June 20, 2010

Last night we went to a “forengi friendly” restaurant called Island

Breeze in an area of town called Piassa. Jeremiah had heard they made

pizza that actually tastes like the kind of pizza we eat at home.

Aaaaaand, since he is currently going through self-diagnosed pizza

withdrawals, we piled into a mini bus and set out to heal his ache.

The mini bus let us out a bit early, so we had to walk maybe a quarter

mile to the restaurant.

On our walk, we passed two small children on beggar’s mats, counting change.

I have a very hard time not giving to the beggars. On a quick 5 minute

walk between a mini bus drop off and a mini bus pick up, it’s typical

to pass maybe 25 or more beggars on mats on both sides of the

sidewalk. Some are amputees, some living with deformed limbs, some

blind, some laying under blankets next to very small children, some

very small children themselves, some just average looking people

begging.

I think I’ve said before that often while we are on the streets, my

eyes and attention are predominately downward. As in, on Josie, and on

the ground my feet (that I cant really see) are stepping on. So while

Jeremiah is looking upwards leading us, seeing billboards and stop

lights and buildings, I’m seeing beggar after beggar down on the

ground.

So back to the two little kids we saw tonight.

They were making stacks of coins on their mats, and since it was the

end of the day, I figured they were counting up their days “earnings”.

They weren’t begging, directly, but it was clear that they were

beggars by the position of their mats, the clothes on their backs, and

the dirt on their faces.

So, I gave them each some money.

I thought I gave them each 1Birr, which is 1/13 of a US dollar,

basically, but much more than a coin’s worth. Instead, I gave the boy

1Birr and accidentally gave the girl 5Birr. BIG deal.

Her eyes got wide and I realized what I did, but no matter – I smiled

and kept walking. I was happy to give, especially because they weren’t

pushy or rude…I did glance over my shoulder though, and I watched her

run very quickly to a man nearby and eagerly hand him the bill. He

took it, added it to a wad in his hand, and shoved them all into his

pocket. She then ran back to her mat to continue counting.

My heart sunk. And scenes from Slumdog Millionare and August Rush

flashed through my mind.

He was her bookie. Or often referred to as her pimp.

I was had.

It sickened me to watch a scene like that play out right before me. I

tried not to let my mind completely wander with her life’s

hypothetical scenarios, but it was hard.

Would she get more bread tonight because she earned an extra 5Birr?

Would she escape abuse tonight because of her extra addition to the

man’s end-of-day-tally? Would she see any of that money?

Another virus, another face to go with it.

I cried for the rest of the walk. I think the past two weeks have

caught up with me. I kept saying to Jeremiah, “It’s just too much.

It’s too much”.

And it really is. It is too too much for us.

Not for Him, but for us.

I told Jeremiah over dinner (which he very much enjoyed – fire baked

pizza rivaling Fireside Pies, maybe? Mmmm maybe not.) that if we ever

live in Ethiopia, I would hands down HAVE to be involved in helping

the children here. It is obvious so many, maybe even most, live in

captivity.

Captivity of all kinds – one of which is just the cyclical pattern

they are thrust into. There is great need for a total re-education of

what life can be like…that it doesn’t have to be the same as mom’s or

dad’s or grandma’s or grandpa’s. There is freedom to be had. There is

unique giftedness that is being wasted. There are little hands that

were made for specific things. Instead lots of those hands are

extended on the side of the road begging.

I tried to sort through my thoughts at dinner, but it really was and

is “too much”.

I understand, though, why on the whole “global social justice” is on

the top of most Christian college students’ interests.

It has been a long time since I’ve been to a third world country. And

before this trip, my short term trips (excluding Ukraine) were well

organized group trips. Which essentially means there was a well placed

buffer of familiarity. Understandable for highschoolers, I guess, but

I’m not so sure anymore.

This trip is different. This trip is in your face. Ethiopia up close

and personal. It may be just for six weeks. But we really live here.

We grocery shop (that’s interesting – and expensive!), we cook (often

without electricity), we walk the muddy streets, we get wet in the

rain, we try to catch the mini buses (and get booted out of line by

over eager and slightly rude individuals), we use dial up, etc etc. No

one is trying to make it easier. No one is holding our hand as we take

baby steps.

We are really here. And for the most part, without a buffer.

It is helping me to really SEE where we are, and although it is too

much for me, it’s very beneficial.

All that to say, my heart is once again heavy as I get ready to lay my

head down on a comfy pillow placed neatly on a big bed sitting pretty

in an enclosed home surrounded by a secure fence and gate in Ethiopia.