Despite my requests for wake-up calls at the various hotels in which I was staying, which I carefully translated into Ethiopian time, which uses 12 hour intervals, I never received a single call. But in fact, they were not needed. In Ethiopia, there are many options for establishing the transition from night into day. The cock’s crow is one such option. Heralding the day, the crow often rings out before dawn, in anticipation, it seems, of sunlight. Next come donkey bellows. Soon thereafter come the dueling calls to prayer. I say dueling because it sometimes seems as though the muezzin and the priest are vying for first dibs to send their voices out to the faithful. The Ethiopian Orthodox Abba seems to win every time. He begins his calls at 430am, the first of seven for the day. By 5am, the muezzin begins his adhan. If you are not awake by this point, you will be by 6am, when, thanks to the common use of transparent and gauzy curtains, the sun’s rays begin to trickle into your sleeping space.
On one particular morning, I arose before the rooster, the donkey, the Abba, the muezzin and the sun. I had my cell phone’s alarm to thank for my 4am awakening. Trudging into the dark morning, I greeted my colleague Mulugeta and climbed into the truck. As Mulugeta pulled away from the hotel and made his way down the main dirt road of the town, riddled with pot holes and freshly dug trenches, he waved to someone on the side of the road. He slowed and motioned for me to roll down my window. I greeted the smiling man who approached us as he and Mulugeta exchanged friendly greetings. “My brother” Mulugeta said as we drove off. We headed east, to Axum, said to house the Ark of the Covenant, and also the location of the plane that would take me back to Addis.
We rode mainly in silence. We were both tired and my Tigrinya was limited to three words. On occasion, we would motion to something and eke out a few words in the other person’s language. We saw camels that morning, more than I have ever seen in my life. They came in three groups on our one a half hour drive, with each group containing at least 30 head. They were on their way to market, and at USD1,000 a head, they were precious cargo. We also saw men and women on their way to church, to market and to their fields. The men carried their walking sticks, in typical Ethiopian fashion, on their shoulders-so that the sticks served more as an aid to better posture than in propelling them toward their destination. Bathed in swaths of gauzy cotton fabric typical of the pious in Ethiopia, they girded against the chill air as we sped by in the truck. We saw school children in uniforms heading to class: I couldn’t help but be reminded of the stories generations before us would tell about their mile long walks to school. At 630am and with an 8am call to class, these children’s walks were much longer than a mile each way. We saw Chinese construction crews: the juxtopositioning of Chinese characters and Ge’ez fidels on signs provided for me an oddly surprising example of the rapid and seemingly sudden reach of globalization.
But perhaps the most striking vision that morning was that of the sun. We drove into its ascent that morning, and I was ever aware of its increasing hold on the day. It highlighted all of what I have described thus far, but it too had its own place in the experience that morning. I felt like we were rushing to greet it, to welcome it, to bathe in its glow in some way. It felt inspiring to seemingly become closer to it as it cast its rays over the valleys and hollows of central Tigray province. It also seemed to signal my transition from 10 days off the grid as it were and my return to the reality of the modern age of information and communication technology. I kept my gaze fixed on the sun as it made its way over the horizon and headed to its zenith for the day, and bid my adieu to the peaceful, grounded experience of my time in Tigray.
Showing posts with label Ethiopia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ethiopia. Show all posts
Sunday, March 13, 2011
The university grads
As we piled into the four by four, I settled in next to Tetros. Mebrato and Deray sat in the jump seat in the back. All three were refugee health workers, on their way to a training. There were four more passengers in the truck, along with our luggage. We sped off away from the camp, heading back to Shire, the main town about 3 hours drive away. We raced down the mountain away from the camp, pausing to honk our horn as we passed a truck that had recently gone over the edge of the cliff. A fellow driver’s half hearted attempt, it seemed, to see if there were any survivors.
With no response, we made our way toward the river, passing an ambulance in no hurry, and, having successfully crossed the bridge, started our ascent up the next mountain. At the first sign of the road crew, the driver cheered-we were racing to get past a construction spot before the road was closed so that they could clear away some rocks. The crew member was holding a green paddle, signaling that we could still pass. At the sign of the second crew member around the next bend, however, a collective groan swept through the truck. This crew member was holding a red paddle. We were stuck at this point in the road for at least the next two hours. And to make matters worse, we were only five minutes late in arriving.
Everyone but Tetros piled out of the vehicle to search for a respite from the late afternoon sun. “You don’t want to come?” I asked Tetros? He shook his head—he didn’t handle heat well and preferred to stay in the car. I explored the surroundings for a bit, passing judgment on the strategy of the road construction crew’s handling of the earth movers and wondering if I should venture a suggestion to help save us time. Deciding I had best stick to sharing advice within my chosen profession, I then climbed to the top of a nearby hill, surveyed the striking landscape and sat on a rock for a spell. Growing anxious, I then decided to try and get some work done on my laptop.
I joined Tetros in the car-he had taken off one layer of clothing and was clearly feeling overheated. I came to understand why. He was from the highlands of Eritrea and, only having been in this part of Ethiopia for a year’s time, he was not yet acclimated to the warmer temperatures of his new home. I explained to him that I was accustomed to this weather, having grown up in Washington, DC where heat and humidity are the norm. I further explained that my present home base of Boston saw extremely cold winters. Tetros asked me to draw him a map of the US and its climate zones. I obliged, and the result was an embarrassing portrayal of both the landmass and an over simplication of our country’s climate patterns.
I asked Tetros to draw a map for me to show me where he was from. With care, he drew a map of Eritrea, breaking it down into its regions and showing the capitals of each. We talked at length about the ethnic , linguistic and economic aspects of the various regions. We talked of his history and experiences, of his path to Ethiopia. A university graduate, he felt his wellbeing was threatened and his choices all but limited to government or military service, and so he sought safety as a refugee. His parents, however, were put at risk by his decision and his guilt was obvious. Without a means for communicating directly with his family, he sent messages to them through Diaspora communities in Israel and Sweden.
By this time, Mebrato and Deray had joined us. We continued the conversation, and I learned that Deray had been in jail for nearly nine months. On what charges I didn’t ask but it didn’t seem to matter. Their stories were of young men pursuing what we in the US often take for granted: a higher education and a chance at choosing one’s own path. All, however, faced the threat of military service and a form of servitude to the government. One’s profession was chosen for him and anything but adherence to this path was unacceptable. The jail in which Deray had found himself for nine months was so crowded that he spent most of his sentence standing, packed in amongst others of his ilk without room to move. I can tell you that his face changed as he told me his story. I asked what they expected for themselves in the coming years. They were silent. “We wait.” Mebrato said.
With no response, we made our way toward the river, passing an ambulance in no hurry, and, having successfully crossed the bridge, started our ascent up the next mountain. At the first sign of the road crew, the driver cheered-we were racing to get past a construction spot before the road was closed so that they could clear away some rocks. The crew member was holding a green paddle, signaling that we could still pass. At the sign of the second crew member around the next bend, however, a collective groan swept through the truck. This crew member was holding a red paddle. We were stuck at this point in the road for at least the next two hours. And to make matters worse, we were only five minutes late in arriving.
Everyone but Tetros piled out of the vehicle to search for a respite from the late afternoon sun. “You don’t want to come?” I asked Tetros? He shook his head—he didn’t handle heat well and preferred to stay in the car. I explored the surroundings for a bit, passing judgment on the strategy of the road construction crew’s handling of the earth movers and wondering if I should venture a suggestion to help save us time. Deciding I had best stick to sharing advice within my chosen profession, I then climbed to the top of a nearby hill, surveyed the striking landscape and sat on a rock for a spell. Growing anxious, I then decided to try and get some work done on my laptop.
I joined Tetros in the car-he had taken off one layer of clothing and was clearly feeling overheated. I came to understand why. He was from the highlands of Eritrea and, only having been in this part of Ethiopia for a year’s time, he was not yet acclimated to the warmer temperatures of his new home. I explained to him that I was accustomed to this weather, having grown up in Washington, DC where heat and humidity are the norm. I further explained that my present home base of Boston saw extremely cold winters. Tetros asked me to draw him a map of the US and its climate zones. I obliged, and the result was an embarrassing portrayal of both the landmass and an over simplication of our country’s climate patterns.
I asked Tetros to draw a map for me to show me where he was from. With care, he drew a map of Eritrea, breaking it down into its regions and showing the capitals of each. We talked at length about the ethnic , linguistic and economic aspects of the various regions. We talked of his history and experiences, of his path to Ethiopia. A university graduate, he felt his wellbeing was threatened and his choices all but limited to government or military service, and so he sought safety as a refugee. His parents, however, were put at risk by his decision and his guilt was obvious. Without a means for communicating directly with his family, he sent messages to them through Diaspora communities in Israel and Sweden.
By this time, Mebrato and Deray had joined us. We continued the conversation, and I learned that Deray had been in jail for nearly nine months. On what charges I didn’t ask but it didn’t seem to matter. Their stories were of young men pursuing what we in the US often take for granted: a higher education and a chance at choosing one’s own path. All, however, faced the threat of military service and a form of servitude to the government. One’s profession was chosen for him and anything but adherence to this path was unacceptable. The jail in which Deray had found himself for nine months was so crowded that he spent most of his sentence standing, packed in amongst others of his ilk without room to move. I can tell you that his face changed as he told me his story. I asked what they expected for themselves in the coming years. They were silent. “We wait.” Mebrato said.
Eyob
The pool hall was filled with men. Samara went in and came back moments later with a tall man in a baseball cap with an Alaskan company’s logo on it. He was tall and strikingly handsome. He introduced himself as Eyob. He would be serving as our main liaison and translator for the afternoon as we collected data from parents and children about their reading interests, goals and habits. He asked me if he could have a few minutes to finish up his game. When he came back, we started walking to his home.
He told me about his life in Eritrea. He was Tigrinya and he lived by the ocean. He was forcefully conscripted into the military and served in the trenches during the border war with Ethiopia. After that, he went to university and studied IT. As per custom, upon graduation, the government assigned him to a civil service position, where he served for 13 years without remuneration. “I was like a slave.” He said. To make ends meet, he worked in an Italian restaurant where he cooked seafood, and primarily shrimp and lobster. He preferred shrimp, he told me, because lobster was such a common food in his seaside town. He used red and white wine in his cooking, he told me with pride. His home, which he shared with his wife and two children, had a small balcony and faced the beach. He and his family went swimming in the ocean on a frequent basis.Upon arrival at his new home, in My’Ayni refugee camp, we settled under the overhang of his stone house. His wife set about making a coffee ceremony and he gathered his son and some neighbors to sit with me. I began asking about the ages of his two children and some basics about their education status. His daughter, he said, was 14. His son was 10. She was in grade 6 and he was in grade 2. His face changed a bit as he explained that they were both two years behind because of the process they went through to arrive in Ethiopia. He went on.
In 2007, Eyob’s friend was murdered by government officials. For what reasons I do not know, but I assume he presented some kind of a perceived threat to them. Eyob began to plan his escape, fearing the same outcome for himself. He sold all of his belongings, raising USD3,000. He paid a friend to fly him and his family to the Sudanese border. He intended to get to Ethiopia but he explained that if the Eritrean military caught him at the Ethiopia/Eritrea border, he would be killed. If he was caught by them at the Sudanese border, he would be put in jail. The choice seemed obvious to him.
Once in Sudan, he paid an additional USD1K to smugglers to safely secure his and his family’s entry into Ethiopia. He and his family were some of the first arrivals in My’Ayni and he had become a community leader as a result. He proudly showed me the notebook he bought for his son to encourage him to do extra English practice outside of school. His dedication to his children was obvious.
He talked about how he was called to the camp’s primary school one morning because his son had gone missing. He was later found in the river that runs behind the school, swimming. In seeking an explanation for his truancy, Eyob’s son told him that he missed their old home and the ocean water that was only a few meters from their balcony. I could tell that Eyob was not sure how to explain to his son that by forgoing the ocean water off the coast of their homeland they were safer and laying the foundation for a new and better life.
Politics in the camps
The father sat squatting on the ground facing his only child, a daughter. His left hand was on her knee, as she turned slightly to answer Costantinos’ questions. He seemed to be assuring her that these questions would end up being helpful to her and that she shouldn’t be afraid. Costantinos was an education officer for the organization I was working with and part of the team responsible for providing educational opportunities for the refugee camp, called My’Ayni. He carefully went through the questionnaire that I had prepared, translating my English into his native Amharic and then to Tigrinya, the girl’s mother tongue, when he could, and turning to Eyob or Samara, our Tigrinya speaking camp liaisons, when he needed translation help. The purpose of the questionnaire was to triangulate data I was collecting in classrooms regarding perceptions and capacities around reading.
Boys and adolescent males gathered around us, keen to listen in on what was happening. One young male wore pants with the word “Obama” lining the left leg. As Costantinos asked the girl questions about her fluency in her mother tongue, Saho, and her access to reading materials, a man rode up on his bicycle. He was wearing blue wind pants and a commemorative t-shirt from a strawberry festival somewhere in the US. He was frowning.
He, Costantinos, Eyob and Samara engaged in a terse conversation in Tigrinya. His facial expressions made it clear to me that he was saying threatening things. Eyob stood up and got closer to him. They exchanged terse words and then he bicycled away. I could tell that the conversation had not ended well. He circled around and came back. He began focusing his attention and words on Costantinos. Suddenly, Costantinos switched to English.
With the tense conversation now taking place in my mother tongue, I was able to confirm my assumptions but also to gather more details. This man came from an indigenous Ethiopian NGO that was responsible for child protection in the camp. He was not pleased that we were interviewing children in the camp. I wasn’t clear on whether or not he felt we should have informed him or asked his consent, or if he felt it was out of our entire purview. The communication was not nice. I stood up and walked over to him. In English, I told him that if he wanted to express frustration toward anyone, he needed to do so toward me, as it was because of my visit that we were searching for and interviewing students. He ignored me and continued to scowl at Costantinos. He got back on his bike and left. I didn’t want to push what had happened, so we continued with the interview.
The next day, we went to find and interview unaccompanied minors who attended the school that we ran. The man with the bike was summoned. Costantinos stayed in the car and, this time, the acting camp manager of the INGO I was working for came along to speak with the man. They had some words in private and the man came out smiling and welcomed me into the space…their main office in the camp and supposedly a child friendly space. This child friendly space, however, had only two foosball tables, some loose stones in the courtyard, piles of wood and an old satellite dish. He gathered three girls and two boys and invited us into his office. We sat down to conduct the interviews, when suddenly we were told to stop. This time, the Ethiopian government agency responsible for refugees had called a halt to our interview, stating concerns for child protection. I left the space, only to be pelted with rocks by a three year old boy named Mesfin who was paid, as I later learned, by local community members if he was successful in hitting me. It was proving to be a challenging morning.
While I was avoiding the rocks flying in my direction, my colleague went to the local refugee office to speak with the head of the office about the challenges we had faced. The reason behind all of the frustration? The head of the government office in the camp had failed to share my introductory letter and the outcomes of the meeting I had had with him the day prior upon my arrival at the camp: no one had been apprised of my visit.
Regardless of what could have been done, I was frustrated by the lack of collegiality and professionalism displayed by the local NGO and the Ethiopian government representatives in the camps. When working for the benefit of displaced persons, the last thing that the response agencies should be doing is fighting with one another. Unfortunately, the politics of humanitarian aid are not that different from other sectors. It’s about resources and survival of self and sometimes the refugees’ well-being is not prioritized the way it should be.
Boys and adolescent males gathered around us, keen to listen in on what was happening. One young male wore pants with the word “Obama” lining the left leg. As Costantinos asked the girl questions about her fluency in her mother tongue, Saho, and her access to reading materials, a man rode up on his bicycle. He was wearing blue wind pants and a commemorative t-shirt from a strawberry festival somewhere in the US. He was frowning.
He, Costantinos, Eyob and Samara engaged in a terse conversation in Tigrinya. His facial expressions made it clear to me that he was saying threatening things. Eyob stood up and got closer to him. They exchanged terse words and then he bicycled away. I could tell that the conversation had not ended well. He circled around and came back. He began focusing his attention and words on Costantinos. Suddenly, Costantinos switched to English.
With the tense conversation now taking place in my mother tongue, I was able to confirm my assumptions but also to gather more details. This man came from an indigenous Ethiopian NGO that was responsible for child protection in the camp. He was not pleased that we were interviewing children in the camp. I wasn’t clear on whether or not he felt we should have informed him or asked his consent, or if he felt it was out of our entire purview. The communication was not nice. I stood up and walked over to him. In English, I told him that if he wanted to express frustration toward anyone, he needed to do so toward me, as it was because of my visit that we were searching for and interviewing students. He ignored me and continued to scowl at Costantinos. He got back on his bike and left. I didn’t want to push what had happened, so we continued with the interview.
The next day, we went to find and interview unaccompanied minors who attended the school that we ran. The man with the bike was summoned. Costantinos stayed in the car and, this time, the acting camp manager of the INGO I was working for came along to speak with the man. They had some words in private and the man came out smiling and welcomed me into the space…their main office in the camp and supposedly a child friendly space. This child friendly space, however, had only two foosball tables, some loose stones in the courtyard, piles of wood and an old satellite dish. He gathered three girls and two boys and invited us into his office. We sat down to conduct the interviews, when suddenly we were told to stop. This time, the Ethiopian government agency responsible for refugees had called a halt to our interview, stating concerns for child protection. I left the space, only to be pelted with rocks by a three year old boy named Mesfin who was paid, as I later learned, by local community members if he was successful in hitting me. It was proving to be a challenging morning.
While I was avoiding the rocks flying in my direction, my colleague went to the local refugee office to speak with the head of the office about the challenges we had faced. The reason behind all of the frustration? The head of the government office in the camp had failed to share my introductory letter and the outcomes of the meeting I had had with him the day prior upon my arrival at the camp: no one had been apprised of my visit.
Regardless of what could have been done, I was frustrated by the lack of collegiality and professionalism displayed by the local NGO and the Ethiopian government representatives in the camps. When working for the benefit of displaced persons, the last thing that the response agencies should be doing is fighting with one another. Unfortunately, the politics of humanitarian aid are not that different from other sectors. It’s about resources and survival of self and sometimes the refugees’ well-being is not prioritized the way it should be.
Efrem
When we walked into his compound, Efrem was sitting on a chair under the shade of his tukul’s overhang. He had on Ray Charles sunglasses, his shirt was hanging open and he was listening to a radio. His gray hair was cut short, but still showed signs of youthful curl. As we approached, he turned off his radio, slid it into his shirt pocket and we were introduced. He stood up and we greeted each other in Amharic-I showed my respect by putting my left hand under my right elbow as I shook his hand and offered a “selam no.” We played musical chairs as his deputy Dawit came to join the conversation. With Efrem and me sitting next to each other, Dawit, Kahasa and Getachew sat facing us. Efrem folded his slight body upon itself, crossing his thin legs and placing the whole of his left hand on his face. His nose rested on his ring finger and his remaining fingers splayed across his sunglasses. He was ready to hear about the reason for our visit.
The conversation began in Tigrinya, the language of the region of Ethiopia I was in, but, importantly, the language of the nation of Tigray, which crosses the UN-demarcated border between northern Ethiopia and southern Eritrea. The topic of the conversation was my purpose for being where I was: the Shimelba refugee camp not far from the disputed border. Shimelba was established in 2001 to host Eritrean refugees fleeing political violence in their home country. Shimelba looks nothing like what you would expect a refugee camp to be. Homes are made of stones, brick and mud, sometimes with tin roofs and other times with thatched. There are cafes and roads. Most of the population has been here for a good part of the past nine years. Most are on their way to resettlement in the US, Norway and other Scandinavian countries in a year’s time.
So there I was, sitting next to Efrem as Getachew, my colleague, explained that I was there to conduct observations of language teacher practices in grades 1-4. My goal was to establish a component of a baseline that would lead to an early grade reading teacher training program. We were seeking Efrem’s approval for my work, and specifically the video taping of the classrooms. Efrem was the head of the PTA for the school.
The conversation continued in Tigrinya with some English words like “baseline” and “videotape” thrown in. As I watched their expressions and tried to follow the tone of the conversation, a little girl darted in and out of Efrem’s compound, grinning at me, and a donkey chased a chicken past the tukul. Efrem and Dawit nodded throughout the conversation. Efrem asked a few questions and Getachew confirmed for me what was being discussed and the conversation continued. Then came a pause and Efrem turned to me. “We have not any objection.” He said to me in English. I thanked him in Amharic and English and reiterated, stammering a bit from surprise, that we were thankful for his approval and looked forward to bringing a program to Shimelba that would help improve the reading of the younger children of the camp. Efrem went on in English. He told me about his life in Eritrea—a teacher in Asmara, the capital, he was forced to flee from the country in 2000 when his brother, a prominent official, was arrested in a coup d’état and thrown in jail. Efrem fled to Sudan, where he stayed as a refugee until the conflict in Southern Sudan forced him to flee again. He settled in Shimelba three years prior to my visit. His brother died in prison last year.
“We have not any objection.” He said again as we began to wrap up our conversation. “We have not any objection.” My heart soared to see this man, nearing the end of a challenging life and blind to his visual surroundings, living with hope, dedication and vision for a better future for the young children of his nation.
The conversation began in Tigrinya, the language of the region of Ethiopia I was in, but, importantly, the language of the nation of Tigray, which crosses the UN-demarcated border between northern Ethiopia and southern Eritrea. The topic of the conversation was my purpose for being where I was: the Shimelba refugee camp not far from the disputed border. Shimelba was established in 2001 to host Eritrean refugees fleeing political violence in their home country. Shimelba looks nothing like what you would expect a refugee camp to be. Homes are made of stones, brick and mud, sometimes with tin roofs and other times with thatched. There are cafes and roads. Most of the population has been here for a good part of the past nine years. Most are on their way to resettlement in the US, Norway and other Scandinavian countries in a year’s time.
So there I was, sitting next to Efrem as Getachew, my colleague, explained that I was there to conduct observations of language teacher practices in grades 1-4. My goal was to establish a component of a baseline that would lead to an early grade reading teacher training program. We were seeking Efrem’s approval for my work, and specifically the video taping of the classrooms. Efrem was the head of the PTA for the school.
The conversation continued in Tigrinya with some English words like “baseline” and “videotape” thrown in. As I watched their expressions and tried to follow the tone of the conversation, a little girl darted in and out of Efrem’s compound, grinning at me, and a donkey chased a chicken past the tukul. Efrem and Dawit nodded throughout the conversation. Efrem asked a few questions and Getachew confirmed for me what was being discussed and the conversation continued. Then came a pause and Efrem turned to me. “We have not any objection.” He said to me in English. I thanked him in Amharic and English and reiterated, stammering a bit from surprise, that we were thankful for his approval and looked forward to bringing a program to Shimelba that would help improve the reading of the younger children of the camp. Efrem went on in English. He told me about his life in Eritrea—a teacher in Asmara, the capital, he was forced to flee from the country in 2000 when his brother, a prominent official, was arrested in a coup d’état and thrown in jail. Efrem fled to Sudan, where he stayed as a refugee until the conflict in Southern Sudan forced him to flee again. He settled in Shimelba three years prior to my visit. His brother died in prison last year.
“We have not any objection.” He said again as we began to wrap up our conversation. “We have not any objection.” My heart soared to see this man, nearing the end of a challenging life and blind to his visual surroundings, living with hope, dedication and vision for a better future for the young children of his nation.
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