Monkeyshines
chapter 18
Ethiopia
"Welcome to the Thursday edition of the Answer Back program, I'm Sandy Lyon, and today, I have a new friend in the studio with me. Welcome to the program, Michael."
"Thank you," I mumbled.
"Michael just spent a few days in Ethiopia, and after coming back, he wrote down his feelings for friends who asked what it was like there. So join our circle of friends, and share with us Michael's impressions of Ethiopia. It will change your day."
"It's been two days since I left Ethiopia, and these are my impressions. If you want a good cry, go to Ethiopia. You'll meet a woman there. When you walk out of the hotel Wabe Shabelle (or the Hilton, or the Ghion, or the Afrique) in Addis Ababa, she'll be walking by very slowly. Shaded by twilight, she's a pretty 18 year old suddenly gone 50. She's barefoot. She's dressed in one of those beautiful, white, wrap-around kind of native garments, that has become a filthy rag. Some of the cloth wraps around to secure a baby on her back. The baby is emaciated and motionless. Fresh dark stains mark the fabric just below the baby's seat, probably from the chronic diarrhea that indicates cholera.
“The woman has a radar that picks up your awareness of her. She interrupts her dusty pilgrimage to find out if you're there for her and her baby. I looked into her eyes. Maybe I shouldn't have. I fell into her eyes, down 5,000 feet, crashed and burned. I was smart, tough, healthy, and had a pretty clear conscience. I thought I could look into anyone's eyes. In the brief second that I could look into this woman's eyes, I saw the perfect humility of a gentle woman who didn't know how to demand. I saw the desperation of a mother whose baby was dying on her back. And I saw the forgiveness Jesus gave from the cross.
“She spoke to me in a soft voice, her tone touched with apology for being so forward, ‘Please, Mister, baby hungry. Good baby, Mister, just for baby.’
“Already, I've torn my eyes away. My throat clutches, and I concentrate on stopping tears from forming. I want to hug her, and take her and the baby into the hotel. I could clean them up, feed them, comfort them. I can't. The soldiers would stop me. There are starving, dying people everywhere. They can't all come into the hotel. And they can't be robbed of their last strength by false hopes or sentimental displays. Tears would work on her like raindrops on a flickering candle.
“In America, I would have rushed them to a hospital. Anyone would have. They’d have dropped whatever they were doing and, at least, called an ambulance. Here in Ethiopia, I focus my attention on the first star I can locate in the darkening sky. She lingers. She senses the struggle in me. She whispers her prayer once more, ‘Just for baby.’
“I focus harder on that star, and the woman and her baby disappear from my mind. She drifts away, merging with the stream of wretched people floating by. I tell myself that I had no solution for her. I feel helpless and stupid.
“What this woman needs is rest and nutrition. Then she can return to work in her village that needs a well and a structure for storing grain. She needs the help of the men who are off soldiering. She needs Russia and America to tell the men to stop soldiering and go home. She needs all of us to understand this, and to help however we can.
“Tuesday, on the plane out of Ethiopia, I spoke with Dick Gregory about the nutrition formula he just had tested at a hospital there. Severely malnourished children were gaining weight within two weeks, and were able to start utilizing other kinds of food. As soon as possible some of this formula will be sent to the Medical Missionaries of Mary, a ferociously dedicated group who work in the feeding camps.
“The feeding camps are places where procedures are laid down and strictly adhered to. In order to gain entry, one must be determined to have lost at least 25% of their minimum body weight. This is the threshold where death is very close. If one has lost only 20% of their minimum body weight, they sit with the crowd outside the compound and wait. Soon they will have starved enough to get in. No one knows if there will still be food then. A few people, like Dick Gregory, know the needed nutrition probably won't be there. Hundreds of thousands of people, exhausted and helpless, will gradually slip into blindness, deafness, cholera and a host of other diseases. The wheat flour will help them hold on a little longer. The knowledge that healthy people are working on the problem will help them hold on a little longer.
“There were some donated items being sold in the local market, but not a worrisome amount. A hundred agencies are presently working in Ethiopia, with the Red Cross being by far the provider of the most supplies. I heard and saw only good things about World Vision, the Swedish, British and American Save the Children organizations, UNICEF, Catholic Relief and Christian Aid. I could not even find rumors of any mismanagement. Even the government Relief and Rehabilitation Commission gets praise for their effectiveness. In the face of all I'd heard about the bureaucratic obstacles in Ethiopia, I was continuously surprised by the positive way government people conducted themselves.
“I got a visa from the Ethiopian Embassy in London although I could have been denied on technicalities. On the plane to Addis I linked up with a Japanese news team and accompanied them to the Ministry of Information where their permits to travel and film were processed. Filming in the city and general expeditions into the country were forbidden, but permission to fly or drive to almost any specific place was nearly automatic. Refusing filming in the city seemed natural enough given the potential effect on the population of having their ghastly circumstances constantly studied, composed, and recorded by well-fed visitors.
“A Swedish fellow told me that sometimes Addis was worse than the feeding camps. There are no feeding centers in Addis, but there are many starving people. They look incongruous, blended in as they are with the suits, ties and Mercedes taxis. There is, nevertheless, no discernible hostility or sense of danger. It's assumed that it would be unwise to go some places alone at night, because of the temptation you'd present. I knew of one fellow who was robbed, but he thought it was a very gentle robbery, and they only took his money. Even the soldiers posted everywhere seem serious but not menacing.
“The Franciscans are new to Africa, but seem to be on the right track. Their ‘Project Africa’ is donating a well to a village. Contributions will be accepted by Fr. Philip Marquard, OFM, St. Peter Friary, 110 W. Madison St., Chicago, IL 60602. Tel: 312/372-5111
“VMM, the Volunteer Missionary Movement, who have a center in Yorkville, IL, have invited the filming of their operations in Africa. The film would double as a training tool. They invite donations and recruits, but require a two-year commitment to the program. VMM is at 7320 Route 71, Yorkville, IL 60560.
“Observers in Addis worry that the situation may get much worse next year as the Sudan becomes more affected. It's essential that the African famine not become yesterday's news. We must imagine a solution, and then do what we can to apply it.”
“And thus,” said Sandy, as I finished reading, “You let your friends know a bit of what you experienced there. Michael, what was it that took you over there? Why did you go?”
“Basically, self-interest. I have a son, and I think that if any children anywhere are allowed to starve, then mine could be next. And I had a spiritual sense that there might be some cosmic retaliation coming my way if I ignored what was happening to the children in Ethiopia. I felt that, since I'd been to Africa twenty years ago, had my health and some time I could take from work, I could actually go there, and see for myself what an ordinary person could do.”
“Um-hum. So you take yourself to be an ordinary person and you put yourself in front of that starving woman and her baby; ah, you look healthy, physically, I mean you're not fat, but you're certainly not skinny either; you must have felt quite well-fed in front of her.”
“I did.”
“Do you think something took you over there to see that woman's face?”
“I'm not sure what mystical interpretation might be given to it. I think any person, seeing a neighbor in tragedy, responds as they can. This crisis needs a lot of little people to respond.”
“Even though you couldn't take her out to lunch or…”
“I thought I'd get off the plane in a city, and find my way to a feeding camp. I was amazed to find so many dying people so close to the plane connecting to Rome, London, Chicago. There was awesome dignity and intense consciousness in these gentle, dying people that made me consider my actions very deeply. A wretched-looking fellow leading a blind man stood nearby. They'd have come over to me, if I’d tried to help the woman, as would others. Then soldiers might intervene. Begging was discouraged, and the city lives in such a grave context, I chose to keep my wits, sense how the people were operating, and look for an opening.”
“Did you feel like coming back to the U.S. and emptying out the grocery store, and shipping it over there?”
“Sure. I thought of emptying the bank account, but that... .” The interview went on for over an hour. It was interesting listening, but not good reading. I felt I had to be so careful of everything I said. Much was in the tone instead of the words. And much was absent altogether.
One caller asked, “I was wondering what you ate each day as a visitor in Ethiopia, and how you felt about that?”
“I had a hard time eating. I told myself I wasn't hungry as long as I could, then I went to a restaurant, and ordered a cheese sandwich and a beer, because they're relatively safe. The sandwich was enormous, and I remember wondering if it was some kind of joke or test, I mean, there was no way I could eat the whole thing, so I wrapped up half of it and ate it for the next three meals. I couldn't even go in those restaurants where you pay big bucks and get a fancy meal, which there are some in Ethiopia, but I don't mean to belittle those who could. I was a novice in that kind of situation, and I wasn't there long enough to develop a surgeon's stomach.”
Another caller asked, “What would you do, if you were in charge of the relief effort in Ethiopia?”
“Well, I'd get experienced rock festival roadies and stage a show. We'd provide food, water, music, toilets, and audio visual instruction on well drilling and water pump maintenance. And I'd get helicopter crews to ferry supplies into the countryside, but that doesn't connect to the real world, in a sense. You have to work through organizations; you have to use conventional means; and you have to take into account the geopolitical stress on every situation. There's a kind of envy, and some people don't want certain others to succeed at being the helpers. In the competition for power, everybody wants their God seen as the best and most powerful, and this weighs on each transaction, so local authorities must, blah, blah, blah.”
I was reluctant to say that I'd ask people to form very long lines, like bucket brigades to pass supplies hand to hand from the port to the drought areas. It sounds crazy, but that's what we'd do in Wisconsin if we had to. If we had no supplies or transportation of any kind, we'd make lines all the way to Lake Superior if we had to.
And I was reluctant to say that the whole problem could be solved overnight by helicopters if politics permitted. It seemed to me that the picture of Black communists starving might even look like okay publicity from a short term, Capitalist point of view, the way herpes and AIDs seemed to cheer up some Capitalist leaders by validating their moralistic preachings about sex.
I was reluctant to admit that, as a middle-aged, White American male, I felt very exposed in Ethiopia, because ‘my group’ was perceived to be singularly preoccupied dominating the pecking order in the life boat. I bumped into Bulgarian and Cuban soldiers, East Germans, Marxist students, conspiratorial Capitalist sympathizers (or so they claimed), and Ethiopian graduates of Moscow's Patrice Lamumba University. (who seemed to have traded much of their delicate Ethiopian personalities for the hard boiled Communist attitude so useful in competing with hard boiled Capitalists.)
When I got my visa in London, I spoke with Teshome Teklu at the Ethiopian Embassy. He’d attended Ohio State University in the early '70s, and he remembered the Kent State shootings. He was easy to talk to. (A Swedish guy told me later that many western educated Ethiopians were recently released from or were barely staying out of prison as the government was torn between utilizing their skills and resisting their western bias.)
Teshome said, “This is a most difficult post. There is so much publicity. Tell me, will you, America has all the technicians in the world; they're stacked up like cord wood, but when you were in Ethiopia, you never showed us how to build even a single road. What is wrong with America?”
I said, “I don't know. I think a lot of my people are starving psychologically, the way your people are starving for food. Sometimes I think they're crazy. When I saw the films of the children, I was sick.”
“My wife,” Teshome said, “She yells at me because I don't want to eat. I go in my room and cry, because of what's happening to my people. We aren't beggars, but we must accept what is offered. It's embarrassing, even to the starving. Why do you want to go to Ethiopia? Are you a spy? We have them all the time. Or are you crazy?”
“I think of my own son, and of the Ethiopian fathers and, well, I'm not sure of much in this life, but I'm sure that if I was one of the Ethiopian parents whose child was starving, I'd want someone, anyone to help me.”
*****
Adam, I thought this was a valid exception to a wise rule against elliptical contracts (a communication monkeyshine #3) where people ‘help’ someone without having an invitation or specific agreement, then hold future transactions hostage until the ‘help’ is repaid.
*****
“You have children of your own, then?” asked Teshome.
“Yes, an eight-year-old boy.”
“And you have left your family to travel to Ethiopia?”
“Yes. I talked to my friends about it. Some thought it was a good idea, some didn't. Do you think it's foolish for me to go there?”
“No, not foolish, but you must not expect too much. We have spent a lot of money providing airplanes and tours to visitors. They go to the feeding camps, they cry, then they go away. They say they will send help, but often the help doesn't come. So there is some backlash from this, and you must not expect too much.”
“I'm good at staying out of the way. I'd like to help if I can, or just see the situation so I can tell my friends what's going on there.”
“You're supposed to have a letter from an organization that will take responsibility for you, and you don't. Do you have enough money?”
“Yes,” I said.
“But you don't have the shots for cholera.”
“Well, I talked to Public Health people in Minneapolis, and was told the cholera immunization only works half the time, and only on a couple of the many kinds of cholera. Cholera is treatable with antibiotics, and you can get sick from the vaccine; so, the nurse said she'd carry antibiotics, and not bother with the vaccine.”
“OK, I will give you a visa, but don't tell them I promised you an airplane or anything, and be very careful what you do.”
“Thank you,” I said. We shook hands and parted. On my way out through the sparsely decorated lobby, I met the woman with whom I'd spoken when I first arrived. She seemed stalwart and businesslike, and had told me, when she first learned that I had no letter of authority from an organization, “You cannot go to Ethiopia. I'm sorry. Next.”
Now she looked at me, her eyes so dark and deep I felt I'd never understand her full meaning as she said, “You're lucky. You can pick up your visa tomorrow.”
I checked the price of double deck buses at London Transport, then booked a flight to Addis on Aeroflot via Moscow. It was the cheapest way. But I got bumped off the flight, because they couldn't confirm a seat past Moscow, and I had no visa for Russia. Aeroflot's director had been ejected from England that day, and the flight to Moscow had suddenly filled up. I flew on Ethiopian Airways instead, one of Africa's premier carriers.
It rained that day, and people started talking about how to get seeds to the farmers. I made contacts much faster than I'd expected, and in two days, I began to feel like a voyeur. I thought I should commit six months or leave immediately. The plan I'd imagined when I began the trip was both validated and stymied. I saw the Sahara and the Sahel as a huge piece of flesh without enough capillaries for circulation, and from the moment I saw the films of the children, I imagined driving a double-deck bus around there dropping supplies, establishing a service garage, a hotel, a school. If one bus worked, I'd get another on the road, then a third, and so on. This wasn't the sort of plan that got quick support from suits-and-ties, so I decided to scout it out on my own, then do it with friends, if and when economics permitted.
The problem, however, was geopolitical, and more severe than I'd imagined. To hard-core politics players, Ethiopia seemed nearly business as usual. Any little hand I might play had to be well cased if I was to avoid getting sandbagged or Mau-Maued. I flew home, and wrote letters offering the services of myself and some willing friends with relevant skills… a high powered group with the necessary experience to operate a small transport system, open a school, build a road, dig wells, and such. I sent a little money, wrote more letters, and waited.
The U.S. government made it illegal to provide developmental aid to Ethiopia, and that was chilling. They came up with one story after another to explain why children starved, each seeming calculated to show Ethiopians botching America's relief effort. Then came Live-Aid.
Cued by Bob Geldof and Harry Belafonte, more human beings turned their eyes and ears to Live-Aid than had witnessed any other single event in history. Grass roots empathy poured from little people all over the world. In America, it competed with TV coverage of President Reagan's colon surgery. I watched both, and I was glad Reagan made it. His constituents seem insecure, and in need of his personal guidance.
Colleen worked for Bill Graham, the legendary rock promoter who staged Live Aid, and she asked him about the letter I sent them. His office wasn't involved in disbursing funds, and was in chaos from a recent fire, but he knew who did handle the money, and he said he'd check it out. It turns out there were lots of letters like mine.