Walking the streets of Addis Ababa

Where a cacophony of sounds too loud tumble over each other by night.

Where the day wakes with the infusion of Orthodox and Muslim calls to prayer

And the streets become lined with vendors

And children plead with you to weigh yourself on their scale.

This evening early we walk these streets after pleasing our appetites with western gourmet.

We walk the damp and dirty streets.

The children around us shout and scream, ‘Faranji (white person)! You, you, you, you you! Money, money, money, money, money!’

We smile politely and push past, knowing that these boisterous boys will somehow be alright.

Not twenty seconds later, after the fuss has faded

We walk past a small hunched up figure on the pavement to our right.

We see with the corner of the eye, but we walk on.

Eugene speaks up, ‘Ahhhhh, one birr… that’s what she said.’

I hadn’t heard her, but I realise that with a tiny, soft voice she had said, ‘One Birr.’

All five of us stand stock still.

One Birr? That’s thirty cents.

She hadn’t moved. Hadn’t chased. Hadn’t shouted.

‘Oh Mummy, please can we give her something?’

Without thinking I take ten Birr from my bag. That’s three Rand.

I give the money to an eager Evie. Big brother Gabriel takes her hand.

Together they go.

I watch, as Evie gives the little girl the note.

And I watch, as the little girl smiles.

Delight.

I watch as Gabriel takes his hand out of his warm pocket and strokes the little girl on her head.

His hand remains there for more than a split second.

Warmth.

I think to myself how I would love to scoop that fragile, damp body up and take her to our home and pour her a steamy bath and put clean clothes on her skin and feed her tummy good food.

But we don’t do that. We can’t do that.

We walk on. 

Pensive.

Behind me, I hear Gabriel unable to control his emotion.

Empathy.

The tears keep flowing as I hold him.

As I tell him never to be ashamed of the tears. Never to grow hard. To lean into it.

Knowing that it will shape his life.

But of course I know that he doesn’t really need to hear those things in this moment.

He speaks through the tears, ‘What is she going back to tonight?’

Despair.

Not twenty seconds later, a group of rowdy children come shouting at us again for money.

When we responded politely, ‘Not tonight boys’,

They react with obscenities, which carry on behind our backs as we walk on down the street.

Frustration.

I ask myself this night. When will be moved enough to act? When will empathy (as beautiful and as pure as it) no longer be enough? When will we stop providing ourselves with excuses (intentionally or not)? I don’t have the answers to any of these questions. And I certainly don’t know how.

But what I do know is that that little girl’s face will be forever etched into the heart and mind of my tall gentle man child. I can pray that empathy will grow into compassion… not just in him, but in us all. May we grow from those who merely feel. To those who ask, ‘How can we help?’ To those who act.

May these words not cause guilt, or shame, or any negative emotion.

These words are my thoughts, that stem from a moment in time. 

I guess I’m just wondering how many moments in time like these will it take?