Gondar, Ethiopia
1971-1975 Guests in the Ethiopian Highlands and Children of Zemecha
by
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Meeting Kassa
Outside my window, a family of birds, Wood Hoopie, squawks and squeaks, scampering up and down eucalyptus trunks, poking around for food. All summer, rains have flooded the country, Maskal daisies are thick, and Gondar's steep and over-grazed hills appear deceptively lush in a haze of yellows and greens.
The hard rains had already started months earlier, in May and June, before we left for the States. Back then, I watched in disbelief as green sprouts covered the brown hills. Now, waves of meadow grass soften the grey mountain sides with apple green and pale emerald, small farm plots of yellow-green teff have appeared and everyone with a bit of land has a kitchen plot of bakala beans sprouting bluish-green leaves out of the rocky soil. In the grounds around our little Gondar International School, desiccated patches of thistle and thorny, poison nightshade tomatoes, acacia and cactus are forced to nudge over as more tender-growing things make a comeback.
I first met Kassa the previous spring as I was up to my elbows in dirt, digging weeds in the garden. He had come through the gate in the garden fence, walked between rows of old strawberry plants, and stood before me. But even from a distance, I was already bristling and feeling resentful at being interrupted by this shabby, meek young man.
Something about Kassa seemed middle-aged, although when I looked at him I realized he couldn't be more than 17 or 18 years old. He was very thin, not especially tall, with sleepy eyes, high cheek bones, and black, black skin that looked dusted with grey from either fatigue or not having bathed for several days.
How did he get in, I asked him. Didn't the college have a guard at the gate to keep such things from happening? He bowed slightly, eyes lowered, waited for me to finish, then reached out with both hands offering a worn piece of paper, which I barely accepted between two muddy fingers.
Kassa's note read that he was very poor, and only with the help of God had he been able to survive thus far and continue in school. Each Friday, he traveled to his village where his father gave him a bag of stale rolls to eat the next week, and he lived on barely one piece of bread a day. The note went on to say that he had just left the hospital after a severe illness and was advised he must have proper food if he was to recover.
I handed the note back to him and said there were too many students around our house and not enough work. On that spring day in the garden, I was in no mood to meet another impoverished student and listen to his invariable sad story; I had no energy left to try to balance his words, to deal with the claims of the critics who accused me of spoiling students and believing lies. It had already become all too obvious that their lives were far harder than any story they could devise.
At the end of this first encounter, I offered Kassa a sack half
full of teff flour and was annoyed when he turned it down. Quietly and politely, he explained that the teff did him no good as there was no one to cook it for him. I made some sort of suggestion, or perhaps a promise. I hardly remembered, and Kassa thanked me and left.
In September, soon after our return from home leave, the college needed the campus duplex house for a new Ethiopian doctor, so we move off campus to our third house, a large, old European-style house up along the far side of Gondar, so we live in town for the first time. The immediate neighborhood has a name, Tchwasefer.
Now, not long after this move, Kassa appears at the Tchwasefer house and reminds me that I had told him to enquire for a job after Maskal, already nearly two months past. I am in good spirits, just returned from a vacation and settled into an interesting, pretty house, and I say we will hire him at E$5 a month. A flicker of pleasure shows on his mouth and in his eyes. He bows slightly , replying “Thank you.” I tell him to show up Saturday to wash windows. Kassa says nothing, but a few days later he brings me a note in which he explains that he is Falasha, Beta Israel, therefore he cannot work on Saturday. He seems apprehensive. Is he afraid I am angry and will now refuse to hire him?
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About the Book
In 1971, teachers Barb and Clark Olson, together with the two small children, moved to Gondar, Ethiopia. For four years, Barb kept a detailed journal about the family's experiences, recording people's stories and events both domestic and political, local and national, chronicling the early days of the revolution, as well as the drought and famine moving across this East African nation. Barb now lives with her husband in Springfield, Illinois where she writes and is a community organizer.
This book is a “Thank you” to the people of Gondar and a tribute to the resiliency and vision of Ethiopia's youth.
Several of these stories are published separately, including the children's book, Christmas in Gondar, Five Ethiopian Stories, available soon.
About the Author
Teacher, writer and naturalist Barb Olson, together with her husband Clark and their two young children, moved to Gondar, Ethiopia in 1971. For four years, Barb kept a detailed journal about the family's experiences, recording people's stories and events both domestic and political, local and national, chronicling the early days of the revolution that overthrew Emperor Haile Selassie I as well as the drought and famine that moved across this East African nation. Barb now lives with her husband in Springfield, Illinois where she writes and is a community organizer. Several of these stories are published separately, including the children's book, Christmas in Gondar, Five Ethiopian Stories, available soon.