Eskendar

Eskedar

A story of an 8 year old girl attending Remember The Poorest’s Kindergarten Program.

Born January 11, 2001

The sun is relentless, happily enlightening everyone as to why the solar oven works so well. Lunch time has passed and adages about staying indoors come out. A young girl, maybe 14 years old, lies in the dirt. She lies on her back, slightly shaded by the tin gate next to her mud house. She seems unconcerned about the dirt that will streak her already dirt stained clothes or the filth that surrounds her. She lies off the main road separated by a dirt ditch – the kebele’s trash can.

The mud house that provides her and her family shelter with a tin roof serves as storage for old tires, stones, sticks, and other unwanted items that have no clear explanation for taking up residence on top of the house.

The interior of the house desires to be a dark cool cave but there is no mistaking it for a multi-family home. A tiny mud room serves as the reconciliation room – two people cannot pass through without touching. At one end this room is the door to the outside at the other end a door that leads to a series of other rooms which each house a family. To one side of the reconciliation room is a third door that opens directly to te young girl’s house. The word house is too generous of a description for this eight by eight food space. No windows or lights brighten the room. A large bed covered in a tattered bedspread claims the room allowing a tiny bench and stack of boxes just enough room to survive. Despite the tiny mud structure’s extravagant aspirations, it will never be spectacular. Its inhabitants have a much better chance of changing their lives.

The girl lives here with her mother, two sisters (approximately 10 and 8 years old) and baby brother (around 2). The little boy lingers silently in the doorway his belly a smooth brown balloon peeking between the flaps of his little blue vest which hangs open in the front. The rest of his body is thin. Around his neck he wears a black string with a small silver cross, an emblem of the Ethiopian Orthodox tradition. He holds a piece of bread he has been gnawing on.

The mother is tall. Her eyes fail to lighten as she slowly wraps her kerchief around her head. She squats on the floor welcoming the baby, who scoots closer. As a single mother she works hard straining and sorting beans. With her meager earnings she struggles to pay the shared rent of the small government house and properly feed and clothe her children. Five years ago her husband died leaving her to raise their children alone. She has HIV/AIDS and while she appears healthy, her health is only temporary. Her struggles multiply.

The youngest daughter, eight year old, Eskedar, is at school. Eskedar began receiving sponsorship from RPC four years ago. Prior to her sponsorship, Eskedar, had been unable to attend school. Currently she is in the first grade in RPC’s kindergarten. She attends first grade at the RPC’s kindergarten.

The family is struggling; they have one tiny room, no bathroom, and no kitchen. Since joining RPC life has slightly improved. Eskedar attends school with adequate materials; she has access to medical treatment, and receives occasional clothing or food items. Life remains hard. Questions about the children’s future are left to float in their tiny dark room.

Hope for a Future

Hope for a Future

The story of Adana and Abezu, two children being helped by Remember the Poorest.

By Krista Allen

Hope, we try to grasp it, holding it tightly lest it slip through our fingers. Like a homeless toddler clinging to a moldy piece of bread, we fear to loose it. Between rusty aluminum roofs and mud houses, hope lingers. In the children running barefoot across the littered streets, hope lingers. In the grandmother raising her children’s children hope holds fast. Hope is what keeps this neighborhood from succumbing, completely to death.

Hope sifts through the fingers as the mother sits by her last child covered with sores breathing her final breath, the fourth of her children to die of HIV/AIDS in the past four years. With a shrug of her shoulders the childless mother falls to the floor silent. Hope evaporates as the mother sits on the corner waiting for someone to drop a coin into her open palms her last attempt to sell kolo failed. Hope has vanished when the boy turns to stealing to survive on the streets. Amidst the broken glass and discarded bottle caps, hope joins the refuse, left for children to trample, horses to run over, and dogs to lie in. Here among the poor, hope is discarded with the ease that last month’s dirt is washed from the body. Hope is a commodity to expensive to afford.

I am here attempting to pull the hope back out of the streets, dust it off, and give it to those in need. Hope should not become refuse. In my quest for hope I look to the story of 12 year old Abezu Abera and her brother, 19 year old Adana. Tese two children knew hope once. They were born in Metahara, the salt mining region of Ethiopia. Here the children helped the family by herding sheep and goats. Their father was a sugar cane cutter at the Metahara sugar cane plantation. The family was not wealthy but they had their needs provided for. They were filled with a hope for a bright future and life together.

Tragedy, inevitably, was close at hand. Tragedy covets hopes place and will do anything to destroy it. Tragedy orchestrated an accident which badly injured the other brother. For some time the family cared for him, hoping he would recover. But hope seemed useless, the young boy’s injures were too severe and he died beginning the family’s displacement. The mother came to Nazret while the father and five remaining children stayed Metahara. It wasn’t long before tragedy’s jealousy flared once more. In 2001, their father became ill. When he was unable to care for the youngest children, Abezu and one of her sisters, he brought them to their mother in Nazret.

Their mother was struggling. Life in Nazret was not easy. She engaged in various kinds of day labor in order to support herself and the children. On May 6, 2002 the children’s father passed away. All five children came to live with their mother at this time. Hope was rapidly losing ground. One of the girls is epileptic and in need of constant care and attention which presented the family with further difficulties. Their struggles continued. The children tried to help by selling boiled eggs and roasted grain, but their mother could not adequately care for them. Greatly saddened by this she sent Abezu and Adana to live with her brother hoping things would be better for them. Hope seemed to fail, one more time. A member of their uncle’s household harmed Abezu which caused Adana to fight with his uncle. He fled from the house following the quarrel. Poverty had forced him to the streets.

Abezu’s mother faced despair in the wake of her son’s flight to the streets. Tragedy laughed wickedly tasting vicory. The mother’s only son had become a street child and she seemed powerless to resist. Her heart was truly broken and she was determined to give up hope as so many of her neighbors had. Then she heard of RPC and the work they do to help suffering children. Mustering her remaining hope she brought Abezu here seeking assistance. Tragedy’s laughter was cut short as hope quietly reclaimed its favored place.

Abezu was accepted to RPC on May 6, 2004. She was then able to attend school regularly for her tuition was paid and she was provided with the materials she needs to learn. She also began to receive medical treatment when ill, clothing, soap, and hair oil. She has places to play that are safe and an opportunity for tutoring if she nees it Abezu is once more living with her mother.

Currently, 2009, Abezu her mother and two of her sisters are living together. They do not have their own home but are living in the rented room of a sick old man. Their room is located in a mud and cement building back behind other cement buildings divided into rooms. The Abezu and her family live in is a long narrow room, divided in half by a half cement wall. It is a small space of which Abezu’s family inhabits half of and the old man the other half. They have a bed, a dresser, and a chest in which to keep their belongings. They have electricity but no window, kitchen, or bathroom.

Abezu is happy. She doesn’t have much but she is with her mother and her mother has received relief. Abezu attends school, she is learning in grade five. She ranks in the top ten out of 50 plus students in her class. She is thin buy not malnourished. Her arms and legs have muscle and fat on them. She is happy, her hope has been restored.

Adana left his uncle’s home hopeless. He turned to a life of crime. He stole and fought. He had no place to sleep and little to eat. At this point of his complete despair he came to RPC. He was given a chance to shower, to eat a good meal, and received clean clothing. Hope wanted to return to his life. In time it did. Through the assistance of RPC he was able to find a place to live and began to receive training as a hairdresser. Recently he has started going back to school. He is learning tin grade nine and hopes to one day go to university and study sociology. He has been reconciled with his mother. He is unable to live with her because here in not enough room but he visits her often. Their family has been reunited.

For this family hope has sustained them. Life has been cruel to them and to those they care about but now they have each other. They have food to eat and the children are receiving an education. They have plans for the future, plans that can pull them from their poverty and give them a chance at a better life. These plans will never reach fulfillment unless they have hope. Hope that is fostered by the care others are willing to give them. They are thankful to RPC and to God for all that has been done to restore their lives.

Their story is a success story. It is our prayer that their lives will continue to be lived with hope. That as struggles come their way they may see them through and someday their lives will be better. We too give thanks to God for the work he is doing in their lives that is bringing about a future. Hope, when allowed to persist, slowly works to transform lives.

Picture :: The shower at RPC for the street children

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.

Through Foreign Eyes

The story of Zerihun

Observing the streets of Nazret and one of the poorest Kebeles (neighborhood)

Foreigner! I am constantly reminded that this is my primary identity in Nazret, Ethiopia. I see and experience things differently than my Ethiopian friends and neighbors. Does this make me better or does this make me worse? Everyone has an opinion. I acknowledge I am biased. I see as a foreigner, I write as a foreigner. My tale is incomplete, another would tell it differently, but I am inviting you to see through my eyes.

Always the observer I perch on the balcony of a local hotel. The balcony is quiet; I sip my coke and peer onto the streets below. For Once my presence is not known and will not skew people’s actions. The road beneath me is the main road that runs from the capital city to the ports in Djibouti. Huge trucks crowd the streets as bicycles, motorcycles, and the blue and white bejudges (3-wheeled taxis) slip in and out trying to show the truck who’s truly in charge. Cars and land cruisers make an appearance as small children between their giant parents. The roads are subject to a constant stream of vehicles but men, women, and children scamper across the streets whenever a slight break presents. The young men and women walk about in crisp jeans and bright, fresh T-shirts still full of color. They carry notebooks filled with notes from a local college or university. Business men and women walk briskly in dress pants or skirts and nice neatly pressed tops. Their shoes fight to hold their shine on the dusty streets; they seem to be winning. Young school children yell after one another and hold the hands of younger siblings on their way home. They are neatly dressed in burgundy sweaters and navy pants, their school uniform. The uniforms are hole free and clean. In their hands are school books and shinny tin lunch pails.

Exhaust fumes waft upwards; horns honk rhythmically and choruses of voices mingle, flooding the air. The dust swirls knowing it is the town’s true dictator and no one dares argue.

If you ignore a whole group of people the town appears secure economically. But you can’t ignore the other group. Before long a little ragged child comes up and tugs at your hand or sleeve crying, “Money, Bread.” She puts her hand to her mouth and you wish you had food to give her. Her feet are bare, vulnerable to the rocks, stones and broken glass that pebble the streets. Nearby her mother stands in clothes that look as old as her, and she looks ancient (though she may very well be 25), a baby sucks at her breast while she extends her hand towards a man passing by in hopes of some money. The beggars are scattered throughout the street, young children without parents, others with their mothers, babies with only a shirt, and men with crazy hair and wild eyes. An occasional old man or woman with a hunched back clinging to a stick their worn bodies covered with piles of clothing complete the cast.

The town is a myriad of people separated into two groups; the haves and the have-nots. The main street showcases the different people who make up Nazret as they mingle together.

Leaving the main streets and heading into one of the poorest kebeles (neighborhoods), the constant roar of vehicles is gone. Rugged unpaved roads frame rusty, cramped residential areas. The steady stream of trucks vanishes, cars dare not enter, motorbikes have sought hiding, and even the bejudges (taxis) are scarce. An occasional bike passes by. The horse and gharry (cart) have replaced the bejudge as the main means of public transportation. Sukes (small roadside stands) frame the road side displaying their wares; fabric, fruit, vegetables, or other household items.

Dusty, faded clothing replaces the bright colors of town. The women wear patterned dresses that are little more than two pieces of cloth sewn together. The dresses drape the women with no special tailoring, one size fits all. Their hair is wrapped in a faded scarf to keep it out of their way and to shelter it from dust, showers are a luxury to expensive to afford. No neatly tailored or pressed skirts and blouses are seen here. The men have vanished with the exception of an occasional wild eyed scantily clad man. The children wear clothing that is either too big or too small for their skinny bodies. The clothes are worn thin a sign of three or four previous owners. Holes add character. The small children run around without pants; they can squat anywhere to do their business. Private toilets are unheard of. The public toilets are a shack with a hole in the ground.

Dirt roads diverge from the rugged stony road leading in towards the houses. The houses are really long mud or cement buildings with tin roofs, composed of a series of rooms with a door to the outside. Whole families live in one room roughly eight feet by eight feet.

Goats and chickens run about thankful that this is the Ethiopian Orthodox fasting period. They have forty more days to live; unless they are Muslim or Protestant than they any meet their demise sooner. An ox lies in the dirt next to a dilapidated aluminum fence. He is unfazed by those who pass by. The sun is heave overhead; it is too hot to leave the shade.

Rusty aluminum fencing block houses from view. If you lean on it the fence would fall over, what its purpose is I am not really sure. The exhaust fumes are gone but the rotting, sweet smell of manure and the sour smell of human waste sift through the air. Here too the dust knows it is in charge. Hands and feet turn gritty.

I stand out here. I am a rarity. People pause to stare. What is a foreigner doing in the poor area of town? Foreigners are found on the main streets or in the nicer kebele’s not here amongst the cities’ refuse. What am I doing here? What am I doing in an area where I obviously don’t belong?

I am here to visit the home of a young boy. I am here to capture his story, to give a name to the chaos of kebele0-7. The boy’s name is Zerihun Geta. He is fifteen years old and learning in grade 5. He is an average student from a very poor family. He lost his father many years back as a result of illness. Though he lives with his mother and two younger siters he is considered an orphan. He has been receiving assistance from a local organization for the past five years. With this assistance he can go to school, he receives medicine, clothing, and some other basic necessities. After all he is a child who deserves to be taken care of.

His mother is poor she makes little money by baking injera and doing some household chores, but it is not enough to pay the 80 birr ($8) per month rent, feed, clothe, and educate her three children. She works hard and she desires to care for her family.

They live in a compound with many other poor families. Inside the compound are two long cement and mud buildings with half a dozen rooms each. There are children running about. The courtyard is filled with young girls washing dishes, women doing laundry or cooking on open flames, and a man ironing his clothes. Goats, chicken, sheep, and cats crowd the yard. There is a tiny outhouse and cattle bedding place further filling the cramped courtyard. I follow Zerihun’s mother back through a narrow passage between the two buildings, under laundry hanging to dry. She lives in a tiny room located between the two buildings, under laundry hanging to dry. She lives in a tiny room located at the end of one building, next to the compound wall; her door has just enough room to pen without hitting the side of the other building that shadows her room.

Her room is small and bare. She brushes a pile of clothes off the sole bench and sits on a tiny foam mattress big enough perhaps foer her five year old daughter. A larger mattress is rolled up to create a little more space. Besides, the bench, mattresses and clothes, there are few other items completing her meager possessions. She lives here with her three children. They have no running water, no bathroom, and no kitchen. Zerihun’s mother smiles and offers me tea or coffee. I politely refuse. She has nothing. I do not need this small luxury. She is gracious, happy that I have visited her.

Life is hard for Zerihun and his family. Life is hard for the residents of kebele 0-7. Zehrihun receives some aid but it is not enough to bring his family out of their poverty. He and his mother are thankful for the aid they are receiving but they are suffering and they are surrounded by suffering.

As I leave kebele 0-7 and head back to my comfortable life I am left with questions. How can the lives of children like Zerihun be improved? How can an impat be made on the lives of the poor? With so many suffering , too few jobs, and too few resources what difference can I make? Will changing the life of one child change anything? What if I was that one child, would I say it made a difference? Dare we risk helping this child? Dare we not risk helping him?

The questions simply multiply. They are too many to work through, besides its time for me to go home, take a shower, and cool off. Perhaps you will sit with these questions for awhile. Perhaps you will risk answering.

I simply, offer my observations. I offer Nazret and kebele 0-7 through the eyes of a foreigner. What do you think?