Nina Steinberg's Portfolio

When I walked into my room, I noticed a book lying on my desk, a book that I had not placed there, nor seen before. The cover showed a doctor peering into the eyes of a little African boy, their foreheads touching, the boy using the doctor’s stethoscope to listen to his own heartbeat. I immediately knew it was my mom who must have placed the book there. She was always leaving newspaper clippings and articles for me to read. And I generally ignored them, letting them get swallowed by the perpetually mounting piles of paper on my desk. If she couldn’t get me to read a measly article, what made her think I was going to read an entire book?

 

Yet somehow, a few days later, in an idle moment, I picked up the book, gazed over the front and back, weighing it in my hands, wondering if it was worth my time. I sat down on my bed, skeptical, but on a whim I opened the book and started to read.

I started and did not stop until I had finished, until I had wept my way through the pages. The book, This Is A Soul, by Marilyn Berger, tells the story of an American doctor, Rick Hodes, who has dedicated his life to helping thousands of sick and impoverished people in Ethiopia. In the book, Dr. Hodes adopts a boy named Dejene so that he can be covered by Dr. Hodes’ medical insurance and receive life-saving surgery. Even today, Dr. Hodes continues to take in other desperate patients, creating an ever-expanding family with the lives he has saved. 

 

Years later, as the flight attendant announces that we are making our descent into Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, I think of how the book was almost lost to the chaos of my desk. My stomach dropped, not from the turbulence, but from the anticipation of getting off of the plane and finally embracing Dejene – once just a character in a book – now the boy I was flying to Ethiopia to meet.

 

 

* * *

 

The Dejene in the book was an 8-year-old, crippled, adorable, orphaned boy, but the Dejene I spent my summer with had grown into a 20-year-old, healthy, athletic, ambitious, young man. Dejene and I spent our afternoons at Kidane Mehret Children’s Home, tutoring the older kids at the orphanage in preparation for their upcoming exams. When the kids got tired of studying, they would get fidgety, start whining, and sometimes even climb out of their seats and into the classroom ceiling. This was usually our cue to pause as teachers and resume as friends – challenging them to chalk fights, dance parties, karate lessons, or simply locking the doors, hiding from the nuns, and watching the movies we snuck in for them. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On weekends I would accompany Dr. Hodes on his medical rounds. First we would stop at Mother Teresa’s Mission, making our way through the rows of sick bodies, seeking out the most desperate patients whom Dr. Hodes had been called in to consult on. Then we would go to the medical clinic where Dr. Hodes would spend the entire day seeing a steady stream of patients. These patients came from all over Ethiopia, walking for days, sometimes weeks, just to meet the man who it was rumored could give them a second chance at life. The diseases I saw there were inconceivable, even in the most horrific of nightmares. I saw children with spines shaped like snakes, with hunched backs and crushed lungs, suffering from the same disease that Dejene once had. But no matter how horrific the condition, I saw Dr. Hodes bestow the gift of hope on each and every person he examined. Hope rooted not in empty promises, but rather, in an endless struggle to help, to change, to fix, to cure. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Dr. Hodes and one of his Spine patients)

 

 

When I wasn’t at Kidane Mehret or the medical clinic, I traveled around Ethiopia, exposing myself to as much of the culture as I could. I spent my time getting to know all the characters I had read about in This Is A Soul. They jumped off the page and into my life, and sometimes I had to pinch myself just to know it was real. Dejene welcomed me into his family, introduced me to his friends, and showed me what it meant to grow up in Addis Ababa, with a hero like Rick Hodes as his dad. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Exploring Ethiopia with Dejene)

 

When I returned from my trip, everyone asked me the same question: “What did you do there?”  Answering became tedious, as explaining that I taught at the orphanage, shadowed Dr. Hodes at the clinic, and toured Ethiopia with Dejene, didn’t seem to capture the essence of what I experienced that summer. Those are the things I went there to do, but not what I actually did, saw, and felt. Somehow, it is the moments that would not serve as an appropriate answer to “What did you do there?” that most accurately describe what it meant to actually be there. It is the snapshots – the moments between the moments. My encounters on my walks home from the orphanage, the clinic, and Rick’s house. The short interactions with the land and the people that made me view life in a novel way; the interactions that I still think about as I brush my teeth, drink my coffee, and lie down to sleep. It is these precious moments that I would like to share with you.

 

 

* * *

 

It was getting late, I was curled up on the worn-out maroon couch, teaching the Ethiopian kids in Dr. Hodes’ home some playful American slang, attempting to steer their attention away from the English curse words they were so desperately trying to wrench out of me. I yawned, nudging Dejene to let him know I was ready to be escorted home. I was staying at Mr. Martin’s Cozy Place, a bed-and-breakfast a few minutes’ walk away from the doctor’s house. Dejene, my designated chaperon for the summer, turned to his siblings, wondering if any of them would be willing to walk me home in his stead for once. Henok jumped up towards the door, eager to take on the manly role.

 

Henok is a petite, playful, 16-year-old boy. His arms are covered with neon silly bands that he gives away to his various crushes; he always wears the sweetest smile, is slightly mischievous, and puts on a tough exterior to hide how sensitive he is at heart. Like all of the kids in Rick’s home, Henok has a story. Henok has AIDS and lost his mother and father to AIDS. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As we got up to leave, Henok mumbled to Dejene that if we were to encounter someone on the way home, he would be too small to defend me. So Dejene, Henok, and I set off for Mr. Martin’s Cozy Place together, Henok snacking on a bag of popcorn as we walked. When we got to the main road, the street was lined with prostitutes awaiting their next customers. As we walked past, Henok approached one of them, offering her some of his popcorn. The prostitute looked back at him, eyebrows raised, skeptical of this little kid with the silly bands and the sweet smile. He stretched out his arm, waving the bag of popcorn towards her, tempting her to take.

 

She reached her hand into the bag of popcorn, coming out with a handful and a flicker of a smile across her lips. Henok went from one prostitute to the next, sharing his snack. There was something so poetic, so simple, but so unbelievably beautiful, about the innocent boy with AIDS sharing his bag of popcorn with the “whores” of Addis Ababa. Both victims in their own right, but each viewed so differently by society. I had witnessed an act so incredibly human. An act to restore faith in humanity. And yet, without another word, we just continued walking.

 

 

* * *

 

I spent the ten-hour bus ride from Addis Ababa to Arba Minch with my face pressed up against the window, trying to catch every glimpse of scenery and culture as we drove on dirt roads from one village to the next. The bus made multiple “bathroom breaks,” consisting of the men shuffling off the bus, lining up right outside the windows, and relieving themselves. The women held in their pee.

 

When we had driven about halfway to our destination, we took a more suitable break at a restaurant on the side of the road. At the restaurant, there was a boy sitting on his own eating injera, a traditional Ethiopian dish. There was something intriguing about him, so I sat down next to him and struck up conversation, hoping he would understand my English. I asked him what he was doing on this ten-hour bus ride, what was taking him from Addis Ababa to Arba Minch. He answered with a genuine smile, “I went to Addis Ababa to see my dad for the first time in two years and invite him to come back to live with me and my mom.” “So… is he coming?” I asked. I could see the hurt flash in his eyes for only a second before his smile washed over his face again and he replied, “Maybe another time.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

I knew it was late. I knew I was being foolish staying at the Internet café with no one to escort me home. But due to the time difference, my friends in America had just woken up and I could not miss this rare opportunity to catch up with them. When I finally pulled myself away from the Internet and out into the night, I walked home quickly, clutching my bag close to my body, head tilted downwards, avoiding eye contact with anyone who happened to be out this late.

 

I took another step and tripped, my flip-flop snapping apart. I looked down in despair: I was a young, foreign girl walking home alone past midnight, with only one shoe, on a street littered with glass. I started to hop, cursing beneath my breath for drawing attention to myself at this hour. I hopped past a night guard, who started waving to get my attention, pointing at a chair for me to sit down. I approached the chair warily. He put up a finger, signaling for me to wait a moment. I sat in the chair and watched as he scanned the ground, walking around in circles. Finally, he found whatever he was looking for and reached his hand out, beckoning for my broken flip-flop. Then, with a rusty nail and a rock that he had found on the ground, he proceeded to hammer the nail into my flip-flop, handing it back to me in one piece. I was surprised when I felt tears spring to my eyes in response, so moved by this stranger’s kind gesture. “Thank you, thank you!” Realizing he could not understand me, I started blurting out “Amesegenallo!” again and again, wishing I knew more Amharic to express my gratitude. He bowed his head and flashed me the kindest, dimpled smile as I snapped a picture before making my way home safely. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Throughout my time in Ethiopia, I was touched by so many people – some who became my closest friends, some who left me with just a moments memory to hold onto. When I think of Ethiopia, I see a vast collage of faces. Faces full of pain, happiness, kindness, sorrow, truth, and love. Faces that have taught me the complexities of the world we live in and how to find the good within it all.

 

 

My advice to you:

 

Go.

Go to a place where you have nothing but the people to guide you.

Sit down with the boy who looks like he has a story to tell.

Be open.

Always be prepared to listen.

Share yourself and your story when reciprocation of trust is needed.

And never forget to share your popcorn.