Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.
For the first time in a long time my heart is broken. “Let us not walk in ignorance of the darkness we’re about to walk into,” I said before praying the Armor of God over my team.
We are spending two days a week at a Somali refugee camp. There is no running water, rationed food and very few resources. The camp is a waiting place filled with unknown.
The adults have no idea about the future. They have been displaced from homes, jobs, friends, and the place they have been living life for generations. This is a primarily Muslim community. It’s Ramadan season, so generally the adults sleep during the day and are awake at night.
There are an unbelievable number of children. We’re greeted by a mob chanting “FARENGI FARENGI!!” (foreigner) wearing the biggest smiles I’ve ever seen. Each child is so desperate for physical attention. By the time we leave I’ve probably given 500 hugs. No exaggeration.
In the morning we teach in a classroom. School is optional, and it’s quite common that parents don’t insist. The classroom is mass chaos. A “teacher” bounces around from room to room to take disciplinary action. He’s holding a stick and isn’t afraid to use it. We teach English, math and games with no translator. Often, we have to remind ourselves that our short-term purpose is not to make an educational difference but to instill hope, value and love.
In the afternoon we play. There is a muddy field right outside the camp-their only toy. There’s always a soccer game, dancing and laughing. However, the violence between the children is unreal. “It’s what they learn at home,” we’re told. There are babies taking care of their baby siblings. I held an infant all afternoon so her four-year-old sister could go play.
Like I said before, they’re all desperate for attention. It’s not uncommon for a fight to break out over my hand. Is it because they don’t get it at home? Of course, but I can’t help to believe it’s more than that. I’m safe. I’m a dwelling place of the Spirit of God who is a refuge from their lives of constant struggle. They’re drawn to that.
We legally can’t mention anything religious. That doesn’t stop me from praying almost continually. I don’t believe I need to mention the name of Jesus for a great work to be done. He’s just that powerful.
I’m in an inner struggle between anger at God for their situation and overwhelming thanksgiving for blessing me so much.
This is what shattered my heart. Please pray for the Oromo people. They’re desperate for Jesus.
