Hello, My Name is Farenj

A few days after arriving in Soddo, Isaac, Camille and I were escorted to Saturday market by one of the wonderful women who helps out around the compound in the houses. I'd spent hte morning reading up on Ethiopia and trying to figure out Amharic (the national language, though those in higher education are taught in English). My ears slowly began to interpret the shouts of packs of "street children" following us (as they're called around the country, sadly) - young and old yelling "Farenj" rather than "orange" which is what I'd initially heard. Farenj is the Amharic word for white foreigner, spoken in tones of curiosity, fascination, desperation, and some accusation. Novel. Different. Outsider. Money. Power. Fame. A white mark splashed against the red dirt and peering faces.

We'd been told what to expect in our ventures outside the hospital compound. We'd been told the way we should respond - what not to do, how to interact, how to avoid creating a societal structure of begging and dependency on Farenji donations. How to assimilate as a person instead of a stereotype. But my heart still grappled with the words of the Lord to lift up the poor and oppressed, to do to the least of these as He did, to give out of a cheerful heart recognizing that all I have is His anyway. So to walk with a straight face, nothing in my pockets to give, and no recognition of the persistent clapping, whistling, pinching, tugging, shouting voices - "Hey you! Where you from!? FARENJ FARENJ!"... It's good. Good to be the foreigner. The one who stands out. The one who can't be invisible no matter how many layers of clothing I pile over my fluorescent skin. Too often I can hide away inside myself, hide away from the world with a gentle, courageous, faith-filled facade. Not here. Here I am exposed and under scrutiny. Here I see the state of my heart reflected in passing stares, even if the stares aren't at my heart but at the net worth of my skin color.

And then there's the language barrier, again. Funny how my ignorance for the language here puts my knowledge of Hebrew in perspective. I've found myself chuckling as I think, "Wow, I can speak Hebrew!" I'd gotten so used to speaking freely with patients, family, friends, random strangers during my time in the States.

Communication, the ability to listen and hear and respond. This, more than any other, is the tool that breaks down barriers and builds understanding. In anything - but in the MSIH reality - especially the expanse of global health. It takes an exaggerated smile & awkwardly signing hands (Is thumbs up culturally appropriate here? I sure hope so...) and creates meaning to a new mother. It takes walls between cultures & traditional practices and builds bridges. And it takes a Farenj, slowly, and someday gives her a name. At least to a few. And vice versa. In 8 weeks I anticipate I will not see Ethiopia as a foreigner either, but as friends amidst a vibrant, complex, beautiful backdrop.

(Expanded from an entry dated January 18, 2014)