Living on the streets

On a recent trip to Ethiopia I witnessed a disturbingly large

number of people living on the streets of the capital, Addis Ababa.
What got my attention the most was the children. Children who lived,
slept, and begged for coins, in order to survive on the streets of 3
million odd inhabitants. Inhabitants, oblivious to the existence of
these children, walking right past with no acknowledgment these little
ones even exist.

Children in Ethiopia are loved, cared for, and cherished by their

families. The idea of the ‘extended family’ helping to raise children is
still a common practice, even in the big cities like Addis Ababa, the
capital. On a visit there I witnessed many shocking things on the
streets of Addis. The most troubling was the street people, especially
the children. Some of what I witnessed prompted me to purchase a
decent 35mm camera in order to capture what I saw and share it with
others. The plight of the street children was something that touched
my heart, almost as much as my time in New York during 9/11. The
street kids obviously weren’t cared for and cherished as the other
children were. They were usually dirty, wearing ragged clothing and
no shoes. The street kids had an almost feral look about them. I saw
these kids roaming the streets at a time when I knew regular kids
were in school. The regular kids had families to care for them, and
love them, keeping them safe from harm. The regular kids were
clean, wearing school uniforms or nice clothing, walking with a family
member, holding their hand. The street kids were usually alone, or
with other street kids like them. There was safety in numbers from
the predators out there.

One of the first incidents that grabbed at me was of a young boy

on the one of the main streets of downtown area. I was waiting in a
vehicle, my host, and family friend, was taking care of business in one
of the surrounding office buildings and I wanted to people watch.
What I saw scared, as well as intrigued, me. The young boy couldn't
have been more than 11 years old. His clothes were ragged and he
was barefoot, as are most of the street kids in Addis Ababa. His face
was tear-streaked and dirty. It was obvious that he hadn't had a bath
in some time. His last meal was God only knew when. Most likely it
wasn't that day or even the day before. He was lying in the busy
street, next to the row of parked cars across from where I was sitting.
The boy was lying curled up in a fetal position on the traffic side of
the of parked cars. One of the parking attendants nudged him with
her foot, talking to him, he didn't budge. She finally called over an
older boy; one who was washing parked cars for coins, another street
kid, this one was probably no more than 15 or 16 years old. He
pulled the younger child up by his arm and dragged him out of harm's
way onto the sidewalk.

The parking attendant kept trying to talk to the boy; he was

clearly very agitated and finally got up on his feet after several
minutes. He made his way across the street, not looking out for the
traffic speeding past him, and my heart stopped. One of the good
things about drivers in Addis is that while traffic may be crazy they do
look out for pedestrians. Several cars screeched to a halt, some
blowing their horns, others yelling at him. He was oblivious to the
commotion his behavior caused. A few of the people who filled the
sidewalks glanced his way, most didn't bother. To them, he was just
another street kid and they had their own business to attend to.
 The boy made it across four lanes of traffic and simply lay down
next to a parked car in front of mine. The driver of my vehicle never
acknowledged that he even saw the boy. I was, naturally, concerned
that he might be run over as the parked cars ahead of us began to
move. I poked my driver in the arm and pointed to the boy, trying to
ask what was wrong with him. My driver didn't speak English past
one or two words and I didn't speak Amharic past one or two
words...we were at an impasse. The young driver didn't understand
what I was trying to say or why I was getting rather frustrated. I
kept my eyes on the boy's form, curled up in a fetal position on the
asphalt in front of us, cars whizzing past his small body on the
asphalt. I saw a car start to back into a parking space one car ahead
of us, my heart stopped. I was terrified that the driver wouldn't see
the small body on the street. I started to get out of the car, to run
forward and grab the kid if I had to. The driver must have seen him;
he stopped the vehicle, got out of the car, and began talking to the
boy. At that point, another man came up, well dressed, and knelt
down beside the small body. After a moment, the boy got up; taking
the man's outstretched hand and went over to the sidewalk with him
and down the street out of my view.

I breathed a sigh of relief, but my heart was still pounding in my

chest, but then the questions began. Who was he? What was he
doing on the streets in the middle of the day when all other kids were
in school? Why was he crying? Where did the man take him? Most
of the people I had seen interacting with children were very kind and
gentle. But these were street kids, and most were ignored or chased
off. So, I started paying closer attention to what was going on in the
streets of Addis Ababa. I paid attention to the children, the people
who were making a living on the sidewalks of the capital city of
Ethiopia. My brain was filled with questions, my camera needed to
show what I was seeing, feeling, experiencing.

I started taking my camera with me on every outing. I hired a

car and driver to take me out daily to see if I could make some rhyme
or reason out of what I saw. It's amazing what one see's when the
blinders are removed. I saw young mothers with their infants on the
sidewalks, begging for coins in which to feed their children. Many
came up to the cars as traffic was momentarily stopped at lights.
Then there were the disabled people, limbs gone, blind, in
wheelchairs.

These people were thankful for any and all that was given to them.
Most hung outside one of the many orthodox churches littered across
Addis Ababa. My friend told me that many churches took care of the
disabled people, trying to feed as many as possible, it usually wasn't
much but a piece of bread was better than nothing.
 After watching a bit, being observant, I began to notice the
professional beggars. They were different from the disabled or the
elderly. These were the folks that would throw the coins you handed
to them back at you, they wanted more, these I soon learned to
ignore. Then there were the kids, orphaned and homeless, who
didn't go to school, begged constantly at every stop light, every
intersection and at every street cafe'. They especially went after the
westerners. It seemed that they equated white skin with money and
made an extra effort to follow us, constantly begging for money.

I also became aware of the many slum areas pressed around and
between the many walled houses and office buildings. They were
made of corrugated metal, sometimes a mix of mud walls as well.
Many people lived here, sort of like a squatter’s village. Each area
had its own beehive of streets and tiny shops for the people living
there. I began to ask questions about this. The basic rent for even a
tiny apartment in the many apartment buildings around Addis was
well over what equated to 500 USD, and a nice house went easily for
over 1000 USD. The basic salary for even a bank clerk was probably
no more than 350 USD. Most of the people were in basic labor
positions, with much lower salaries. So I saw the huge disparity
between the going salaries and the cost of decent housing, no wonder
so many people lived in the squatter’s neighborhoods. Unlike the
USA, these areas were relatively peaceful and crime free. No one had
anything worth taking so why bother?

Those that could afford to live in nice houses did so, but behind
huge walls and gates with watchmen. I asked why the need for the
security, I was told it was to keep people honest and from being
tempted. I shook my head at this, maybe it's right and maybe not
but it was what it was and who was I to change it? Coming from a
different culture and a different world, 8,000 miles away, I was in no
position to judge.

One day, while heading to one of the churches, I glimpsed two

toddlers walking along the sidewalk, no adult in sight. The oldest one
was probably no more than 4 years old, and the younger one, a little
girl maybe 2 years old, kept her hand on the older boys shoulder. He
seemed to know where they were going and didn't look lost at all. By
their clothing and the lack of shoes I knew that they were street kids.
The adults that passed them on the sidewalk never even looked at
them, they were invisible. I wondered how they survived. How did
they eat? Who kept them safe from harm? Was their fate already
sealed? Was the little boy destined to be no more than a street
hawker of cheap goods in traffic, if he was lucky. Many of the
youngsters I saw past the age of 12 washed parked cars for coins in
order to eat. Still others shined shoes for a living. The teenagers
with their little shoe shine boxes were all over the city, literally
littering the sidewalks.

I was certain the little boy would survive, but the fate of the little
girl raised many questions. Would she be destined to be abused or
raped while out begging as she got a little older? Or was she destined
to become a “working girl” just to eat and cloth herself daily.
Destined to have baby after baby, or to contract AIDS like so many
others do? I see so many westerners coming and adopting cute little
babies but what about the older kids? What about the very children
that filled my eyes, my mind and the streets of Addis? Who adopts
them? With all of the orphanages and foster homes available in the
capital city, I was very dismayed by the large number of street kids
surviving with no one. No adult to feed them, care for them, keep
them safe, cloth them, or to pay for their school. Who tucked them
in at night and made sure their stomachs didn’t growl constantly in
hunger? Did they sleep huddled together in small packs on the many
grassy areas in the city in order to stay warm at night?
 So many questions, so many children that seemed to fall through
the cracks of the system that was in place in Addis. My pictures
didn’t quite capture all of what I witnessed, of the things that seared
my heart. I plan to one day go back and let my camera tell a better
story.