Terafa

Written at 3:48 am my time

I’ve never seen him more proud or content then he was yesterday. It seemed to me he stood a little taller and had more glee in his eyes than usual. He’s been a happy boy now for a few months. Labeled as mentally retarded by the staff and other children – all I saw when I first started volunteering was a grieving child, if shown patience and love could be a happy 4 year old boy. I remember the first time we met. As I entered the orphanage gates I began to walk up the path to visit the director. It took no more than a glance to see the heartache written on his face and the weight of life forcing his body toward the gravel. He sat alone, as I would soon learn he did through most of everyday. He appeared lifeless crunched into his legs sitting on the wooden retaining wall. He wasn’t just alone for the moment. He was alone in his grief, his life, his love, and with no one to would listen to his fears, his doubts, his love lost to where he didn’t understand.

Instinctively I went to him. And as I neared his slouched shoulders he lifted his exhausted face into my view. He sat there with no expectation from me. That was until I kneeled down to his height and spoke, “Salem neow, dahina nah?” (Peace be with you, how are you?) – the common greeting in Addis.

The next thing I knew I had a toddler in my arms, it seemed clinging to life. As was to be expected the silence of the moment was just that-a moment. It didn’t last long as more children became aware of the ferangi’s (foreigner’s) presence. Soon enough there were 40-50 children greeting me, all wanting to hold my hand and talk with them. Through all the hustle, Tarafa remained by my side after I had to put him down due to the commotion. He held my hand refusing to let go. Children pushed him-he cried. They teased him-it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to let go. What I meant to him at that moment I don’t know, but the opportunities are endless and frightening.

After the commotion waned I decided to bring the children to the playground. We found a volleyball and as soon as I had to let go of Tarafa’s little hand he clung and cried. And though I wanted nothing more to stand by his side, there were 20 other children who wanted to play and until you experience having 20 children near your side who all lack the love and affection every child has a right to you can’t comprehend their need to play-if only to feel wanted, perhaps even loved.

There was no way to calm him. I would bump the ball a few times and try to stop his screaming. There was nothing that I could do to sooth him except to pick him up and place him in my arms, allowing him to bury his tear soaked face into my neck.

“He’s not right”
“He’s mentally retarded”
“He’s (pointing to his brain and shaking her head)”
He was constantly treated as an outsider.

I don’t see that boy anymore. The boy I used to know has disappeared. He’s much more confident, is laughing or smiling all day long; he plays with the other kids as though there was never that invisible barrier of grief protecting him from the others.

I’ve since learned his “story,” or at least just a few details. Kechene became Tarafa’s home almost one year ago. Until then, he lived with his family, his mother and father until the day his mother killed his father, her husband. A victim of severe abuse as many Ethiopian women are, with no legal rights and a system that seeks “justice” no matter the circumstance; no respect for women’s rights and certainly no understanding of self defense – she is jailed for life.

“Felagallo asayee inay libs….ihit.” was all I could make out (I want to show you my clothes…. Mother.) I complied without fully understanding what he meant. What do you mean, I thought? Clothes? Mother? Tarafa had never mentioned his had a mother in the orphanage (a caregiver who becomes a parent figure to a particular child). He took my hand and led me to his bedroom where a caregiver was folding the day’s laundry. “Inay libs yeut neow?” (Where are my clothes?). She took a few seconds and found a pair of khakis, a white t-shirt, and a blue long sleeve t-shirt. He said again with a glee in his eyes “Inay libs….ihit.” I could tell how important it was to him that I understand what he was saying as I knew the clothes weren’t from any of the donations I’ve brought before. My volunteer happened to be at the orphanage that day and so I called him over and asked Tarafa to repeat himself. “These are my new clothes from my mother” he said with the biggest smile I may have ever seen on him. I asked Nesredin to repeat what he said as I was in disbelief. “They’re from his mother.” “But she’s in prison” I said, “How could that be?” Then Nesredin explained to me that women are allowed to work in prison and so his mother could have had a little money saved up to buy him these clothes. It had completely surprised me in the best way possible. I turned back to Tarafa, “Betum, betum conjo libs, Tarafa, betum betum conjo.” (Very, very beautiful clothes Tarafa, very very beautiful). Next, he threw his clothes onto the bed and held his arms toward me asking to be held. I, of course, couldn’t resist. I picked him up and just as he had done six months ago he buried his face in my neck except this time he wasn’t sobbing-he was silent. I’d be lying if I said I knew what he was thinking, but then again it didn’t matter. I was there. He needed me. Perhaps he knew he didn’t have to cry…there was nothing to be said or expressed because I knew and now understood his pain.

For the next 10 minutes he was silent. It didn’t matter how many others came to speak with me or cling to my legs. With his arms wrapped around my neck and his legs dangling below he was still.