Tesfa-Hawat Means “Hope” and “Light”

She says it's a talent from God. "If my son needs medicine and the government refuses to give it, I will say something. If someone needs something and I know they are refusing to give it, I will say something. I don't care! God is always with me." Tesfa tells us that her name means "hope" and "light." She is always prepared to speak, equipped with a relevant anecdote or a poignant sound bite. In the face of opposition, she effortlessly conjures up passion and fury. Perhaps she is accustomed to advocating for her nineteen-year-old son who is a type-one diabetic. My son, if he dies then goodbye." She stops momentarily to choke back tears and then a fire wells up from within her and erupts in exclamation. "No one can take anything from me, only God!" Tesfa is a born advocate.

Our story begins two days earlier at the pediatric clinic in the Black Lion Hospital. A little boy who is escorted by a brother and an older cousin sits in the examination room. He is quickly diagnosed with an imperforate anus or anal atresia. This means that he was born "without a hole in the bottom." Since his bottom doesn't work like other people's, he moves his bowels through a small tube emerging from his belly called a colostomy. This rubber passageway directly to his colon was surgically implanted when he was an infant. There is nothing between the tube and the outside world, creating an open door that permanently exposes his insides to the outside. That was seven years ago. Since then nothing has changed. He has not received any further surgeries. Isolation, lack of information, misunderstandings? They don't know why his mother hasn't brought him in to the hospital for further treatment, but now he has a chance to live a normal life.
His cousin acts as his interpreter. He says he will talk to the boy's mother today. Surely she will not deny consent to close the door on a life of suffering.

Tesfa climbs onto the bus, a small fourteen–seater that picks us up in front of the Black Lion Hospital. We just got word yesterday that the mother gave consent for the surgery. Several of us are being transported from the hospital to meet Tariktu's mother in their small village 75 kilometers outside of Addis Ababa.

As Tesfa gets on the bus she is already casting aspersions on the government. She holds up a small box of medicine. "800 burr a month!" she exclaims. Tesfa claims that this medicine, which is essential to her son's health, is rendered unaffordable by a corrupt "government tax." She has a lot on her mind and frustration vents from her, brimming over and erupting into a steady stream of words denouncing the indignities that are all to commonly imposed upon her people. Her daughter is in the public hospital and very sick. Her son has diabetes. She is the adoptive mother for two other children and is currently advocating for their little brother, Tariktu.

Tesfa's husband died four years ago. When asked politely why he passed, she says she is not sure. This is typical in a country as poor as Ethiopia where too many medical conditions are the equivalent of a death sentence. It's difficult to say if he saw the doctors he needed to see. The likelihood he saw the necessary specialist is low. "He was very kind." She says. She explains that she asked him before he died if they could adopt and raise a little girl named Yeab Sera, now eleven years old. The little girl was severely hearing-impaired. "He said it was OK. Now he is gone. But I have her. Thanks God! Thanks God!" This is a mantra she uses frequently. It seems to vocalize her trust in the invisible hands that guide her through a sea of uncertainty.