of the community water pump so now she has to go outside to another area to get her daily water supply.

Now our interactions with the local women when we arrived makes more sense. No one would claim to know her. This part of her story surprises me the most. I was under the impression that because this place is known for it's HIV and TB and leprosy that the people here would not turn on each other. I thought that they came to this place because they were shunned and needed safety but now here they are shunning each other. I thought they would hold each other up but instead I found a class system among the outcasts.

As she shares this part of her story her tears begin to fall and so do mine. I'm in the back row on the bed, my legs are asleep, but I have to get to her. I stand up on her bed and climb over my friends. I meet her on the floor by the fire and hug her. We share a tearful embrace. I don't come with the answers and that infuriates me but I can sit with her in her pain. And because that is what God does for us in our pain, I know that that is enough for this moment. I hold her and cry with her and then with our arms about each other I pray with her. Father?! Your daughter! Your treasured, beautiful daughter. After kisses and prayer, the hostess in her commands me back to my place on the bed. Here, a good hostess always makes her guest come in, sit down and eat!

And so more eating is what comes next. She fans the coals again and sets corn over them, darkening each kernel. She turns them and more chatting and questions and laughter fly about the small room. Sometimes a thoughtful silence falls about us all. As they are finished she wraps the hot cobs in husk to protect our hands and passes them around. Everyone has their fill and then some.

Soon it's time to go. We pass around our goodbyes, each one hugging our hostess with thanks, and file back out the way we came in. The daylight outside seems too bright. A teammate lingers back to be the one to walk proudly with her, holding her arm, out into the open; a gesture showing the world that this woman is valuable and safe. 

 As we walk back to the van, the feeling slowly returns to our cramped up legs and rears. She walks us all the way. In the van driving away, we talk benignly about the bug bites we got while were there. I think we do this to distract us from her tears and the monumental injustice that caused them.