Saying Goodbye to Kalaa'la, Again

Originally written May 24, 2009 at 1:45 am Addis Ababa time

It feels like a flash back in time to the night Abebe drove me to the airport the last time I left. I don’t really know how I feel. Glad to be going home in a way, sad to be leaving so many who have been so kind to me, mostly just exhausted—unable to express to others my gratitude, to know how best to meet their bittersweet feelings. In a way, the saying goodbye, the parting, is not exactly the difficult thing, it’s the knowing how to say it that is.

This morning, I missed the kids and teachers coming in to school at 8. Partly, it was a calculated miss. Partly, I was just hungry and wanted breakfast. I wanted to avoid the “this is the last time I’ll see you” ceremony, although I did want to see them, especially the children, again. But I slipped out with just hugs for my friends Ejigayehu, the handicraft teacher, Sigue, our very special head cook, and Bizunesh, the 8th grader (graduate now) who helps Sigue in the kitchen.

Tariku, a teacher at the school, had arranged with the principal for me to interview some students. They had compiled an extremely thorough list of some 50 children with special talents, financial, social, and health-related challenges, and those at the top of their class. Tariku reviewed the entire list with me, which took two hours and was very redundant. I chose 16 children to interview on film, and spent some time out on the playground trying to track these children. These kids are amazing.

Two boys and a younger girl (my family structure) belong to a very poor family in which both parents are HIV positive. Their happy, effervescent demeanor belies the tragedy in their lives. These children shine. Another, Fikru, is 17 years old and only in the fourth grade. I was shocked to see practically a full-grown man walk in the room to be interviewed. He comes from a far-away rural area where schooling was not available for him. He awaits a heart operation this summer.

Temesgal and Alemayo are two brothers who live on the compound. Dr. Fekede says they are just about the hardest working people at the place. They are both in eighth grade now, although Temesgal is several years younger than his brother…but this guy is so intelligent. He cares for the animals during the day and stays up late studying. He served as my translator on the playground; his English is far better than that of any other student, even among the eighth graders. Talking to him is almost like talking to an adult, and when I see him on the compound he gives me the brightest, most intelligent smile and returns my wave. I asked him how he felt about his upcoming final examination, on which his future educational prospects are almost entirely based, and he said, “I don’t feel any way. I’ve studied hard and prepared, and I will take the test, and hopefully I will pass it.”

Getting to know the members of the community better has definitely been the highlight of my time here this time. One day, Bizunesh took me for a walk, and I got out into Kalaa’la and the surrounding villages. The homes are made of mud with thatched or corrugated iron roofs. I was amazed how far rural village life extends, even so close to the city. We walked to the local Orthodox church, removed our shoes, and had a look. Then, we were offered bread and honey water to drink. We walked over the hills and into the next village, onto a bridge that runs over a river that is dry now, as the rainy season is just about to start. Then, we saw some other workers on their way back to Kalaa’la, and joined them to go home. Bizunesh took me to her home and her mother was just putting the finishing touches on a gorgeous and very large brightly-colored basket. We found some young Kalaa’la boys playing marbles nearby, and filmed them before heading back to the Learning Village.

Now, I sit in the gate alone, waiting for my flight to board, and collect…not so much my thoughts, I’m not ready for that, but just my mind. I focus on the trip home. I think back to the last time I sat here, waiting to go home for my Aunt’s funeral. I’m surrouned by people, from all over the world, but in these few moments, I’m totally isolated; no Ethiopian cell phone, my American cell phone doesn’t work. I sit in this liminal space and feel the strangeness of the oncoming transition. You never quite know how these experiences will change you, or what parts of them will prove "sticky." So, I just collect my experiences with me, along with my laptop, my new coffee pot, and my presence of mind, and--literally as I finish this sentence--head to the line of passengers waiting to board our flight, heading home.