The refugee camp we work in has approximately 2,000 people living within it. You might not guess by the size it could hold that many people. With roughly 440 families living there with an average 5 kids, each family is confined to a small sheet metal shack. The refugee camp is only six months old. Recently developed to house families from the Oromo tribe living on the Somalia border where there has been a large amount of violence and civil unrest.
Each day when we pull up in our van, we see kids waiting outside the gates on dirt hills or next to shacks in tattered, dirt streaked clothing. They know we are coming and they eagerly await to greet us. Before we pull up we can hear the chants of “farengi (foreigner), Oromo (their tribe)” over and over again. They recognize the beautiful communion of foreigners coming to meet and spend time with the Oromo people.
As we get out of the van kids rush to be first to hug us. Dirty hands, eager arms, and bright smiles await us. Each child desires to be seen and touched, and they know we are more than willing and able to provide that for them. Somehow farengi’s have become a trusted source of connection and love. And I pray that never changes. As we walk through the gates and into the camp, the bold children grab our hands and demand their place next to us as more kids swarm to us. Beautiful girls in long dresses, with sweatpants or shorts hidden underneath. Small layers of mismatched shirts and tank tops peeking out underneath. Traditional African dresses paired with American leftover thrift store donations. The outfits are all over the place, but it’s all they have. Many adorned with headscarves, some even with draping veils only exposing their eyes. Kids as young as 5-6 years old may have their baby brother/sister tied to their back and be in charge of caring for them. Toddlers trot around barefoot, rarely with any diaper or pants on and many with green snot running from their nose (sometimes straight into their mouth). Almost every child has a runny nose and intense, heartbreaking cough. They all sound like they have some sort of respiratory infection if not straight up pneumonia. So many children to hug, babies to cuddle, and hands to hold. Scuffs and fights will break out for the place of who gets to hold our hands. Over time each one of us has a few kids we call our own. The kids who always find us each day and spend all the time we are there with us.
As we walk down the dirt roads through the rows of metal housing, we trample through sticky mud, working to avoid puddles or losing our feet completely to the mud. (Rainy season makes walking through the mud treacherous). There’s discarded bottles and packaging strewn in most of the ditches. As we pass by more kids appear in doorways to wave or just yell “farengi!”. Mothers squat outside their homes in front of large buckets, handwashing their laundry or finishing up cleaning dishes. You’ll always get a stare, the kids will always yell, but the moms might just continue about their chores unless you make a point to make eye contact, connect with them and say hello. When you take that extra second, you’ll find some of the most beautiful smiles and excitement to shake your hand and mumble in Oromifa to you. The men stand around looking regal and staring at you until you look at them. Then they might avoid eye contact until you greet them. Then they generally offer a smile and reach to shake your hand. The younger boys often ask to take a selfie with them then uncomfortably try to kiss your cheek in the photo. Awkward.
In the morning each of our teams divide into groups of three and walks to our assigned classroom (a total of four classrooms). My group is in a younger elementary aged classroom of roughly 40 kids. The classroom is inside a dark sheet metal shack complete with a chalkboard, lines of desks, and a door and window that lets in a small amount of light. When we enter the classroom roughly 40 kids sit amongst the desks; only a few with shabby notebooks and pieces of pen (mostly being chewed in their mouths). These kids are generally not accustomed to going to school. A lot of these kids come from nomadic or very rural families that don’t prioritize school or don’t have access to it. They have very few skills for sitting still and maintaining basic classroom conventions. They talk, fight, can’t keep their hands to themselves, change seats, sit on top of the desk, yell, throw rocks, come to the front to grab our hands. And when you don’t speak the language, how on earth can you get anything accomplished? Phew, it’s tough! But with the help of some translators and disciplinary figures, we’re able to do okay. Lot’s of songs, pictures, sing-songy voices and smiles, and positive reinforcement. The kids eat it up. They’re so desperate for attention and to be noticed.
The first week we taught the parts of the body. Head, hair, lips, cheeks, nose, fingers, nails, leg, feet, etc. We would sing a song asking the kids to put their finger on different parts of the body. It was their absolute joy and delight for us to walk through the rows of desks and touch the designated body part we named. “Put your finger on your cheeks!” Instantly heads bob forward thrusting bulging cheeks and big smiles, ready for us to acknowledge they know the word and receive a gentle touch. It also an opportunity for us to connect with each child and show them acceptance and love.
In the afternoon we come back strictly for play! We arrive to cheers and shouts and begin a parade through the camp gathering more and more kids until we arrive at an open field just outside the camp. We bring soccer balls, excitement, and acceptance. Some people play soccer, but most of us sing and dance with the kids, play various hand clapping games, spin them around, learn Oromifa words, get our hair braided, or literally just pick them up and hold them. We’re regularly breaking up fights and trying to teach forgiveness and peace. They each get so jealous of each other and it’s very difficult to manage. Another scenario of, choosing to spend time with and hold one child means you’re saying no to 40 other kids. Luckily, there are 12 of us and it makes it more manageable to ensure each child is getting love and interaction. Although I have learned one hand is capable of being split and held by three little girls.
After the second week, we began doing home visits, visiting the parents of the children we’ve been spending time with and just meandering through the camp. This became my absolute favorite way to spend my time there. I would find the two kids I claimed as my own, Amdia (girl) and Mamay (boy) and we would hold hands and parade through the camp. It’s a bleak, muddy place with little joy or recreation. I always felt the pull to walk through each row of homes and greet the people standing outside or in their doorways. Sometimes they would just squat and stare— unless you took the time to break the ice and engage with them. 70% of the time they were excited to greet you and speak to you. The other 30% would seem gruffly annoyed or ask for money.
It became such fun to explore through the camp, encountering donkeys, sheep, goats, trying to pet them and say their name in Oromifa and seeing the delight and humor on the adults and kids’ faces. They thought it was hilarious! Farengi trying to pet the goat, let’s help her out. Often the women would be out scrubbing their laundry, but were happy to pause and shake my hand. Sometimes I would crouch alongside them just to watch. I encountered so many interesting scenes and scenarios, women weaving beautiful baskets, making injera, washing clothes, dying their children’s hair with green henna, brading tiny intricate braids on their daughter. It was fascinating and I was eager to learn more about each process. The huge smiles and laughter on their faces showed they appreciated my interest and also thought I was a bit crazy.
Even though it was a gamble with their reactions– it became so important to me to acknowledge and greet each baby, child, or adult I passed. I felt the overflowing light, joy, and God’s love in me and it was my duty to let it flow out of me and onto them. Each person deserved to be seen and delighted in. Eager moms thrust their infants toward me to hold, but the infants were terrified, likely not used to seeing a white person. But each mom wanted to show them off and allow them to be cooed at. So each afternoon I spent time strolling through the camp, stopping and shaking hands with each person, tickling each kid, and trying to allow them to be seen. My entourage of kids would get annoyed and try to pull be onward towards the soccer field, but I knew Holy Spirit was using me as a vessel of His love. Even in those tiny, miniscule interactions.
Some families would invite us inside their small homes. The inside of the sheet metal homes had bare concrete floors sometimes covered with a tarp and a large curtain hanging inside to divide off the rooms. Mattresses laid on the floor covered with clothes and blanket. We were always invited to sit on their mattresses, the most comfortable place to sit. One small lightbulb was responsible for lighting the whole room, leaving them very dark. Sometimes we would be given a bottle of soda, a baby to hold, taught a handclapping game, or shown Ethiopian music videos on a phone.
Once a teammate and I ended up being invited into a lady’s home and got to participate in a full coffee ceremony. Roasting, grinding, and brewing the beans ourselves. Then surprise a plate of injera with sauce, potatoes, and carrots appeared in front of us. It’s tradition and an honor to hand feed guests. So this kind, generous lady grabs bits of injera and veggies, mushes it into a ball in her hand, and force feeds it into our mouths. She feeds herself, her toddler, Jaclyn the girl I’m with, and then me. Over and over again. Jaclyn quietly states, “I’m a nurse. I know how diseases are spread!” but keeps receiving the food not wanting to offend our host. Yeah, it was a little awkward getting handfed and not knowing the quality of sanitation there– but you just pray and leave it to the Lord! The fact these women want to share the little they have with us, the white farengis, is incredibly sweet and kind. Our light skin indicates a wealth much higher than their own. The same women feeding us jokingly offered us their babies to take back home with us to the US. They would put the baby in my arms and gesture to me and the baby going to the US. It’s hard to fully understand what they wanted to communicate but through body language and context clues, it was pretty clear they desperately wanted a bettter life for their children. It absolutely broke my heart. I’m almost in tears until their able to smile and laugh at their “joke” and switch the topic.
The time we spent in the refugee camp was powerful. It drove home the notion of being grateful for what you have. It’s unimaginable to consider living in those conditions. Yet this camp has electricity and running water– it’s considered one of the nice ones! The kids are desperate for the affection and attention that their parents don’t know how to give them. We had the opportunity to come in and be a small beacon of light in a dark place. Though we weren’t allowed to speak the name of Jesus, we shouted it through our kindness and love. Although there is some dense heaviness of the unideal living conditions and spiritual darkness in the camp, it was a joy to spend time there. Even though we were just planting seeds, I’m confident we were exactly within the Lord’s will and where He ordained. Operating in His will is the safest place to be and He will complete every good work He started. I will continue to pray for these Oromo people and that they get to return to their home soon.
