The day I was supposed to give the second half of my presentation, I awoke with no voice. I couldn’t force out even one husky syllable. I don’t know if I had a cold, or if it was all the smoke and chemicals, or both. regardless, this was going to be awkward.
I wrote, “I Have Laryngitis” on a piece of paper. Then I thought no, they might not know what that was, so I wrote another that said, “I Have Lost my Voice.” Then I thought dang, we are always talking about giving refugees a voice to speak up for their rights. What if they think I am making some kind of bizarre white western yuppie artistic statement?
People did give me strange looks when I showed them my sign, but what else could I do? I slid a note over the breakfast table to Maki: “I can’t give a presentation with no voice.” She nodded and shrugged. Did she think I was faking it to get out of doing the second half because I had worried the first one hadn’t gone over well?
“You can go with Yonas to get your camp pass this morning,” she said. Yonas, not his real name, is our loggie. “Loggie” is shorthand for logistician. I nodded and followed Yonas to the truck.
The power and the generator were both off, so the wireless router was going “BEEEP, BEEEP, BEEEP, BEEEP …” You get the picture. It was loud and annoying and no one else seemed to notice it.
I had planned to force out some words but didn’t think I could make myself heard above the beeping. I showed Yonas my note about having no voice and he smiled, nodded, and proceeded to talk to me very loudly. Ethiopians are normally soft spoken. I assumed he was trying to be heard over the beeping but he kept it up after we’d left the compound. I’ve noticed this the other times I’ve had laryngitis; for some reason people seem to think you are hard of hearing.
We went into two camps and called on the administrators with the agency that manages them. They don’t let just anyone into the camps, for good reason. Refugees are vulnerable to trafficking or other forms of exploitation because they tend to be desperate for solutions to their uncertain plight.
In each office, Yonas and I sat across from the official and the two of them made small talk. Yonas did all the talking. I smiled and nodded deferentially to everything. Yonas explained how I was a CVT employee who was here to observe the programs, that I had come from the US, that I was a fundraiser who was here for a week. The official would nod slowly at each statement and then there would be a very long pause as he or she scrutinized the forms Yonas had submitted weeks earlier. They appeared to relish the power of being able to keep you in suspense as to whether they would grant the pass or not. Finally, just when I was sure they would stamp “REJECTED” on my pass, they stamped “APPROVED” and that was that.
If I make it sound like Ethiopia was dreadful, that’s not my intention. So I had a sore throat and lost my voice. So what? The thousands of refugees in these camps had lost their homes, their families, their peace of mind, and their hope. I was so grateful for the opportunity to experience where we work and what we do first hand.
I can’t and wouldn’t show photos of refugees. You know, there’s that whole thing about treating people like they’re animals in a zoo. And the thought of posting photos of people online—people who have no Internet access and so will never even know their photo is out there—feels wrong.
Here’s some CVT signage. It may look depressing but it’s hard to keep it looking good with the mud and rain. The good news is that CVT has planted a lot of trees, which makes our corner of the camps welcoming, and the fencing is to protect them from goats. The illustrations are “before” and “after” counseling.