The Caprices of Rain and Death

Yesterday evening just after a powerful prayer and meditation time with the Sisters in the prayer room, Sister Tsehay was informed of an unexpected death in the community. A 39 year-old woman whose daughter is a kindergarten teacher and a close friend of the girls in the hostel here was rushed to the hospital after a fall. Asking Abba Tesfaye to look after her children, she completed her life. That evening sadness shrouded the compound, and especially Sister Tsehay, who works most closely with the community as the director of women’s affairs, and harbors a soft, compassionate heart. Maria, one of my favorite of the hostel girls, with a ceaseless smile and a straight-backed, bright composure, was on our side of the compound cooking last night. Her face was bunched up in sadness and Tsehay told me she had been crying. When I asked if she was sad, she bravely smiled and shook her head no, but after wrapping my arms around her, she told me that her head hurt. All I could do was give her Advil and tell her to drink water.

Life is out of our hands, always, but the illusion of control is less rigid, more penetrable here. One can only hope to pass through fate’s pitiless and random fingers undeterred. I believe that is why Ethiopians are so open-ended and adaptable. Between today’s rain, the grief, and the burial that will be held today, my class this morning was intuitively cancelled; no one needed to be told. Our plans to leave for Ado today shifted as the sky let loose with water all morning, granting the community an appropriate gesture of recognition to the peoples’ tears.

The morning sky’s principle of weeping for another’s tears is shared among the Ethiopians of the community here. At the burial—set on a green hill against an overcast sky—the dead woman’s daughter stumbled away from the hole, supported by friends with puffy pink faces. A sea of female heads covered in thin white scarves watched. Corners of white scarves wiped the eyes that witnessed the girl as she wailed to the sky, begging her mother not to leave.

Because of the rain, our plans had changed, but we pressed along with our work painting the Biblical story of Ruth—a woman who rebuilds her life after the loss of a loved one—in the Danka Women’s Center. I had already begun to outline the text in the room that would read “Marta’s Happy Room,” a dedication to Marta Teal, our friend in Riverside. Having witnessed the great sadness that flooded the community, and how the fierce whims of death antagonize the poor here, the dedication took on a new meaning. Marta is also the name of the kindergarten teacher, a daughter of the woman who was laid to rest today, on a bright green hill, among bright wet eyes, a mournful sky, and a resilient community.