Ciao, my beautiful Ethiopia...

Friday, April 15^th, 2011

So, after the three shortest, most fleeting three months of my entire life, I have arrived back in Saratoga. I am still a bit jetlagged and experiencing major culture shock, not to mention the fact that I miss my dear Ethiopian friends terribly, but other than that I feel great!

Saying goodbye was heartbreaking. A goodbye ceremony was held for me on Saturday morning, and I walked there alone with a terrible feeling of foreboding. When I entered through the gate, the children all ran up and jumped on me like they did every other day. That day they were all looking up at me with wide eyes and asking, “Today go?” “Today America go?” They had asked me this a few times before, but I’d always been able to smile and shake my head and say, “No go to America, today I stay.” Today, however, I had to nod and try to smile while saying, “Yes, today I go to America.” I hated saying this, and I hated even more to see the look of sadness that passed over a few of their faces, especially my precious Faren’s. As soon as I saw the look of disappointment cross his face when I confirmed his suspicion that I was, finally, leaving him, I hoisted him onto my hip and didn’t let him go until I was literally stepping out of the gate.

The children all gathered and sat in a circle in the living room at Little AHOPE, and Jambo, the social worker, told them in Amharic that the time had finally come to say goodbye. He asked the children to stand up and a few of them shyly offered things that they would remember about me, and then I had a chance to say a few words. I basically just thanked them for welcoming me into their lives and allowing me to love and get to know them, but I know I could have gone on forever about how much I love each and every one of them—not to mention the staff—and how fervently I will be thinking of them and wishing them healthy and successful futures.

The children then sang a song called “This Is The Day,” and then it was time for a group photo, and to say goodbye. I held myself together up until the moment when I looked at Faren and saw that his eyes had welled up with tears and he was staring straight ahead with a stony but utterly helpless look on his face. It broke my heart, and I hugged him tightly and cried along with him. A few of the other children cried as well, which made it just so much harder to say goodbye to them. I wish I could have just said goodbye like any other day and spared them the drama of a whole goodbye “ceremony,” but Jambo said that this would have confused them if I’d just disappeared, and he said that they wanted to chance to show their appreciation. Still, it sucked.

I said a shorter goodbye to Big AHOPE, but it was just as hard. Most of the older kids at Big AHOPE are withdrawn and guarded, and much less willing than the younger ones to allow outsiders to get close to them, but once I had cracked their shells they revealed themselves to be real, sensitive human beings on the brink of becoming adults, and beginning to truly face the reality of their situations. They knew that I most likely wouldn’t be back anytime soon, and that they’d probably never see me again, but they still smiled and shook my hand and wished me all the best and waved goodbye at the gate.

The reverse culture shock that comes with returning to the States after being in Africa for three months is much more intense then the culture shock was getting there. I feel so safe in a car; the highways are empty by comparison and people actually drive more or less according to traffic laws. Downtown Saratoga feels like a ghost town compared to the overcrowded, bustling streets and sidewalks of Addis Ababa—even the side dirt roads that were virtually inaccessible to cars had more people traffic than downtown Broadway in Saratoga Springs. People totally ignore me when I walk down the street, and I absolutely love it. Excessive florescent lighting now gives me a headache, and eating an apple with cheddar cheese just makes my day. For the first few days I caught myself doing double takes every time I looked up and saw another white person, especially if they were driving a car. Four dollars for a sandwich converts in my head to roughly 70 Birr, which sounds like a lot of money to me. Houses aren’t tucked behind gated walls or sheets of rusty tin, scaffolding is made of metal and looks safe to stand on, and there are no sick, motherless children running around tugging on people’s jackets begging for money. It’s cold outside. The air is clean. The dog barking outside has a home. People eat different things for lunch every day. It’s a very different world here.

Before I left, I thought a lot about what I should bring to give to the children, like toys or clothes or something along those lines. I did bring a few things—I went to A.C. Moore the day before I left and bought little nothings like stickers and pencils and bouncy balls to bring with me. I realized as soon as I got there that the kids aren’t used to actually owning anything, and while receiving little presents is very thrilling for them, as soon as you start handing things out they start to fight over things, or want more of something, and usually they refuse to share—they are, after all, just kids. It was a nice feeling to hand a child a toy and see their eyes light up with excitement, but I realized quickly that, for the giver, it’s more of a fast rush, which will, most of the time, quickly lose its meaning. Also, as soon as you started giving things out, they would see you only as the “bearer of little gifts,” and that’s all they would expect or even really want from you. I knew that I wanted the kids to see me and want a hug, or to play a new game, instead of a toy car or a lollipop. I learned that the most meaningful gift one can possibly give to these children is simple, unconditional love and affection, and that the ‘rush’ you get when this child, this new friend, gives you a simple hug will stay with you far beyond the moment when they let go.

I know that, if I ever go back, many of the children will no longer be there, or perhaps they won’t remember me. I think that I definitely learned and was changed more than any of them did in those three months. However, even if I never see them again, even if they forget me tomorrow, I can only hope that at the end of the day, the people they are growing up to become will be just a tiny bit different—happier, more secure, even just plus one or two dance moves—because I was a part of those three months of their childhood. I have more to thank them for than they will ever know. I only hope that I was able to return just a tiny part of the favor.

P.S.-Photos

P.S. I took about a million photos there that I’m extremely proud of, but for privacy reasons and to protect the HIV status of the children I can’t post pictures in which the children are easily identifiable publicly online or sell them for publicity purposes. I will put together a slideshow to show friends and family, and I’m trying to figure out how to post them privately online and just provide viewers with a password. We’re also working on making a photo/informative book with the usable photos for AHOPE to sell…I’ll keep you posted! Thanks for reading!