wfn.org | [PCUSANEWS] The light shines in north Africa

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This story and photo available online:

www.pcusa.org/pcnews/2009/09047<http://www.pcusa.org/pcnews/2009/09047

>The light shines in north Africa

>A PC(USA) missionary letter from Ethiopia

>by Bruce and Lora Whearty
>PC(USA) mission workers

ADDIS ABABA ― As one of our final activities in language
school, we attended Nationalities Day, a celebration of the
different ethnic groups of Ethiopia.

We crowded together with our teachers into the little blue
and white mini-buses that serve most of the people of Addis
Ababa as vehicles. They are called 'blue donkeys,' and
cluster together in herds at particular points around the
city. They follow specific routes back and forth between
the gathering points, but have no schedule. They wait until
they are full before they go.

Each little bus has two workers. The driver's sole job is
to keep the passengers alive in the stampede through the
city, while the second man serves as a conductor. He
collects money from the passengers, tells the driver when a
passenger wants to get off before the end of the run, and
hangs out the open door yelling the destination of the bus
to attract more passengers. "Piazza, Piazza, Piazza!" or
"Mexico, Mexico, Mexico!" (Yes, there is a major square
called 'Mexico,' but no one has yet been able to tell us
why.)

The blue donkeys form an amazing network, an above-ground
subway system with each 'car' separately vying for
passengers so that it can leave first. They move millions
of people per day, careening through the city, for prices
between seven and 21 cents, depending on the length of the
route.

We got off our blue donkey at Mexico and walked along with
the crowd to the center of Addis Ababa, Meskel Square. We
passed some groups of dancers from the south, all dressed
up in traditional costumes and eagerly warming up, so we
got to watch their dances close up.

Then we were swept into the growing crowd and pushed into
the main square. We have no idea how many people were
gathered. Half a million? A million? Perhaps the entire
population of our native Montana, crammed into one sunny,
windy square lined with flapping flags from the different
regions of Ethiopia.

There were families with little kids riding piggyback above
the crowd, students in their school uniforms, trying to
stick together in the press of people, businessmen and
women dressed in stylish western clothes, dozens of
different traditional costumes, and pickpockets galore.
Stealing is so common in this culture that the index finger
is called the "thief finger" ― the one used to hook
something out of a pocket.

Abuba, our young, muscular, six-foot-four teacher, watched
protectively from behind us. He called out, "Right, right,
go right!" when he saw a fight breaking out on our left,
and at one point grabbed a man reaching for Lora's purse.

Abuba calmly stood on one of the thief's feet, looked
sternly down into his face, and twisted his arm while the
thief cried out, "I didn't know they were with you!" That
evidently is a reasonable excuse here. It's sort of wrong
to steal, like a misdemeanor, but it's a real offense to
hospitality to steal from a countryman's guest.

The Prime Minister gave an unintelligible speech, garbled
by the loudspeaker system and the breeze, and then the
different groups of 'nationalities' paraded in. From our
vantage point, we could generally only see tiny,
brightly-colored specks across the milling crowd. "That
group in red are all holding long spears!" or "Those guys
in leopard skins have antelope horns on their heads!" we
pointed and exclaimed to each other, and gasped with the
whole crowd when two hundred Oromo horsemen, carrying
lances and shields and wearing baboon manes in their hair,
suddenly galloped the length of the square.

It was an amazing display of diversity, a celebration of
tolerance. Bare-breasted young dancers from the south,
naked above the waist except for beads and initiation
scars, stood alongside completely draped Muslims from the
north, their plain robes fluttering gracefully. On this
particular day, the southern lances and the northern
scimitars were only for show and went unused.

Later in December, a group of missionaries gathered one
evening to sing selections from Handel's Messiah,
accompanied by a tape recorder. It's a tradition here, a
way for the expatriate community to celebrate Western-style
Christmas.

No rehearsal. Only a couple of men. A variety of voices,
some creaky with age. And the right to get up between
movements to help ourselves to more cookies! The whole idea
seemed ridiculous to me.

Then the power failed, and we had to find batteries for the
tape player and candles for us to see the music. Hunched
over our music in the dark, straining thinly at the high
notes, and trying to follow the little tape recorder, we
were touched by the experience. Somehow, crowded close
together in the candles' glow, 21 expatriates from eight
different nations claimed this great message as our own,
and we moved beyond our ridiculous inadequacy to a deeper
sense of community and joy.

Lora and I celebrated our Christmas with laughter. We had
bought each other gifts at an NGO bazaar, splitting up,
carefully avoiding each other, and then glancing both ways
like thieves before quickly paying and stashing our
purchases in shopping bags. When we unwrapped our presents
Christmas morning, we discovered that we were exchanging
beeswax candles from the same booth!

We wish for all of you this Christmas season a celebration
as profound as ours. Look out for your more vulnerable
neighbors in the crowd and come to their protection. Stand
next to someone who offends you, without judgment, and
dance. Claim the right to sing in your own voice,
especially in times of darkness. And light your evening
prayers with sweetness, given and received. Remember to
carry the light forward, week by week, day by day.

Information about and letters from PC(USA) mission workers
throughout the world is available on the Mission
Connections Web site [www.pcusa.org/missionconnections].

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