On the road to Addis University, before the roundabout circle, past the Yesus Drug Store, and a boy charging people to weigh themselves on an industrial food scale, we found our friend Eshetu; a 22 year old man who is disabled from the waist down. His name derived from the Amharic Eshet—the silk threads that protect an ear of corn. We met him as we were dropping off film at a roadside store.
Having a disability does not prevent Eshetu from working. Wearing a yellow fluorescent vest with orange reflector stripes, he works as a parking attendant dispensing tickets and collecting fees for parking, using two worn down wooden crutches for support and stability. We were taken with Eshetu because he wasn’t using his disability as an excuse to beg. When you witness someone who perseveres with life despite the social, physical, and psychological challenges—it is a tribute to the strength of the human spirit.
We made arrangements to take Eshetu to the NGO to learn about his life. As we were driving in a 1980 mustard yellow Fiat with a thin tan line that outlined the body of the car, I attempted to roll down the window when the handle fell off. Ooops. We started laughing. Eshetu showed me the calluses and blisters on his fingers from where he gripped the handles of his crutches. I do not speak Amharic, but suffering is a universal language, as is joy.
We arrived at the blue-gray gates of Hope For Children greeted by a dog name Lucy, little girls in school uniforms of denim colored pinafores with sky blue blouses. A young man was waiting sitting on the concrete wall. He wouldn’t recognize me until I got closer, but I recognized him right away. My Abel. You will learn his story soon.
“My sister…It has been one year and six months since I met you.” Abel said. His white walking cane was folded in his hand. I smiled.
We sat facing the yellow memory boxes. Eshetu spoke Amharic and Abel was fairly good in English. Abel became my translator. Eshetu believed that he became crippled when he was given an “injection in his back as a child and had a bad reaction.” He came from the district Walloo, eight hours by bus and hadn’t been home to visit his family because he didn’t have the money.
I had been caught up in my note-taking when Abel asked me: “Where is his problem, because I can’t see?” Abel is completely blind. I explained that Eshetu did not have the use of his legs and that he was walking with sticks that were larger than the walking cane that Abel used. It is hard for me to describe to you—the feeling that wrapped around me, it was touching.
I asked Eshetu what he wanted to do with his life, what was his future plan. He was quiet. One of the staff members who was standing over my shoulder said, “He has not had time think of his future, he has been busy trying to live day to day.”
“What do you wish for, Eshetu?” I ask.
“I am 22 years; I did not have the chance to finish high school. My wish is to finish my last two years of school.”
Mom and I nodded to each other. I grasped Eshetu’s hand. “Many people have seen me. They have written articles in the newspaper about me. But no one has tried to help me,” Eshetu responded.
I continue to hold Eshetu’s hand. This symbolized more than going back to school. It represented a young man facing society and staring stigma down. If he can be an example, others can follow. That’s what it’s about. Creating possibility and gradually affecting change.
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