Mother Teresa's Home

It was one of those things that couldn't have been planned. Dad and I were in Dire Dawa, a hard-times desert city near the Somalian border where we frequently have work.

We went to mass, but Dad couldn't enter the church because of all of the incense and I couldn't properly wrap my hair for worship. So we stood outside and listened to the beautiful singing and chanting. I stared into the darkened sanctuary and saw that Mary had been wrapped in white cloth too.

We left when the people left. On the way out, we passed two very short nuns. We asked them were they worked and they said "Mother Teresa's with our 500 patients". We couldn't imagine a 500 patient facility within walking distance, but then nuns assured us that it was there. We should come visit some time. So we did, about three hours later.

By this point, we had picked up a family friend, I'll call him Ali, who is a very devout Muslim. He had been to the compound before and helped direct our driver there. "But please be careful." He told us "There are mad people there."

We arrived near the compound and the driver said he wasn't going farther, so we got out and walked to the big, steel doors that said "Mother Teresa's No Photographs of Video Filming." A guard opened the doors and then closed them behind us. We were standing in a sunny courtyard. A few people, obviously mentally-ill, wandered around talking to themselves or shaking. A couple of people wandered towards us. The guard went to find the nuns while we talked to the men.

I remember one boy, they don't do birthdays here so I can't tell you his age, but I'd guess about sixteen, who was very friendly. He would say something to use and then his gaze would wander off and he would stare at the air around us like it was suddenly full of dancing lights, a big smile on his face. Then, a moment later, he would be pleasantly surprised to see us there, still speaking with him.

"What do the nuns do?" Ask Ali
"They clothe me, they feed me, they take care of me." The boy said slowly. And then he smiled at the sky.

The nuns arrived, led by a European nun who I think was the convent leader. She talked about the compound as a hospital for the cases no one else would take. They come from all over the country. They come from off the streets.

She told Ali that they were looking for a health officer, Ali's field, and he immediately said he would help find someone for them. The head nun assigned us a guide, a large man in scrubs, who lead us from room to room.

Walking by the open door rooms, It was immediately clear that all of the patients here were men, that they were sorted by age and illness, and that everyone was clean and given their own bed. Different categories wore different pajamas. We were lead almost immediately into a room where the men where wearing red pajamas. "This is our
room for any type of multiple drug resistant TB" said our guide and mentally I was screaming "Eeeeek! Don't breathe!" but I nodded and stood next to a few of the patients. We also saw the Type 1 and Type 2 TB rooms and then I discretely used enough hand sanitizer to smell like alcohol all day.

We were shown the area where the violently mentally ill are kept. One ill man attempted to shake my hand and the guard very roughly shoved him away.

We went to the the HIV room and sat with the people there for a while. We went to a room full of old men where they all reached out their hands to us and we went from bed to bed, "Hello, how are you? Are you peaceful? Thank you. I am peaceful." as is the Ethiopian way, shaking warm fingers that felt like sinewed twigs.

I asked to see where the women where housed. The guard explained that normally he did not show this part of the compound, but since I was female, he would. He took Ali, Dad, and myself across the road to another compound. Here we first found a massive kitchen filled with gas-powered injera cookers and USAID grain bags. Then we saw the smaller facilities for the women. These were not quite as nice as the men's quarters, but they weren't terrible. Two male guards talked near the gate.

Again, we went through a jandice wards (geriatric and regular) and TB wards. We were shown the location for mental ill women but were not taken there. We glimpsed the ward for women who are mentally ill, TB positive, AND pregnant simultaneously. I closed my eyes for a second of prayer.

"And of course" Our guide said with a shrug, "We have children."

They did have children. Physically disabled and mentally ill children lay in large cribs. But the kids that got to me the most were the, for lack of a better term, "normal" children. These kids were children of the female patients. They didn't have enough clothing. There were no educational activities for them. They seemed bored out of their minds and I don't blame them. But it was better than being a street orphan.

On the way back, we walked through another geriatric ward. An incredibly thin woman grabbed my hand with a startling amount of strength and said something to me earnestly. All I understood was "thank you".

We were shown a garden before we left. It was a new project. It had a professional gardener who had done his job well and now the desert was blooming with vegetables and fruit trees. I walked through the garden and thought about the women and there children. I remember how many of the patients were washing clothing, or talking to each other, often without words. I thought about the old, old woman who had grabbed my hand. This place was hardly a ghetto, but "I Never Saw Another Butterfly" was playing in my head.

"Is this not a beautiful plac?" Said our guide, breathing in the garden air.
"When we die." Said Ali "God will ask us 'What did you do with my blessed ones, the ones I sent you to care for?' He will mean people like this. I will come back if only for that."

I know I'll go back to volunteer too. It is a beautiful place. There's so much sunlight and air there, among the dying people. The children were so happy to see us that I was afraid one child would have a seizure she was laughing and cheering so hard. Just sitting next to people made a difference. The nuns say they look forward to my going back. So do I.


If I Never Saw Another Butterfly
Attr. Celeste Raspanti

So richly, brightly, dazzlingly yellow.
Perhaps, if the sun’s tears
Could sing against a white stone…
Such a yellow is carried lightly
way up high.
It went away.
I’m sure, because it looked to kiss
The world goodbye.

For seven weeks I’ve lived in here,
Pent up inside this ghetto.
But I have found my people here,
The dandelions care for me,
And the white chestnut branches in the yard.
Only I never saw another butterfly.

That was the last one.
Butterflies don’t live in here,
In the ghetto.