The laughter from memories being shared
are slowly replacing the tears that used to be shed here; here in
this tin and tarp home. Each time we see each other again, our
hearts mend a little more.
She said goodbye to her children one
sunny day in December almost six years ago. On that day, they all
lined up for a photo. The oldest crying and the other two looking
around tentatively as they watched the adults and big brother shed
their tears. The meaning of all this and what was coming next was
something they could only dream of or imagine. But no imagination
was big enough to hold all of the upheaval that was to follow. Their
dreams were big and fanciful. Their imaginations holding back all
sorrow, all pain. They played their way through the next week as
only young children can, waiting to fly away to their new home. So
much has happened between then and now.
Today, as we pull up in the van and
step out onto the muddy street, we know it is our last time to see
them this trip. I bring with me, our shared son Dawit, my son Blake,
Jason, our pastor and friend, and Girma, our translator and friend.
Dawit's mother, Kidist, her new husband, Yetayo, and two small
brothers are waiting for us. Their smiles always greet us and we
know without question that we are family and that we belong here.
Dawit is grabbed and held and kissed with vigor by his mother and I
wait my turn for greeting. After greetings are shared, we are
swiftly ushered into their home with a familiar “gibu!” meaning
“get in!” We pile in and sit along the edge of the bed of the
one-room home. When the edge of the bed is full, I slip off my shoes
and step up on the bed and sit behind. There is always room for us all.
Now, with traditional Ethiopian
hospitality, preparations begin to fill us to overfull with fresh
baked enjera, potatoes, cabbage, rice, spinach and bread. Kidist,
opens the drawer and takes out some birr and gives it to a child to
run to the market for soda. We are soon being offered a variety of
sprite, fanta, and coca-cola. Kidist runs to and fro from the
outdoor community kitchen to bring more and more food which is piled
generously on our plates. We eat and eat until not another
hand-full (because here we eat with our hands) can fit into our
grateful bellies!
As Kidist takes off again to the
community kitchen to make preparations for our bunna (coffee) time, I
climb off the bed clumsily to follow her. I am curious about where
she goes and how she makes all of this amazing food! The bread is
thick and fresh; what kind of oven does she bake it in? I follow
her. Partly from curiosity but even more to be with her, to know her
better, to understand her life more fully. Instead of allowing me to
follow her though, she drops me off at the neighbors house along the
way. As soon as I say “hello” to the neighbor outside, I am
again commanded with the familiar statement “gibu!” (get in!) and
Kidist disappears! I guess my curiosity about the community kitchen
will have to wait for another year because as I crouch to enter the
neighbors' home, I see that I will have my first round of coffee
here.
Four women and two small children are
here and I introduce myself all around. A grandmother on the edge of
the bed, a young lady crouching by the charcoal stove, one young
women hidden in the shadows looking small and somehow separate. At first I don't even see her there. My
greeting surprises her. I immediately wonder about her story, her
condition and I wonder especially after she takes no coffee. I ask
why and they tell me simply, “she doesn't drink it, she doesn't
like it”. To my right, the children eat rice out of a bucket on
the floor. The lead woman of the house (I call her that only from
observation) sits at the door and directs those around her. She is
brought the freshly roasted beans from Kidist's home and begins to
grind them with mortar and pestle. Her pestle is a thick, heavy
section of re-bar. She pounds and pounds, then stretches her back
and coughs. I tell her, “Izosh!”, which is an encouraging word
to “be strong!” but then I offer to help. They all laugh! What
a thought; a “ferengie” (white person) grinding our coffee for
us! They tell me that I am so small and they compare my small hands with
the hand of the child in the room. I try not to be offended. Of
course, I'm not; I do look small and pathetic next to the woman doing
the work.
I look around the one room house. It
is so dark. There are plastic bags of belongings strung about along
the walls. Some light does make it's way in though. The outside is
seen where the wall meets the ceiling; there the mud and stick wall
of the home has been weathered away. The rain must come in there.
It can't not. And now it's rainy season. I'm not talking about rain
that comes in a drizzle or a mist, I'm talking about sheets,
torrents, of rain. Rain coming down at all angles, from every
direction. Now the plastic bags make sense; anything left uncovered
in this home would be ruined from the rain water that surely makes
it's way in each time it rains.
As I look around, trying to soak every
detail in, I consider so much. I ask myself if I could do this. What
would it be like to live among these people? I don't mean just to
live here in Ethiopia; here, and yet “ferengie” separate. I
don't mean to live a far off in a safe and secure villa with gates
and barbed wire separating myself from them at night. I mean to
truly live among them. To use the community kitchen (which I still
have not seen), to fill my yellow jerry can at the community water
pump, to use the community bathroom (can you call a hole in the
ground a bathroom? Of course you can.), to bathe my children in a
basin outside my tin front door. But all the inconveniences aside-
to live among these people. To share their joys and their suffering.
To grieve, to laugh, to cough, to drink bunna, to play along side
these people. Would that beauty keep me here? Would their story,
their reality, crush me? Or could I share in it? Are my shoulders,
like my hands, too small for this work?
After I have enjoyed the first cup of
coffee, I tell my gracious hosts that I must go back to Kidist's home
for the rest of coffee ceremony. They understand and we all kiss
cheeks and shoulders goodbye. I also kiss the small one in the
corner; again she is surprised. I cross the muddy street and rejoin
my family and my friends. We tell more stories, we share more coffee
and we also share our thankful hearts. We are thankful for each
other and for the unique family we have together and for the
beautiful part we each are in each others life. After Blake shares
his gratitude, Kidist tells him such an unforgettable thing, “Even
though you aren't from my body, you are like my son and I love you.” I marvel at the statement thinking, yes, just like I do for your birth children! I tell
her, “We are a big family now; two mothers, seven children”. We
both laugh.
When it is time to say goodbye, we take
more photos. They will remind us all year of our time together-
until we meet again next year. The last hug between mother and son
brings the reality of this moment to it's tragic head. How can this
be the story? So much healing but the wound will never be gone. To
ignore it would be dishonest. Her tears encourage mine and as we
load into the van, I kiss my hand and wave it to her. The whole
community waves us off. I keep taking him away.
