This morning anxiety overwhelmed me and I was overcome with emotion. I didn’t know what to expect at court and the enormity of the situation felt crushing. We met everyone at the Gladney office, they talked us through how it would work, and then we left for court. Up many flights of stairs packed with Ethi0pians, our winding chain of Americans filed. We waited for awhile and then they called us in groups. When it was our turn, they called out our daughter’s name. My heart beat at the sound of it – our turn, our daughter! Our group sat down in the judge’s office and answered a series of questions. I loved getting to declare my commitment to my daughter in a court of law! Yes! I want her! Yes! I want her for always! Yes yes yes!!!
The red tape is still firmly in place, so our file is pending…please keep up those prayers. After court, we met some of the others, as well as Yemamu and Sisay, for burgers, fries, and Cokes, then Yemamu, Sisay, Alex, me, Becky, and Mark headed back to Korah.
Korah. Lord, give me the words, because I lack the ability to form the compelling sentences that my heart wants to share. First, we visited the Alert Hospital, where those with leprosy, TB, and AIDS can come for treatment. Africa’s only leprosy hospital, and once people come, after treatment, they tend to stay.
We watched gifted artisans spin cotton into thread, weave, embroider, knit, crochet. I know the ache of one’s fingers, arms, and back after a long day of knitting and sewing…and these women and men work all day, every day, many of them without fingers. They all make what they can. If they have fingers, they do one thing, if they have part of a finger, they do something else, and if they’re missing their whole hand, then they turn a crank with the stub of their arm. I watched women with no fingers knit scarves with the stumps on their hands. One woman was working on a brown scarf. I sat down next to her and Yemamu translated and we learned that it takes her two months to knit one scarf, because she’s missing all of her fingers. For that scarf, she is paid 9 birr (about 50 cents). For two months labor. And yet she does it. Each day. And she was smiling.
After visiting with the craftspeople and buying some of their beautiful items at the gift shop, we headed through Korah and into the dump. We could see the smoke billowing up into the sky from far away, and we walked closer and closer, stopping to shake hands with children and greet everyone with “selamno.”
We followed Yemamu and Sisay into the dump. My first thought was that it looked like a post-apocalyptic world, like a movie set for the next big summer blockbuster. But it was real. We stepped through broken glass and plastic bags, large bones of animals, dirty diapers, bottles, cans, batteries leaking acid, rotting food. Layers and layers. Someone had dug a deep hole looking for metal to scavange and the layers of trash went as far as I could see, down down down, smoke pouring through the fissures in the strata.
And there were people. Hundreds of them. People like Busana, who received treatment at the hospital and now lives in Korah, foraging for metals in the dump that she can sell, her 1 1/2-year-old child on her back and her husband nearby searching in the dump.
As we were walking, the smoke filled our lungs, and the smell of rotting diapers, food, and animals filled my nose and lungs. I dry heaved over and over and prayed for the strength to keep walking, to keep asking questions, to keep shaking hands and hearing stories. We saw homes made of plastic tarp where 25 men squeeze in at night to sleep as the hyenas prowl outside. We saw litters of puppies, dogs with matted fur, pigs, and goats. One man was roasting a pig and it looked like he was using the smoke from the dump itself to cook it. A group of young men found a carryout container of raw chicken wings and said, “Let’s eat!” They huddled around it and everyone dug in hungrily. Yemamu showed us what people eat – coffee creamer packets discarded from Ethiopian Airlines, packets of cooking oil, leftover water in plastic bottles. He explained that many people die by drinking the wrong thing or eating something bad. The food at the dump could come from a restaurant…or it could come from the hospital and be mixed with infected blood. The water could be clean water, or it could be chemicals. They take that chance every time they eat. Their clothes come from the dump, and they could be clothes from a patient who died at the hospital, covered in blood.
Each day is a battle to stay alive, and the resilience of the human spirit is remarkable in this place. The older boys take care of the younger ones who have been orphaned. We saw women collecting plastic bags to turn in for money. Garbage trucks came in and out, pouring more and more refuse onto the smoking heap. Hundreds of people gathered around the new piles in search of food and metals. The smoke was so thick that we couldn’t see very far in front of us.
In the middle of the dump, the garbage stretched as far as I could see in each direction. We trekked back to the edge, then headed back through Korah, stopping at Sisay’s home and watching his mother make injera.
Back at the center, we met with Yemamu and Sisay to discuss the website, getting scholarships for the kids for school, supplies, uniforms, and food. Some of the kids at the dump have tried to go to school, but they’re so hungry that they can’t focus. There is such a social stigma for the people of Korah that people won’t allow them in taxis or buses because they smell.
Now we smell. Our clothes smell. After two showers, my skin still smells of ashes and rotting garbage. And just as we’ve taken on the smell, we’ve also taken on the burden of knowledge. We’ve seen it. We’ve smelled it. And now we’re responsible.
I cannot be another rich person who visits, takes photos of the poor people, pities them, and moves on. I cannot be merely a voyeur to their plight. I am responsible.
And so I write. Mark is working on Yemamu’s logo. Alex is working on the website. Becky is using her photography skills. I…well…all I know to do is try to give these people a voice. If I can use our adoption story as a catalyst to get people to read about Korah and rise up to provide scholarships for some of the kids, then that’s what I’ll do!
I wasn’t on a movie set today! It’s real! It’s terrible! They need us to help! Once the website’s up and running, I’ll let everybody know where it is. For now, pray for the people of Korah. Pray for Yemamu and Sisay, two kids from Korah who bring hope to their community by the grace of God.
