The Mirror
February 28, 1997, Friday
SECTION: FEATURES
HEADLINE: I'll Never Forget You; Life on the City Street is Hard... but
Your Money Is Bringing Children Hope; My Comic Relief Diary From
Ethiopia.
By Julie Walters; Julie Walters Visits Ethiopia For Comic Relief
BYLINE: Julie Walters
BODY: Addis Ababa is humid and dark. The streets are deserted. All we
can see as we are driven from the airport to our hotel are the vague
outlines of white buildings lining the road.
At the wheel is Alemaheyu, our "fixer". He is a film-maker and very
involved with many of the street children I am soon to meet. Just the
person to be looking after us.
We arrive at the Hilton. It's just another hotel, except that the rooms
are straight out of the Seventies. The vast TV bristles with huge knobs
and there is no remote control.
White faces everywhere. What are they all doing here in Ethiopia? And
how am I going to cope with the contrast between this place and the
lives of the children we are here to film?
It is Monday, January 13, 1997. Although I do not know it, I am on the
threshold of an experience I shall never forget.
Tuesday, January 14: I open the curtains. What's that pile of corrugated
iron doing there, I wonder. Then I realise that it's a shanty town, and
that these are the roofs of people's homes.
The Hilton, with its manicured gardens, sits uncomfortably and oddly
next to this. My apprehension grows.
We make our way to the GOAL drop-in centre for street children, the
project we're to film for the next three days.
GOAL is an Irish-based charity that has been receiving Comic Relief
money for their adventurous work with street children.
The drop-in centre is pretty basic - stone buildings surrounded by dusty
alleyways, with tiny windows and sticks of clapped-out furniture.
We go through a courtyard into a large room where all the children are
gathered. Some are playing draughts. Others are engrossed in table
football on a rickety miniature football pitch made from a cardboard box
with wires poked through.
In a corner, one group of children is studying. They're learning English
as well as the local language, Amharic. There's real concentration on
their faces - you can tell they really want to learn.
A boy of 15 or so comes up to me. "Your country is better than mine," he
says. "No, just different," I reply.
"It's more developed," he says. "That doesn't necessarily make it
better," I retort.
He tells me he want to learn so he can go to university, otherwise his
life will be nothing. This centre is giving him the chance to aim for
that future.
Some of the children are tiny, as young as five. I'm drawn to them
immediately. What the hell are these babies doing on the streets?
Others are teenagers of 16 or 17, already worn by their suffering and
hardship. Some of the teenage girls, especially, look like little old
women. Only their eyes give a clue to their youth - despite everything,
there is spirit and sparkle there.
We move on to visit the clinic which deals with the children's cuts and
bruises. Life on the street is hard. Street children, especially the
younger ones, are often abused or beaten.
And of course they're prone to all sorts of other diseases. When they
first arrive at the centre they're often in a bad way.
It's nearly lunchtime. The centre provides all the children with a meal:
injera, which is a kind of flat bread with a sharp, sweet taste,
together with some vegetables.
The children are asked to pay 30 cents (about 3p) for lunch, which is a
lot of money for them. Bekele, the manager, explains that it's important
that the children learn from an early age that nothing in life is for
free.
They all have jobs of sorts to pay for their meals and shelter. As I
watch the food doled out, I can't get that scene from Oliver! out of my
head.
Those without money wait until last, and the centre gives them a free
lunch.
The children are incredibly affectionate. Meron, who's about 14, seems
at first very suspicious of me. Soon, though, she relaxes and starts
teaching me to write my name in Amharic. She keeps nipping up to me or
dragging me round corners to whisper, "Julie, I love you, OK!"
These children have no one in their lives that they can have a loving
relationship with. They are hungry for affection and attention, even
from a bunch of strangers like us.
Workers at the centre know it. They talk to the children about their
hopes and fears, giving them a sense that someone actually cares what
happens to them.
In the afternoon we film two boys at work. Zeriyhun and Admarsu rummage
around in the city's skips for anything of value. In one, they find a
glass bottle (this is a real trophy), a piece of toy railway track, some
bits of metal.
Admarsu says he can sell this lot for about 2birr - about 20p. You try
not to imagine what else they find in these skips.
That night we film the boys' night shelter. It's vital that the children
have a safe place to sleep - not least because sometimes government
trucks come in the night, pick up all the street children, drive to the
edge of Addis Ababa and dump them.
They survive a harsh and scary night and then have to find their way
back into town.
At the night shelter there's a "house father" who looks after the boys.
They can give him the money they've earned during the day and he'll keep
it safe for them - though, sadly, the younger boys sometimes get robbed
by the older ones.
The boys get undressed, wash in cold water from a barrel in the back
yard, grab a blanket and settle down for the night. There are about 20
of them crammed together in a room the size of most children's bedrooms.
They have no possessions.
They are also incredibly quiet - no tantrums or fights. They read
quietly or play draughts. A couple of boys sleep together - the older
one puts his arm round the younger one and they close their eyes.
I later discover this is Altaye and Melesse - aged 10 and seven
respectively - whom we will be filming tomorrow. Attaye is Melesse's
older brother.
It costs 42p a night to provide both with bed and breakfast. I can't
think of a better way to spend that money.
Wednesday, January 15: At dawn, I return to the boys' night shelter to
watch them waking up. They help each other wash, comb one another's hair
and put on yesterday's ragged clothes.
Most of them have sandals made from used car tyres which cost 2 birr, or
20p. They queue for a breakfast of a handful of toasted wheat, chick
peas and barley.
Again, the boys are really quiet - perhaps because we're here. There is
an air of sadness about them, and a maturity that's way beyond their
years.
Later, at the drop-in centre, Alemaheyu tells us there are an estimated
30,000 street children in Addis Ababa - a legacy of Ethiopia's civil
war, the famine and the country's grinding poverty.
Children keep coming up to the jeep to talk to Alemaheyu whenever we
stop at a junction or traffic lights. He seems to know every child on
the street.
He's a kind of surrogate father to so many of them. With the help of
shanties like GOAL and the people who support them, he knows he is doing
something to give these children hope.
In the afternoon, we go with Altaye and Melesse, the brothers we met at
the night-shelter, to film them shoe-shining in the centre of town.
We're right by the bus station, so there's an enormous crowd of
onlookers.Some local police help out, wielding machine guns as an
impromptu form of crowd control. It's all a bit unsettling!
The two boys must find it so, too - usually no one takes any notice of
them.
Altaye tells me his shoe-shining kit cost 22 birr (pounds 2.20 - a huge
amount of money). He charges 30 cents (3p) for each job. This would be
enough to pay for lunch at the drop-in centre, but his jobs are few and
far between ... except for today!
The girls' night shelter is much less crowded than the boys'. Alemaheyu
says there are far fewer girls on the streets because most families can
always find a space for a girl as a domestic servant - washing, cooking,
cleaning, looking after children.
The girls have prepared a special coffee ceremony for me - and I'm duly
touched. Trouble is, it's late and the last thing I need is a strong cup
of coffee. So I give Alemaheyu a wink and together we perform a sleight
of hand - he drinks my coffee on the sly and I say how delicious it is.
Well it smelt delicious, anyway.
The girls have heard that I am an actress and ask if I have done any
films. "Yes," I say. They want to know if they're karate films. I say
"Ooh no, not with my back!"
Thursday, January 18: Our last day finds us back at the girls' night-
shelter to film them waking up, washing and dressing. They take a lot
more care than the boys!
One of the girls, Tigist, is very bright and is going to school. She's
very proud of it. Another, Wub Alem, is full of fun and affection. Like
the others, she obviously needs care and attention. It's heartbreak-
ing.
That morning, Altaye and Melesse shine more shoes for us outside the
railway station.
There is such a crowd of onlookers and such a commotion that it's only
at the last minute when someone shouts "Look out, there's a train
coming!" that we realise that we're filming right on top of the railway
track.
I'm overwhelmed with respect for these two little boys - and I say so
into the camera.
Though Altaye is just ten, he's looking after his little brother just
like a father would, in the most difficult situation you can imagine.
He has been looking after him since he was five and his little brother
was two.
Can you imagine a five-year-old and a two-year-old, all alone in a big
city? Words just tumble out. Everyone goes very quiet - I know I'm
saying what. We all feel.
I talk to Altaye and Melesse. Both are very shy and modest. Altaye says
he prefers shoe-shining to playing because it means he and his brother
will get something to eat that day.
I ask what he did on Christmas Day. He bought a balloon for himself and
his brother. Otherwise it was the same as any other day.
Later we interview Yohannis, who's 11. His parents died in the Ethiopian
famine and he lived with a truck driver who later brought him to Addis
Ababa. He was then five. At first, frightened and alone, he lived in the
bus station.
Then he met up with some other street boys who introduced him to the
drop-in centre. What he likes most is the school. He wants to get a job
- maybe a truck driver.
The centre can help there. It helps older children to get jobs with
local businesses or find places at vocational training institutes.
One of its girls is now an HGV driver. Another is a pastry chef. So the
centre doesn't just cater for the children's immediate needs - it gives
them a hope for the future.
Evening comes and, sadly, we say our final goodbyes. I find it hard. I
want to sneak away.
As we're about to drive off, the boy who wants to go to university comes
up to my window. "Don't forget us," he says. "No," I say. "I'll never
forget you."
How could I?
GRAPHIC: MESSAGE OF HOPE: The youngsters, affectionate despite their
poverty, crowd round Julie and, above, rest in the GOAL shelter;; ALONE:
Street child in Addis Ababa
LOAD-DATE: February 28, 1997
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Sirak < smascio@ipass.net >
** To UNSUBSCRIBE from dehai, send mail to: majordomo@primenet.com **
** with the following text in the body of your mail: **
** unsubscribe dehai your-email-address **