The Kindness of Strangers

Almost without fail, the moments when I've been the unhappiest in Ethiopia have occurred while I've been on a public bus. 

Standard public bus

I often feel guilty for how surly I end up being toward my fellow bus-mates, even though it’s either provoked or a direct result of how vulnerable I feel in that moment. My latest bus ride started out in just this way. I was on the final leg of a 3-bus journey from Addis to my town, Fincha, and when I climbed on the bus, the only row of available seats was the very back. Knowing this condemned me to flying airborne out of my seat with each rut in the dirt road we would hit, I settled myself in the back corner of the bus. About five minutes later, a 20-something young man squeezed himself in next to me. He spent the next hour trying to get me to engage with him, laughing hysterically at his own efforts and making fun of me in Afan Oromo to his friends. Feeling very alone, I pretended I couldn’t understand anything he was saying, and luckily for me, he and his friends couldn’t speak English.

A fairly typical bus interior,
though on the day this story took place, the aisle was packed.

Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, I started to feel very sick in my digestive system, and all those ruts in the road were absolutely making it worse. By the time we stopped for a police check, I knew I needed to find a shint bet (latrine) no matter what.

Well, that started the chain of perfect strangers being incredibly kind to me. First, the previously rude guy sitting next to me didn’t even blink when all of a sudden I revealed that I do in fact speak his language, and started fairly aggressively saying that I needed to get off the bus as fast as possible. He hopped to and helped me get from my back corner seat, through the 25 people standing crammed in the aisle, and off the bus. From there, an on-looking gentleman pointed me to a house where the owner immediately ushered me back to her shint bet. The radaat (bus assistant who collects money and manages passengers) made sure the bus waited for me, and when I returned, one of the policemen cleared a space for me on the front cushion, so I wouldn’t have to be flying airborne off the bumps in the back anymore.

Still feeling sick but also feeling very grateful, we headed off. Unfortunately, I soon felt that same sense of urgency again. Luckily, we stopped to let people off at another small town shortly thereafter. Again, they all waited for me, a lady ushered me through her home to her shint bet, and I upgraded my seat to the front chair (the previous occupant had finished his trip, and the people collectively decided I could have it). When we started driving again, the driver reached over and gave me a pat on the shoulder, telling me with full concern and sincerity to ayzosh (be strong).

Finally, when we turned off the main road in Fincha, the driver and Fincha’s bus station attendant saw that I still looked pale, so they helped get my stuff off the bus and into the arms of a sweet young shoe-shine boy who carried them to my porch for me.

I’ve been sick like that before during my service, and I always wondered what would happen if I was traveling on a bus instead of curled up in my bed. I imagined the bus leaving without me and me stranded on the side of the road with no way to get home. Instead I was totally cared for by an entire host of strangers, with not an instant of hesitation or even a hint or resentment.

Triumph

I am on top of the world. I’m soaring, I’m glowing, I’m fairly radiating joy, and I’m not even exaggerating!

Two weeks ago, 25 ninth grade girls, 5 tenth grade girls, and 1 American gathered in an empty classroom after school at Fincha’s high school. The ninth graders were wide-eyed, whispering, and wary. The tenth grade girls were quiet as well, but their silence concealed excited anticipation. They had been waiting for this since they returned from our Camp GLOW (Girls Leading Our World) last summer in the big city: the chance to put into practice what they’d learned, and lead their carefully chosen ninth graders into the attitude of confidence and hope they’d since adopted. That’s right, we had finally started Fincha GLOW Club!

With sideways glances, we decided which of these new leaders would start us off: Ayantu* and Lemlem.* Without any instruction from me, they started by explaining Camp GLOW and how over the week-long camp they’d learned about leadership, gender, female reproductive health, disability awareness, and volunteerism. They then designed and explained how we would get to know each other: each ninth grader should share her name, what her dream career is, and why she’s excited to be included in this oh-so-special club.  They shyly stood one-by-one and shared how they want to doctors, lawyers, political leaders, and scientists, and how lucky they felt to be in the room.

Then it was my turn. I explained a little bit about leadership, and asked them to tell me the names of women they admire around the world. After each sentence, my tenth graders would translate my words into Afan Oromo, so that every ninth grader could understand. Names like Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, Valentina Tershkova, and Hillary Clinton were eagerly proffered, to nods of agreement, but when I wrote Tirunesh Dibaba’s name on the board, we ground to a halt.

“As I think, she is not a leader,” said one especially brave ninth grader. Exclamations to the contrary arose, and Ayantu immediately stepped in.

“Raise your hand if you think she is a leader,” she directed. Many hands rose.

“Why do you say she is a leader?” She then asked. Silence. She repeated her question in Afan Oromo to continued silence. These girls have never been asked to offer their own ideas in class before, so their silence is understandable, but Ayantu was having none of it.

“You shouldn’t have to be afraid. You should have to share your idea!” With her continued coaxing, ideas finally began to come from these previously paralyzed girls.

“She is a famous athlete.”

“She is an example.”

“Hard worker.”

“Brave.” I quickly wrote them all on the board so they could see their ideas, valued and compiled. Ayantu moved on to the naysayers, who argued that she was a role model, which was not the same thing as a leader. And with that, thanks to Ayantu’s initiative, I had my gaps and my starting place for the next lesson: we were going to tackle leadership and how leading yourself is just as important as leading others.

Fast-forward to today, our first real session. I began walking them through what makes a person a good leader of others, such as providing the vision, maintaining motivation, solving problems and reconciling differences, and making your team members feel appreciated and supported. When I got to reconciling differences, suddenly Lemlem and Bashatu,* another of my tenth graders, had stood up and were whispering to Ayantu: they had an idea for a quick drama about how a leader should reconcile differences! They disappeared outside for about 60 seconds, and then delivered a concise drama in which they get into a heated argument about how much paint to buy for a mural, and Ayantu must intervene to find a solution. True to form, she immediately stepped in and started by saying,

“Both of your ideas are good, but you must find a way to agree.” Unconsciously, she’d just modeled how to make your team members feel valued while you’re solving disagreements!

Shifting to the half of the board that I’d labeled “Leading Yourself,” I asked them how you can lead yourself, and Lemlem, unable to hold it in, burst out,

“Have a plan!” We all laughed, and I wrote it on the board, adding dreams and goals to the bullet point. I walked them through how you have to have a dream and you have to have values, and then you have to make your choices and act according to those dreams and values, not according to peers, and definitely not according to fear. As Ayantu reworded it,

“Don’t choose the silent path!” When I asked what was missing from the board, Bashatu spoke up:

“Believe you can!” How could I have forgotten?

We moved on to the small group discussions, in which I gave each group one tenth grader and one write-up about an exemplary woman in the world. I’d chosen Ellen Johnson Sirleaf (first female president of an African country – Liberia), Malala Yousafzai (teen activist for female education in Pakistan, despite being shot in the head by the Taliban), Liya Kebede (Ethiopian-born super model who used her success to start a foundation supporting maternal health in Ethiopia’s rural areas), Nasrin Oryakhil, (Afghanistani OB-GYN and director of the Malalai Maternity Hospital in Kabul, who is committed to advancing the role of women in medical professions), and Yalemtsehay Mekonnen (first female professor at Addis Ababa University, Ethiopia’s top university).

I watched as the tenth graders facilitated deciphering the English blurb and discussing how each of these women are leaders, and continued watching as each girl who came up to present explained to everyone, with pride and with clear voices, the accomplishments of the women they’d been given.

We closed by moving outside to the field, to play a game that I had missed last summer, so I said to my former campers,

“Take the lead!” And take the lead they did. They got everyone into a circle, explained the rules, and directed them step-by-step through how to play. Before long everyone was giggling and exclaiming: they were being teenage girls for once!

As the ninth graders dispersed toward their homes, Lemlem approached me. She remembered a session on sex versus gender roles that we had done last summer, which she wanted to be the topic of our next session, with she and I as the co-facilitators. We set a date to meet before the next session to plan, and parted ways, both grinning from ear to ear.

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I directed that camp last summer, and as the week drew to a close, we PCVs were sighing with exhausted satisfaction. We felt sure we had reached those girls, and that they were going home armed with the knowledge that they were strong women and that they could be leaders. But how could we really know? Camp was over and they would go back to their regular routines of school and housework on endless repeat.

How could we really know? By starting a GLOW Club! It is now confirmed: these girls have been empowered! They believe that they are strong and capable, and they are modeling that for their ninth graders to a degree that surpasses even my highest hopes for them. These are girls who at the beginning of camp were just like the ninth graders in our club are now: unable to speak at a volume intelligible to anyone else in the room, unable to offer up their ideas in response to a simple question, and certainly unable to lead a roomful of peers. My heart feels way too big for my chest. I can’t even imagine work more rewarding than this!

Time is a fickle beast. (Wait, what? Where’s the transition? Don’t worry, I’ll tie it back to the topic, I promise.) It grinds to a halt when we most want to skip ahead and it speeds by when we most want it to stop, but worst of all, it makes us question the worth of our activities. It asks us,

“Are two years really worth it, if you’ve spent a large portion of it engaged in leisure activities or failed programs?” But I finally have my rebuttle ready, and I feel sure it will stick:

“Yes, YES, YES! OF COURSE it’s worth it!” I am triumphantly shouting in my head. Having the opportunity to uplift these girls’ opinions of themselves, teach them how to dream and how to lead, and then witness them not only embody all that they’ve learned but also spread the word to their peers is the sum total of all I could have hoped for out of my service. Everything else is just icing.

Ladies and gentlemen, you have here one ecstatic PCV who can hardly contain herself. In fact, that second club session only ended about an hour ago. I couldn’t wait to write it down and post it. Joy like this is meant to be shared!

*Names have been changed.

Peace Corps Week

Today marks the close of the official Peace Corps Week, a time when current and returned volunteers alike are encouraged to educate others about the countries in which they served and about Peace Corps itself.

My favorite Peace Corps slogan is this: “It’s the toughest job you’ll ever love.”

I’ve been stuck on the tough half of that slogan for a while now. When I try to describe how I’m feeling to friends and family, the only adjective that comes to mind is tired: I'm tired of being perpetually dirty, tired of being isolated from fluent English speakers, fellow countrymen & women, and other followers of my faith, tired of putting myself into the tiny box that constitutes proper female behavior in Ethiopia, and most of all, tired of hitting roadblock after roadblock at school.

If it weren’t for a large stubborn streak and a more-than-healthy dose of pride, the combination of loneliness and discouragement probably would have sent me home by now. I’m glad I’m still here though, so for once I’m grateful for my stubbornness and pride. They are the last reasons in the basket to go, and they keep me from quitting on the days when the other reasons have already been pulled out and haven’t done the trick.

Being here still and reflecting on my experience so that I can write about it for this blog, I was able to have (and to recognize) a seemingly ordinary but actually quite remarkable morning yesterday:

At about 9am, my landlady called me in to her house for coffee. My neighbors and I all gathered in her living room, some of us with our crochet projects in hand, to sit, chat, and drink coffee. The topic of conversation was my town’s first violent crime since I’ve been here: a murder and a subsequent revenge murder. To find out what had happened, since I can only pick up fragments from full-speed conversations in the local language, I called my neighbor’s son, who has great English but is working elsewhere, to ask him what was going on. He then called his mother to get the story, and called me back to explain everything. Thanks to him, I was able to join them in expressing our dismay that such violence had come to our usually peaceful town, and sympathy for the families involved.

After coffee, I went out to the main road to stock up for the weekend on various food items. My favorite shop owner greeted me by name, asked how my work was going, and made sure I got her freshest eggs. At my bread place the owner knew when he saw me coming to start getting two rolls of bread ready for me, and at my favorite fruit stand the 10-year-old daughter manning the stand helped me pick out the biggest bananas. Walking home, children at three separate houses spotted me, shouted my name and ran over to shake my hand, beaming up at me. Last, my neighbor’s son accidentally kicked his ball onto the street, and when I tossed it back to him he very deliberately said, “thank you,” choosing my language even though he doesn’t think he’s very good at English. Then, not 10 minutes after settling back into my house, my neighbor shouted for me to come join them in enjoying some freshly baked bread.

All of this was packed into one morning. On the surface, it was just me going about my routine: drinking coffee with neighbors, grocery shopping, and hanging out in our compound’s common area. If this was a facebook status update though (that is where hash tags are used, isn’t it? Uh-oh, I may be about to reveal just how out of touch I really am…), you could safely tag this story with #community support, #generosity, and #friendship. This is where the love half of that Peace Corps slogan resurfaces. How can I not love a life that includes children running to shake my hand, neighbors sharing their bread with me even though they can only afford to make bread on holidays, and a community that is not in the least bit desensitized to violent crime in their town?

If I had one critique of that Peace Corps slogan, however, it would be that Peace Corps is so much more than a job. It’s your entire life, for 2 ¼ years, for better or for worse, but really for both. You cannot possibly emerge unchanged, nor can you leave your community untouched. Those transformations are messy, but they are absolutely worth the struggle.

Happy Peace Corps Week!

Motivational quote from Pinterest
that seemed appropriate. :)

Public Transportation Can Actually Be Inspiring

One day about two weeks ago, I was headed to Shambu (the next town over) on a public bus. While I was waiting for the bus to fill up, an elderly woman came onto the bus and reserved the two seats in front of me. She disappeared, and when she returned, she was helping another woman onto the bus, who appeared to be both mentally and physically disabled. They got themselves settled, and my attention returned to my Kindle until a few minutes after the bus had left the station.

The driver’s assistant had started collecting the bus fare, and gathering what I could from the Afan Oromo conversation that ensued, she didn’t have enough money. She had been told it was only 10 birr per person, when in fact the price is 21 birr per person. Upon learning that she had less than half the required funds, she began to cry.

The bus was silent for a moment, and then one after another, 3 passengers pulled their wallets out of their pockets, saying, “I can give 5 birr.” There was a pause, and then one of them urged the rest of the bus, “Come on, we only need 6 more birr!” More wallets were opened, and enough money was pooled to allow the elderly woman and her companion to make the trip to Shambu.

That was an inspiring, heart-warming experience that will stay with me for a long time, but it’s only one example of the generosity that I witness every day here in Fincha and throughout Ethiopia. My neighbors live in a mud and straw house and their living room furniture is wooden benches because that’s all they can afford, but they share their lunch with me and invite me over to drink their coffee almost every day. When my parents and I were leaving Fincha after their visit, they insisted that I wake them up at 5 AM so that they could accompany us to the bus station. When my porch was getting dirty, the little boy on my compound voluntarily scrubbed it clean for me, and every time I arrive in Fincha after a trip, a group of children fairly rips my bags off of me so that they can carry them for me up the hill to my house.

Back home in the States, it’s now the Holiday season: the season of giving. All too often though, the definition of giving is limited to impersonal donations. Here, my neighbors, friends and even strangers on a bus are teaching me instead how to give of myself directly to a person in need, to my neighbors, and of course, to the people I love. How many Americans would scrub their neighbor’s porch, wake up at 5 AM to accompany them to the bus station, open their homes to their neighbors on a daily basis, or respond to an immediate situation to help a stranger pay her bus fare?

This is one of the big lessons I want to take home with me when my service is completed: to give of myself in ways that may not be convenient, are not necessarily pleasant, or require me to actually reach out to a stranger. Think what a world we would live in if more of us did that! And in fact, if the definition of giving included random and/or frequent acts of kindness, then thin pocketbooks this holiday season wouldn’t diminish people’s capacity to give in the slightest.