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When I
see the new buildings that are sprouting adjacent to some of
the churchyards, I keep wondering where all these ingenuous
and enterprising authorities in the priesthood have been
before they came to the business arena. Old graves and tombs
have made way for new structures of pigeonholes for lease at
sky high charges for at least a seven-year period.
Is it not
ironical that people are not equal, even after death?
Graveyards located closer to main streets seem to have
suffered the massive blades of the bulldozer as tombstones
that had been in existence for years are graded away to make
way not for the dead, but for the living who want to do some
business. These business centres tower over the main church
building, putting it into the background far from sight as
is the case with St. Urael Church, where you have to cross
your fingers and hope to be able to communicate with the
Saint.
It is
ironic that breastfeeding mothers and disabled paupers alike
go to the church looking for a safe haven. But contrary to
what is written in the Holy books, they are left out in the
cold right at the gates of some churches. Those who brave
the chilly rainy nights of Addis coil around the monument of
Menelik II as if to appeal to the Lord Mayor whose office is
only a stone throw away. At the gates of St. Mary, you see a
crowd of destitutes sitting and appreciating the artistic
architecture of the huge edifice housing the offices of the
innermost echelons of authority of the Orthodox Church.
Young
mothers sit put, breastfeeding their babies in their arms
while letting their other toddlers run loose to pester
church goers for coins. The philosophy seems to be that
every child has to earn his or her living as soon as they
can stretch their little hands and call out, “abaye dabo,”
following people till they cannot take it any more. It is
not an easy gamble, considering the occasional fist-knocks
the child is offered from some disgusted passerby, or
competing bully in the same trade.
Why these
women give birth to children and keep breeding when they are
obviously unable to feed themselves, let alone their
offspring, remains a mystery. Are these children imposed
loads, or God-sent feelers that serve as search engines for
coins from God-fearing people?
I went
to a local NGO, Godanaw, to find out. This place was
founded by an altruistic person who had decided to do
something about the pathetic situations of the pregnant and
childb-earing mothers. Godanaw is located somewhere
between “Cherkos Gebya” and Genet Hotel.
The
founder and Programme Manager, Mulatu Tafesse, has an
interesting story to tell about how he established the
organization.
Godanaw
started
with a couple of homeless victims of rape who ended up
pregnant. Some kind-hearted women offer them a little space
where they can give birth to their offspring till they
recover fully from the effects of labour. Mulatu found out
that some of these young victims contemplate committing
suicide or throwing away the baby.
He
consults religious leaders about whether or not abortion is
an acceptable option. He gets an emphatic no, sometimes with
some profane language added, unheard of around religious
circles. He therefore had to establish Godanaw, a
safe haven where such victims could stay for about a year
until their children could walk.
Meanwhile, they are educated and trained in various
vocational activities, including hairdressing, sewing,
housekeeping, cooking or child-caring, after which they are
employed as hairdressers, parking girls, or engage in a few
odd jobs in the informal sector.
There are
over 140 rape victims staying in the hostel-like safe haven.
They live in clean rooms, sleep in well-furnished
double-deck beds, and dine together in a clean dining hall
where TV sets are installed for them. Their children are
also well taken care of in clean nurseries.
I saw
little kids singing child songs, leaning on one another and
playing merry-go-round. The guardsman was watching in a
caring spirit. I was introduced to Mulatu, who was unloading
a wielding machine from his car with the assistance of some
technicians. I noticed a big portrait of Mother Theresa
hanging on the wall of the veranda on the way to his office
upstairs. Further upstairs, I saw a big drawing of St. Mary
and Jesus Christ placed side by side.
The
office was not roomy, but was stocked with all sorts of
equipment like overhead projectors, cameras, computer sets,
magazines, books, documents and had all sorts of packages
laden on the shelves.
The
mothers I talked to were all migrants to the capital.
Yalemzewd, 17, is from Werota. She was a school dropout from
Sixth Grade. She came to Nadirs with an aunt after her
mother died. She was employed as a housekeeper, where she
was raped and ran away after she realized that she was
pregnant. Tsehay Wagaw, 15, is from Ambo. Her aunt brought
her to Addis and got her a job at a bar where she was raped
and later conceived. Both of them have finished training in
hairdressing. They have been here for over a year now, and
may soon leave the place and be on their own.
As I was
leaving the place, I had a glance at a script placed in a
glass frame with the title, “Prayers of the Street Child.”
It starts with, “Hi, Lord! It is me, the street child,
remember?”
The
prayer ends by asking the Lord for forgiveness for a series
of misfortunes the child encountered, and forgiveness for
other people as well. |
