The Story of Bedliu

The Story of Bedilu

a twelve year old boy who receives assistance for school fees from Remember the Poor.

Born 1977 in Nazret, Ethiopia

The wind whips wickedly at my hair as I walk through the streets of a poor community in Nazret, Ethiopia. I can feel my hair knotting; I wish I’d had the wisdom to bring a rubber band to bind my hair against the wind’s mischievous games. The dust unravels upwards knitting a blanket to cover everything. I wear heavy glasses protecting my eyes from the dangers of kebele(neighborhood) 0-6. The dangers include: the sun, the dust, and eye contact with strangers. We have left the cobblestone roads to travel the old dirt streets, with mosaics of broken glass, bottle caps, and worn out socks or pieces of fabric.

We are on our way to visit the home of 12 year old Bedilu. His father, a former guard at a cattle fattening plant, died of illness, the year Bedilu was born. After the death of his father, Bedilu, his mother, and many siblings were left with no money. Bedilu’s mother began to work doing various day jobs which provided her with a very small income. With many children to care for with a small income, she sent Bedilu to live with his maternal grandma. Bedilu’s grandma is also very poor; four and a half years ago she brought Bedilu to RPC for assistance. At this time he was eight years old and had not started school; his grandma was unable to pay his school fees.

We approach the house. A pile of branches stands in front of a cave like entrance. These branches are the family’s livelihood. Bedilu’s grandma sells the branches for firewood. She also sells roasted tomatoes and the roasted barely snack, “kolo,” in order to earn some money to feed her family. The money she earns is very little, less than $30 per month. We move around the branches to enter the cement house.

We enter the cement corridor, the entrance of Bedilu’s home. It is a dark narrow passage way. To the lft is a metal door, the entrance to a small windowless room. A teenage boy and girl stand there. The grandma will later explain that the boy is her youngest son. At the end of the passage is a room lit by one small window. Here we meet Bedilu’s grandma. She graciously shakes our hands motioning for us to sit on the small wooden benches beneath the window. She takes a seat on the bed across from us, surrounded by three young girls.

The room is full with the two benches, a bed, a sleeping pallet on the floor, and a cabinet in the corner. On top of the cabinet is a brightly colored picture of Jesus and a television that is softly playing the local channel. The picture indicates that the family is Ethiopian Orthodox.

“Bedilu is at school,” the grandma explains. He is in grade 4 at the local government school. She explains that the girls with her are her other grandchildren. Six children live with her in this house.

A goat brays towards the back of the house. I peer at a worn sheet that veils a doorway leading to another room. The wall and floor are cement. The roof is tin and peppered with holes letting rays of sunlight in; I can’t help but wonder what happens during rainy season. I see no kitchen or bathroom; this is of little surprise. Cooking is done on a parable cook stove. The bathrooms in the poor area are communal; they are a hole in the ground surrounded by a roughly constructed tin shack. Behind the curtain there are voices, evidence that there is more than one family living in this small dwelling. The two families share this low cost government house in order to cut costs.

Bedilu’s grandma begins to share her story. She has lost six of her children and grieves deeply for them. Her brown eyes seem to fill with tears as she tells us this. The last child died three years ago. She rubs her head while explaining all this, her gray hair covered with a black scarf. She has three children still living; Bedilu’s mother, her son who lives with her, and another child living out in Eastern Ethiopia. She offers coffee in the typical manner of Ethiopia. She cannot afford it. We take this as an opportunity to thank her for sharing and head on our way.

As we leave she pauses to say, “I have many children, but so few resources. Thank you for saving my son.”

This tall thin woman has suffered many losses. She has watched her children die and must now care for her grandchildren. Her teeth are still white and only one is chipped. She is strong. She stands straight in her brown dress, two pieces of fabric sewn together. The house is clean and the children dressed neatly, though their clothes are worn and faded. She is a hard worker looking after her family as best she can.

Poverty continues its relentless pull on her life. Her face is filled with wrinkles rippling over her like the waves of a pond. Her eyes are tired and her headaches. She tries not to complain. Here is a woman who should be able to sit back and impart her wisdom, telling stories to her grandchildren while her children care for her. However, she has no time to rest she must raise her children’s children. She appears healthy, for now, but for how long? At what point will life’s trials become too much? She will endure because she has to and her grandchildren will be blessed. When she is gone the children will have to care for one another, but let’s hope this is a long way off. Her story, after all, is not unique.