Some basics for those of you just now dropping in: My sister and I are on an 11-month Christian mission trip to 11 different countries across 4 continents. We’re headed to: Argentina, Bolivia, Chile, Uganda, Ethiopia, Rwanda, Serbia, Bulgaria, Romania, Cambodia, and Thailand. The work will range from country to country in partnership with established ministries in each area.
It’s month 9. My team is in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.
There’s a pile of rocks near the entrance to the camp. There’s always a kid on top of it, waiting for us. It feels as if they vote in a lookout. When our van comes rocking down the uneven red dirt road the lookout will scream ”forengis!” (pronounced foreign-jeez) and start waving his arms like a madman.
By the time we get to the end of the road, the crowd has assembled. Our van never really parks. It’s more herded into a stop by the mass of children, all chanting “for-en-gis! for-en-gis!”
The camp is surrounded by a tall wall. The barracks are made of tin. Inside there are 500 Oromo families, all displaced from Somalia because of the conflict.
When we first came I thought the kids would be shy. I was really, really wrong. They’re downright brazen.
We walk to class as members of a parade. They fight over our hands. We’ve learned to hold one kid with each finger. After our first day, we were laughing about the situation and our host Gadisa told us that they’re fighting for a reason.
“There is a curtain like rich and clean,” he said. “And they think ‘we are poor and dirty.’ But you guys touch them and show them ‘I am a real person too.’ You show them they are equal… Even though I don’t say anything about Jesus or my faith, they know how they’re going to feel when they hold my hand. They’re fighting over my hand to feel loved.”
He doesn’t say anything about his faith because it’ll get us kicked out. The refugees are Muslim, and they’ve made it very clear that they’re happy to have us as volunteers and teachers- not missionaries. Still, Gadisa bends the rules. “When the parents ask me why I’m helping, sometimes I say it’s because of God. I have no choice.”
My favorite kid is a bossy little girl named Sumai. She treats me like a pet, guiding me around, showing me this and that. She tells me where to sit and lines up the other children when we play games.
In class, she shoots an effective glare to any nearby troublemakers. She copies down everything we say and write and shows me her diligent notes at the end of every class. I can’t believe the potential she has- the easy command of leadership and natural intelligence.
We’re supposedly teaching English, but that’s only pretense. We’re actually teaching “how to be taught.” The kids have never been in school. They’re just learning how to sit and to listen, to keep quiet and not to fight. That last lesson is tough. We break up five or six fist fights in each class.
But they are learning. It’s a little better every time. We’re proud of them. They really do want to learn. They’re tough kids.
They show up to class with dirty faces and no shoes. They bring their younger siblings with them. Six-year-olds babysitting two-year-olds is the norm. Many have early cataracts from poor hygiene. They’re tired and sick. It’s very common for kids to pass out during class or have seizures.
When we have free play, many of the kids are content to just sit and be held- for as long as you’re willing to hold them. Gadisa told us, “they trust you more than they trust their own parents.” That may be because of the overwhelming amount of domestic violence and abuse in the camp, violence we unfortunately witness every day.
It’s heartbreaking. But Gadisa thinks the mission is helping to bring change. He says that even without saying the name of Jesus, the love of Christ is felt and noticed. “The parents have never seen their kids so happy and so they say ‘maybe we aren’t loving our kids well.’ You are changing the families… They say ‘Gadisa, bring more forengis. We need them.’ You are teaching them how to love.”
