I had been asked to say a few words of greeting from Center for Victims of Torture headquarters to a counseling group of 12-14-year-old Eritrean refugee boys. This was daunting, not only because I had laryngitis but because, well, what could I say that could possibly be of interest to them? I stood up and rasped out a few words about how we in Minnesota do our best to tell their stories to the world, and thanked for allowing me to sit in on their group because it would help me raise more funding so we can work with more refugees. I hoped that last part would actually be true.
The boys watched me with curiosity as I spoke, probably wondering why I sounded like a chain-smoking man. My words were translated into Tigrinya, then they nodded and smiled at me and turned their attention to the young counselor who would facilitate the group. I had expected them to maybe feel self-conscious with me there, but I think they forgot all about me.
I love kids of all ages. Each age has its adorable and unpleasant aspects, but I couldn’t find anything unpleasant about these kids. Like boys this age anywhere, they were awkward and gangly. Some were tall for their age and had deep voices while others were puny and squeaky voiced. Some had peach fuzz on their upper lips. They slouched, hunched over, spread their legs wide, and tipped their chairs back until I wanted to lunge forward and say, “Don’t do that—you’ll fall over!” I thought how difficult it must be go through puberty in their situation. Many if not all of these boys were on their own, without any family members. They lived in groups with an adult caregiver in very small houses with no privacy.
When my son was 12, if anyone asked him how he was feeling he would have rolled his eyes, made a joke, and changed the subject. These boys showed no reluctance to talk about feelings and how to manage them. In fact, they took the group very seriously. As I wrote in a previous post, this was the third of three groups designed as a kind of “coping bootcamp” for young Eritreans who were at risk of suicide or of leaving the camps in a futile search for a better life.
None of what was said was translated, but it didn’t have to be. There were visual aids (complete with misspellings) and I was pretty familiar with the concepts being taught by now.
For instance: it’s normal to feel angry or hopeless considering what they’ve been through; feelings come and go, like clouds, so usually if you wait they will change; emotions can be managed by talking, exercise, meditation, etc. The facilitator had already taught these concepts in the first two meetings and was drilling the boys about them. They were totally engaged, almost all raised their hands enthusiastically to answer, spoke gravely, and discussed points of clarity with each other seriously and respectfully. I may have imagined it or may be exaggerating, but it seemed to me as if they treated the information as if it was a matter of life and death.
I was a bit relieved when the group ended and the boys spilled outside to share some ambasha, a traditional bread. You could say that branding is literally baked into everything CVT does.
People have asked me how the food was in Ethiopia. It was really good. CVT has a staff canteen where two cooks serve breakfast, lunch and dinner. I paid about $11 for an entire week of meals. There was just enough—no seconds, no gorging—you wouldn’t gain weight if you lived there for a long time.
Here is one of the cooks, heavily pregnant, baking ambasha over an open fire on the roof because the power was out (I always asked my coworkers if it was okay for me to take and use their photos). She had used plastic bags to get the fire started, over my protests. Note the can of paint nearby, probably highly flammable. Employee health and safety have a long way to go in Ethiopia.