If God Wills
It was a beautiful morning at the center, as always, especially after a long time away. In such a hospitable culture, relationships are everything. I am embraced with love and laughter and hugs. I soak in the greetings, making sure to ask about everyone’s “betasab” family.
Soon the pregnant mothers arrive to eat breakfast, some with bellies swelling, and others with an infant on her back or a younger child in tow. I am more than happy to help a few mothers by holding their babies while they eat. Honestly, is there anything as wonderful as the oxytocin released when you hold a baby, and she looks up at you and smiles?
After breakfast and staff devotion, we say goodbye to the mothers. It is time for home visits. Beti needs to check on three mothers who have recently given birth. Our team leaves the center, always travelling in pairs for safety. I remember my son, who grew up in this village, tell me, “Korah can be a dangerous place, mom”. In our recent SWOT analysis, our doulas listed the following threats: dogs that bite, fallen power lines, floods, fires, theft, being insulted or attacked. Today Medi, Tihitina, and Geni joined Beti and me. They walk with an umbrella shading them from the sun. I do my best to soak up its’ glorious rays on my pale skin. With any luck, I might even get a bit pink. We walk a short distance to the mountain of refuse – Koshe. Birds of prey circle the air above. While it began as a leprosy colony built up around Alert Hospital, Korah is now known for being the city’s dumping ground.
At the base of this man-made mountain is a path covered in rocks. During the rainy season the trail becomes extremely muddy and floods. But it is dry today. Wooden poles bridge large holes, and we cross one. Corrugated iron and eucalyptus wood line the sides of the narrow walkway. I follow my friends along the path that takes us to the homes of those working on the trash mountain. Their homes are made with tin, mud, straw, brush, plastic, tarp, and other recycled materials. My friends call them “plastic homes”.
The homes are grouped together into small compounds behind corrugated iron fences. There might be half a dozen homes in one compound. House sizes range from 6 x 6 feet to 6 x 12 feet in area. Family members squeeze into their one-room home, sharing the one bed or mattress that takes up most of the room. The walls are covered with posters of Orthodox icons that seem to offer protection. Hanging from the walls are bags filled with clothes, buckets used for cooking and washing, and other essentials. Jerry cans for storing water are kept under the bed or even used as a makeshift table. Sometimes a home is large enough for a bed, small sofa and coffee table, perhaps even a television. But most homes have only enough space for a double bed and a small standing area.
The corrugated walls provide some sense of protection and community for the families living behind them. Inside the shared outdoor common area, children are playing and women washing clothes or cooking food on an open fire. Usually there is one shared toilet which is usually no more than a hole dug into the ground and surrounded by dark walls making it impossible to see what you are doing. I try to avoid these toilets as much as possible, not appreciating the swarm of flies that attack when you are most vulnerable.
I am never so grateful for such a basic toilet until I walk into the “home” of Tsion, a new mother in our program. This room is larger than most, perhaps 10 x 12 feet or so in size. Otherwise, the room is similarly built to the others. The floor is made of dirt, and the walls of corrugated iron which get very cold when temperatures drop as low as 40 F at night. I noticed this home isn’t inside of a compound. I wonder where this dear mom would go when she needed to relieve herself. That’s when I am told that there is no bathroom attached to this room and that those living there would have to use a container from the trash dump to relieve themselves and then discard it, back onto the dump.
This precious mother, no more than 23 years old, sits on the ground on a piece of cardboard and burlap material. Her baby is only 3 days old, born over the weekend. Beti, her doula, is busy examining the baby and mom. The first week after birth is the most dangerous time for maternal and infant deaths.
My mind is racing as I watch Beti take the mother and babies temperatures, mom’s blood pressure, check to see that the uterus is hard like an orange… take the babies weight…. Something seems wrong. There are no other people in this home. Where are the usual neighbors and family members ready to help? Why does it look like this young mom is working hard to keep her tears from flowing? When Beti finishes her exam, I learn more.
This precious mother had moved to Addis from the countryside with a friend. She was an adult orphan, with no living parents and no relatives to help her. She had been working at a restaurant a few kms outside of Korah. The restaurant allowed her to sleep on the floor at night. At some point she became pregnant. The father of her child refused to acknowledge paternity and ghosted her. He had disappeared from the picture over six months ago. She was truly alone in a new city with no one.
About two weeks ago, her boss had told her she could no longer work at his restaurant. She was too far along in her pregnancy and would not be allowed to sleep in the restaurant with her baby who would arrive any day. He told her about a place – at the base of the trash dump – where she could rent a room for 30 cents a night. The catch – nine other people, mainly men, shared this same room with her. No beds or mattresses, no semiprivate hole in the ground where you could relieve yourself. Just a spot on the ground sheltered from the elements where she could sleep.
And that’s what she did. How strong this brave girl was, tears in her eyes, sitting here nursing her newborn baby. I ask her what she named her child, thinking she would tell me she had not yet decided on a name. Often mothers wait for a few weeks to name their child. But Tsion had already chosen her name. “Besufiqad”. According to God’s will.
We sit and speak for a while longer, and then we pray. We know it is extremely dangerous for her to stay here where she is so vulnerable to rape and communicable diseases. We let her know we will discuss a plan and ask for God to provide.
Lord, what is your will? It can’t be for me to walk away. We can’t let her stay here any longer. She’s so vulnerable. She’s alone. This is the most critical time – the first days after birth – in terms of something going wrong. I am concerned.
We have two more new mothers and newborns to visit so we keep moving. The next baby had been named Esubalew or “What God said”. His grandmother tells us, “No one wants to deliver a baby under the conditions we live in but that’s what God said. This baby is to be born.” In this home, smaller than a “tiny” home, we meet another young mother. But this woman is married to a man who works hard to keep his family alive. All 7 of his family members somehow manage to fit into this small room, and his wages pay for their rent. His mother smiles proudly. Her son is doing a good job caring for her and his siblings and his new wife. After visiting Tsion this home feels full of abundance. This newborn is welcomed by a mother and a father, aunties and a grandmother.
Out of curiosity, I start asking questions about their compound. How many homes are inside these iron walls? How many people reside in each of the homes. It was then that we learned that there was an empty room.
By His Will. We had asked God to provide a place for Tsion. And now we stand in a compound with an empty room, next door to another young mother of a similar age and a family who might even be willing to share their love. By the end of the day, Beti has paid $20 that will allow Tsion to stay here for a month, and Tsion and Besufiquad have settled into their new home for the night.
When I walk into the compound the next morning, there Tsion sits with the biggest smile on her face and baby Besufiqad cradled in her arms. Most mothers don’t come to our breakfast for the first month after they give birth. Even for the neediest mothers, it isn’t culturally appropriate to leave the house. We give grains to mothers so their family or neighbor can prepare food for her during those first weeks of recovery. But Tsion is there and overflowing with joy. She thanks me for helping her. She can’t stop smiling, tears still there in her eyes, but this time her tears tell a different story. One of healing and hope.
Where there had been despair, there is now hope. What had felt impossible is now possible. A simple act of love ushered in healing. What does it feel like to no longer be alone?
I have an idea. Instead of icons watching over these moms, what if we had a network of men and women who we could call on in situations like these? What if we had our very own guardian angels who would respond to help a mother in need with no place to go and no one to help. Waiting to cover the cost of a room or an emergency surgery. On call to help a woman get through her darkest hour. To fight on her behalf.
I’ll put my hand up for that, Lord. Might you call others to put up their hands too?
If you are interested in becoming a guardian angel, please send us a message at director@deliveringhopeint.com . We will reach out to you in times of specific need and ask for your help. Because there will be more mothers like Tsion and baby Besufiqad in need of rescue and love.