Twenty Cents a Day
Dire Dawa, Ethiopia
This godforsaken hole on the eastern flats of Ethiopia calls itself "The queen of the desert." Well, this queen has seen better days.
Without much in the way of history or sightseeing, Dire Dawa has very little to attract tourists.
And that's why we're here.
I arrived today to embed with US forces who are setting out on a two-week humanitarian mission in this area. Over breakfast at our hotel, the team's midwife (yes, she's in the military, at least as a
reservist) told me about the terrible situation many women here find themselves in - married and pregnant at a very early age, then worked and impregnated over and over, sometimes literally to death after that. It's not uncommon to see a woman staggering down the street under a load of firewood larger than she is, with an infant strapped to her waist.
The midwife, named Tracy, hopes to provide a little education as a part of a larger effort to help improve the lives of these women.
It's a mission that could make a huge difference in the lives of thousands of women.
Later, we strolled through the local market. Even though tourists are rare, it seems there are more beggars here than some of the other places I've been this trip. I was curious as to how these people can survive, so I stopped one obviously homeless woman (or rather, she stopped me) and asked her through a translator how she made it with the three small children huddled around her skirts. She looked to be in her mid-to-late forties. Her name is Misra. She is married to a man and they lived in a village several hours away. But there was not enough food in their village, so they decided that he would stay and continue to try and farm, and Misra would take the children and go to the city to beg. That seemed strange to me, but it became clearer once I questioned her more.
She sits on a street corner every day, holding out her hand hoping for a coin or morsel of food from passersby. And unlike some places in the states where panhandlers can actually make good money, Misra said she receives about two birr - twenty cents -every day. Somehow, to my utter astonishment, she is able to keep herself and her children, ages 7, 3, and 1 from starving on that paltry sum. They sleep on the sidewalk.
I asked her if she was hoping to someday return to her husband, who
stayed in the village to farm. She shook her head in an emphatic no.
"But why not?" I asked. "Is your marriage bad?"
"No." She said again., her face softening. "I love him. But if I go back, I will get pregnant again. I cannot live with another child."
Blinking away my suddenly misty eyes, I produced a small handful of bills from my pocket - less than I would spend on a typical lunch - but enough to feed her, at her current level of survival, for nearly a year. I folded the bills into her hand. "How old are you, Misra?"
Her answer hit me like a brick.
She smiled gratefully and spoke to the interpreter as he translated my question.
He then turned to me and said, "She is twenty-five."
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