The daylight is disappearing earlier and earlier each day. We’ve entered the Autumnal Equinox, traditionally a time to offer gratitude and joy as the ’second harvest’ starts.

My own offering of gratitude goes to the graduates of Hèrè jè Center in Mali who bring deep meaning to my life and purpose to my self-imposed exile living in this tent.

Today I honor Assa Sissoko by sharing her story from my Africa journal

Bamako, Mali, April 2005:

Assa Sissoko guiding her blind uncle

When we first encountered Assa she walked slowly along the street with her blind uncle’s hand resting on her shoulder. Assa, about 11, wore a rag around her hips, a tattered blouse and no underclothes or shoes.  We learned they had come 6 months earlier from their village 2 days walk to Bamako to beg for food. Assa had lost both  parents and was being raised by an elderly aunt.

Subsistence crops were not adequate to feed the village so Assa and her uncle were sent to beg for money, hoping to purchase food staples and return to the village.  Instead, they barely begged enough to feed themselves but every other day. They knew no one in the city and had been living on the streets for months, wherever they dropped each night.

Despite her situation Assa had a gentle positive spirit and smiled curiously at me as Kaaba spoke with her uncle. It was clear Assa was ready and willing; anything was better than begging. It was her uncle we had the hardest time convincing. With river blindness, he would have no one to guide him. Their plan was to return to the village because Assa must help with their meager harvest.

We cajoled and begged, finally convincing the uncle to let Assa join Hèrè jè Center. He reluctantly agreed to meet us the next day. As we drove away, I turned to watch out the back window and saw Assa watching us, a wistful smile of hope on her face. Exhausted and happy, we had located our tenth student.

The next day at the appointed time, we waited patiently on the street. They never showed. We searched for an hour until Kaaba conceded the uncle probably changed his mind or only said yes the day before to get rid of us. There was nothing else to do but go home.  Now it was I who cajoled and begged.  Please can we just try one final time to find them I implored.  Kaaba explained, “it was not her destiny, Carol, let it go. There are plenty of others.”

It was a sad night. I tossed and turned; my nightmares included the leering face of forced labor and child marriage. I felt in my heart Assa was the one.

It was several sad days later on our way home we saw them. Assa’s face lit up with joy when we stopped the car. It took some time but we finally convinced the uncle to let her into the program. Oh joy.

It was a night for celebration in the household. Only a small nagging thought wondered if they would show.  Please let it be her fate to show up.  I think I hardly breathed until we saw them both waiting patiently at the designated corner. I remember giving Kaaba my “I told you so” look.  Her comment, “It was her destiny and the will of God.”

If there are levels of poverty then Assa was at the bottom; the most destitute of all the students. Pape, our sewing instructor at Hèrè jè made Assa three outfits in one day.  I laughed as he shook his head and refused to allow her to touch the new clothes until she had properly bathed.  Holding your nose must be a universal sign.

It was with absolute pleasure I watched Assa on her first day at the center.  She proudly and carefully smoothed the skirt of her outfit; mostly likely the first new piece of clothing she has ever worn.  She is such a gentle soul despite her tribulations.

Assa Sissoko became the youngest apprentice at Hèrè jè Center.

Assa Sissoko

SEVEN MONTHS LATER:  THE REST OF THE STORY

November 2005

Assa has clearly taken to the Hèrè jè culture quickly. Her eyes are bright. Her skin is clear. Her playful personality shines. Assa, like the others, is beginning to trust the possibility of a more fulfilling and creative existence.  Begging is no longer a part of her future.

What a thrill to see Assa’s transformation.  She is thriving under the tutelage of instructors and the stern loving guidance of Tante Kia. I’m amazed at the metamorphosis.  When I see the students after 6 months, I revel in their progress.

Today I had the luxury of observing activities at Hèrè jè. The young women sat around the work table beading. They chatted and laughed, heads bent in concentration, fingers moving swiftly.  We explain how their creations are selling in the American market and how they will share in the profits. I don’t think they really believe it yet.

I noticed Assa laboriously separating a large bowl of mixed colored beads. As she worked we began to chat about designs and colors. I complimented her on the speed with which she was sorting and how seriously she took her task. “We all work together,” she said, “and it’s important we don’t waste the beads when they spill and colors get mixed up. I’m the youngest so I have to separate the beads.”  She wrinkled her nose.

Hèrè jè students understand the value of saving resources.  During their 18 month training, each student builds a savings account with a balance of $150.00 by graduation.  This savings philosophy clearly goes beyond money, as here was Assa, diligently saving the spilled beads, separating them by color.

Assa designing spilled beads jewelry

At one point I asked Assa, “How long do you think it will take you to separate all those beads?”

“Oh days,” Assa replied as she rolled her eyes, “it’s a pretty big bowl.”  I heard Assa loves to create new necklace designs and I could see the frustration in her eyes as she continued to tackle the big bowl of beads.

“So, what might you do with all those mixed beads instead of separating them into each color?” I asked.

She paused, tilting her head thoughtfully.  With a sudden sparkle in her eyes, she asked, “Would it be okay for me make necklaces out of the spilled beads?”

I asked, “What do you think?”

“I think that would be a very smart idea!” she proclaimed.

And so Assa’s “spilled beads” necklace was born.  It’s Assa’s signature design.

EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER: A NEW BEGINNING 2007

In front of 300 Malian dignitaries in the Palais du Congrès, Assa and her sister apprentices graduated from Hèrè jè Center, receiving their diplomas from the First Lady of Mali. Now Assa is a full-fledged member of the Hèrè jè artisan cooperative. She never knew she was destined to become a jewelry designer. All she needed was the opportunity to discover her talents and how to use them. Fortunately for us all, she found that opportunity at Hèrè jè.

Below is Assa on graduation day. (second from the right) Yes, those are tears of joy.

A successful person is one who can lay a firm
foundation with the bricks others throw at them.
~ David Brinkley, TV newscaster~

Gary Lehde erased all the wounds from ‘bricks’ thrown at me this week. He exemplifies why I’m on the roof drawing attention to small acts of greatness. Gary drove from Tacoma this morning on his day off, arriving at our Edmonds shop at 9:30am.

I’m briefly down from the roof for my morning ritual of opening the doors for the volunteers who generously staff our shop.  I hear a voice calling, “Carol, are you up there?” I expect it’s someone I know at this hour on a Saturday morning so I don’t worry about my tatty t-shirt and pj’s tucked into rubber rain boots. As I unlock the door of the shop, I realize it’s a complete stranger.

“Hello, my name is Gary. I saw you on King 5 TV News last night and what you’re doing touched me so this is for you.” He hands me a brown paper bag of  cheese and treats  “for your Saturday night” he says.  In my other hand he places a stack of bills, “and this is for what you’re doing in Africa.” Let’s just say it was much much more than the $1 I’m asking each person to contribute.  I was dumbstruck.

I invited him in for a  chat and discovered this is not Gary Lehde’s first, nor will it be his last angel mission.  Last year during the holidays he was watching the news and learned that a robber stole presents from under a family’s tree. He showed up on their front porch Christmas Day bearing gifts for everyone. Gary dropped them off and walked away.

“I don’t need recognition,” he said, “ I do it because I’m moved. It makes me feel good. It’s just what I do.”

In his full time work at King County Jail, Gary works at what he calls, “the gates of hell“.  Lehde also volunteers for Crystal Judson Family Justice Center for Tacoma/Pierce County offering his expertise to minimize domestic violence situations.  His volunteering and angel missions are Gary’s way of finding balance in a world of violence.

As a Navy veteran, Gary is no stranger to violence and shared that, “jail guards have heart too”.  Bravo Gary for your small acts of greatness.

Thank you to all the Gary’s in our world who have shared their stories with me.  And for those of you throwing “bricks” at me, thank you for strengthening my resolve.

It’s hard to believe it’s been 39 days living in my tent on the roof.

Yesterday in an interview, King5 TV’s morning anchor Carolyn Douglas asked, “What’s the toughest part about living up here?” My response, “the wind.”

The last three days I have cursed the wind. I have been buffeted by rain driven into every cranny by what seems like the angry hands of Zeus hurling insults. The 50 ft tarp covering my tent flew off during the storm. Rain soaked everywhere before I finally captured a corner to secure the tarp.

So this is what the labor in Labor Day means.

By then it was 3:00am Monday with no full night’s sleep in sight for the third day in a row. The last straw came when I made a mad dash to the porta potty only to find my bathroom structure had collapsed with the flimsy “roof” barely attached. With what little dignity remained I sat in the rain thankful at least that it was too dark to be seen. At that moment the roof decided to collapse on my head.

I finally gave in. I took off my shoes, my wool socks and my knit hat. At 3:00 a.m. I danced around the rooftop in the rain. Go ahead and laugh. I did. Deep, breath-gasping, belly laughs. And it felt terrific. And I felt exhilarated.

I celebrated our capacity to handle whatever comes our way. And the choices we make to get through whatever happens with humour.

Sometimes you just have to accept what is.  Like things one cannot control in other cultures.

I remember my naiveté, trying to tell my African colleagues in Mali, how the practice of paying bribes to police can only be stopped if one quits paying bribes.  Silly me.

We were driving home from a field visit to the branch office of PIYELI savings and credit institution for which Kaaba is CEO. The light was just beginning to fade as we reached the capital city, Bamako. Of course my white face could still be seen in the car. As frequently happens, we were stopped by the police. The look on the officer’s face could only mean, “hand over money and no one will be delayed”.

Zachary and Kaaba exit the car, driving papers in hand. Lots of gesturing and shaking of heads. The bribe dance has begun. Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Suddenly Kaaba and Zachary are moving quickly to the car, “Allons-y, Allons-y” and we’re driving off quickly.

“What happened? What happened?” I ask, my heart pounding with indignation.

“We paid him off and he let us go. Because it’s dark, we slipped him a 1,000 cfa note instead of 10,000 cfa and he doesn’t know it yet. We’re getting as far away as we can before he discovers it.”

At this point with my clearly superior, great white Western logic, I express that perhaps the practice of bribes would end if people would stop paying them. Kaaba and Zachary exchange patient looks and Kaaba says, “You explain it to her, Zachary.”

“If we don’t pay, he takes my papers. To to get them back, I must take a day off of work for which I am not paid, to go to court.  I wait the whole day for my case to be brought before the judge. If I want it to be heard that day, I pay off the clerk. Then I pay off the police officer.  Then I pay off the judge who then gives me back my papers. So what would you have me do?  Follow your logic or mine?”

As we pulled into the office the rain began to fall in torrents.  I took off my shoes and danced in the rain.

Lake Tana Monasteries, Ethiopia

Imagine it’s 10:00 pm. You hear a noise outside and open the door to find your house surrounded by armed militia. You are dragged forcefully from your home, away from your wife and young children.  Thrown into a dark cell and tortured for 3 weeks before you are released with a warning to cease doing your job or face death.

Because you are educated. And you live in Ethiopia.

Because the reigning party fears your education. Because you are doing your job as a regional administrator meeting and supporting principals from 60 schools for which you are responsible. If you continue doing your job, you face imprisonment, torture and death. Because the reigning party doesn’t like you. You are “conspiring” with other educated people. 

Stay and be murdered. Stay and lose your job. Either way your family is in jeopardy. There is no choice if you want your family to live. You escape across the border with just the clothes on your back to seek political asylum. But you must leave your family behind. All you can do is pray they will be safe.

Fast forward through 3 years in a Kenya refugee camp without family contact. You finally arrive in the U.S. to find you have missed your family at the same Kenya refugee camp only weeks after your departure.

The only job open to you in Seattle is cleaning hotel rooms. You finally make contact with your family who spend two more years in the Kenya Refugee camp and you are unable to help them. The system takes over.

Finally, you graduate from cleaning hotel rooms to pushing a wheelchair for passengers at SeaTac. A woman gives you her business card and tells you to call her. You forget about this woman.

One day you hear of a woman living in a tent on a roof and you recognize her. It’s a year since you pushed her in that wheelchair at SeaTac airport.

THE REST OF THE STORY…

Wat and Injera

Tsegaye, joins me on the roof for a traditional Ethiopian meal of wat and injera and shares his story.  He still pushes wheelchairs at SeaTac.  Yet, Tsegaye is grinning from ear to ear as he shares that in April, he found his family and became an America citizen. April is a good month.

It should be a fairy tale ending but it’s not – - YET.

After 8 years Tsegaye saw his wife and children for the first time in April, after he received his American citizenship. While this allowed him to leave and re-enter the United States, there is still much paper work to do before his family can join him. And the costs are high.

And Tsegaye is still pushing wheelchairs. Pushing wheelchairs doesn’t afford extra money to bring his wife and four children to Seattle.

Despite everything that has happened, he is still hopeful about the future.  I know Tsegaye will reunite with his family, permanently. He wants to use his education administrative gifts in his newly adopted country. And he is very proud to be an American citizen.

Look around you. How many educated, smart refugees in menial jobs cannot use their talents.  Often their less than perfect accents cause refugees to be misperceived.

The next time you meet a foreigner caregiving a family member at a nursing home or pushing a wheelchair at the airport or a hotel employee cleaning your room who speaks with an accent what will you think of them? 

They might just be an engineer or a doctor waiting to be reunited with their loved ones.

It’s a rainy night here in Edmonds. Unlike many, I will sleep well tonight because my grandparents immigrated to America where anything is possible.