Yegna!

Our sitemate Lauren and I had a Girls’ Club that met every Sunday in my living room. We hosted female-empowerment discussions, activities, and crafts, one of my favorites being our Describe Yourself! game, with Amharic translations:

Mahlet is productive, caring, determined, supportive, fearless, kind, courageous, successful, intelligent, helpful, trustworthy, knowledgeable, patient, honorable, and a leader.

(Second favorite lesson = listening to Aretha Franklin’s "Respect," and discussing the message. In fact, if you have this song on your itunes, go ahead and play it while you read on.)

Because of schedule conflicts, translation pressures, the far walking-distance the girls on the other side of town had to travel (and in the hot weather), our club gradually stopped meeting.

A few months later: Just when I thought I couldn’t feel more anguish as a woman, every Peace Corps Ethiopia volunteer was given a cute, free tote-bag filled with Yegna stickers, Yegna pamphlets, and a flashdrive chock-full of Yegna material.

Meet Yegna.

Mimi

Lemlem

Melat

Sara

Emuye

(“Yegna” means “Ours” in Amharic.)

What I’d call the Ethiopian but role-model version of the Spice Girls. As a 5^th grader, I knew Sporty Spice was my equivalent. I was a tomboy, prouder of my skills as a second baseman and clean-up batter than I was of my grades or fashion sense. I remember taking my Spice Girls CD-insert to the hairdresser’s, pointing to Sporty Spice, and asking for her exact haircut. Along with my Backstreet Boys mini-books (each page a miniature fact sheet of each band member’s birthday, favorite meal, middle name, and hometown), I had one for the Spice Girls as well. I kept these in my school desk, somewhere near my pencil case and hidden NanoPet. At Recess and lunch, my friends and I would quiz each other from all of our mini-books.

Girls can make anyone their role models. But Lemlem is far worthier of influencing young girls than, say, Baby Spice.

Lemlem is a village girl. She tends her sick mother, does all the household chores, helps herd the cattle, raise her two younger brothers, and attends school to boot. Her father will remove her from school if she can’t balance all her responsibilities perfectly. How will Lemlem handle the pressures of getting an education and also managing her household?

Here’s how we find out:

Yegna, a real Ethiopian girls’ band, is also a fictional radio drama, following the different lives, struggles, and decisions of these five strong, beautiful girls—in order to address the pressing issues of what it’s like to be a young girl growing up in Ethiopia. Each one has her own separate and relatable story. (Each drama is followed by a talk-show, discussing the episode.)

So Lauren and I started our Girls’ Club back up. Every Saturday morning at 11:30, 14 girls in our community (grades 6-10) come to my living room, and we eat popcorn and cookies and listen to these dramas in Amharic, afterward discussing what we learn from them in Tigrigna and English. Fixing our previous mistakes, this time we chose girls who live closer to my home (girls from my Soloda English Club and also my neighbors). Betty, a 10^th grader, helps us with translation.

We’re taking the negative energy that builds up within us each week, when we feel degraded or objectified, and we’re turning it in a positive direction. We’re reminding Milyon, Betty, Firktuna, Makda, Birkti, Merhawit, Luwam G. and Luwam T., Netsanet, Tsege, Tsege-Berhan, Tsegareda and Seble how strong and gobez (brilliant) they are, because they’re not told it enough. We’re hoping to help shift how girls are viewed, and how they view themselves, in our Ethiopian towns. (Lauren has a second Yegna program at the main high school in town, reaching a much larger audience of both male and female students.)

The rest of the world should follow in the footsteps of the creators of this band and program, GirlHub (a collaboration between Nike Foundation and the UK Department for International Development) and start giving our future female generations better role models. Fifteen years from now, I’d rather hand my daughter the CD-insert of Yegna than I would Katie Perry or Miley Cyrus. Here’s something in which America would benefit in following Ethiopia’s lead.

The Yegna radio program is an incredibly practical, attractive and creative way to combat gender-based violence and address issues like early/forced marriage, dropping out of school, and teen pregnancy in Ethiopia. This is doing something for Ethiopian girls.

Check out Yegna’s great music video for their song “Abet”—(which is the Amharic response when you’re summoned). Read the powerful English translation below the video.

But before you do, you should know that the following is a common sight in classrooms, meeting rooms, and language centers in big towns and small towns across Ethiopia:

A teenage girl is called on to present in front of the class. She stares at her feet, she stares at the wall, she makes no eye contact with anyone. She giggles, she closes her eyes. Her right hand alternates from covering her eyes to covering her mouth, while she stands in paralyzing fear and silence for up to three minutes. The air has been sucked out of the room, and you, back there in your seat, are nearly trembling for her.

We see this all the time. Ours is a town of 60,000—not a village—and we see this all the time. A paralyzing shyness that was once valued by the social norm. Having this scene in your mind is important, I think, when you hear Mimi sing, We have stood up! We have decided! See us—here—we have come! How might these words of confidence fall on the ears of the many teenage girls I just described? What sort of growth may come from such powerful seeds?

Thank you, Yegna. Thank you, GirlHub.

Go.bez.

Video of Abet.

English translation of Abet:

Lemlem: “Abet!” Say “Abet to me,” hear me—Abet—I have a message—Abet in this house!

Mimi: “Abet!” Say “Abet to me,” hear me—Abet—I have a message—Abet in this house!

Melat: “Abet!” Say “Abet to us,” hear us—Abet—We have a message—We have a message about us!

Melat and girls: Abet—Ezih bet! (Call and response: Hello! In this house!)

Lemlem:

She is as a sister and a mother

As a wife—we should not be silent or take her for granted.

While one woman holds three lives

With love, supporting each other

Working together with understanding

Let us be one and live in joy

Let’s not be separated. Adera!*

* Adera is a pleading and heavy word to “promise/take care”

Mimi and girls: Let’s not be separated. Adera!

Melat:

Oh—let’s go out—Yay!—with our heads high

Oh—let’s show them—Ah!—that we can!

Let’s show our talent, capacity, and our wisdom

Let the world be amazed—let’s come together

Let us live together in love

People, let’s not be separated. Adera!

Mimi and girls: Let’s not be separated. Adera!

Melat and girls: Abet—Ezih bet! (Call and response: Hello! In this house!)

Mimi:

Who you underestimate/look down upon will will one day

leave you naked

Advise him and wake him up and advise him

Let him respect me—let me respect him—Let’s not look down on each other

Whenever, wherever, love shall win! Wa!*

*Wa! is a warning.

feat. Haile Roots:

Why should I lose her and be sad and hurt

While she has been by my side, my support in this world?

I don’t want to see her down and depressed because

she can’t find someone to support her

While I could be there by her side to support her

I have passed her by so many times pretending like I can’t see her [her needs]

But now it’s enough—let me stand by her side

For the world is not complete without her

Why should I lose her and be sad and hurt

While she has been by my side, my support in this world?

Mimi:

We have stood up! We have decided! See us—here—we have come!

Melat:

We’ve had enough of the past! We are rising today!

Mimi:

We have been looked down upon in the past

People have underestimated, undermined us

What we have had to endure—we do not like

We have risen today, we have decided

We carry love, skill, and hope in our hands!

Abet—Ezih bet! (Call and response: Hello! In this house!)

Haile Roots:

Why should I lose her and be sad and hurt

While she has been by my side, my support in this world?

World Malaria Month!

I like routines and order. I like doing similar things, in a similar order every day.

Upon entering our kitchen for the first time in the morning, I fill the kettle with water for our tea, and I set the table with the following: plates, spoons, peanut butter, honey, bread, tea cups—and one Doxycycline pill beside my plate.

When I set the table for dinner, in addition to the salt and Mitmita (HOT Ethiopian spice) that I place in the table’s center, I put one Doxycycline pill beside my husband’s plate.

I have an “emergency pack” of Doxycycline in the back zipper portion of my purse, just in case we go to a restaurant for breakfast or dinner. I am quite anal-retentive about keeping this pouch stocked and re-filled at all times. When we went home to America for three weeks last summer, or to Germany last fall, I was still taking my pill every morning, and Daniel every evening, to keep it in our system.

This is how we help stomp Malaria out of our household. How do we remember to take our daily pill? By embracing routine. One time Daniel accidentally took two of the pills in a five-minute period (which led to a concerned call to the doctor). But we barely ever forget to take it.

Other ways we stomp Malaria out of our household:

- We sleep under a bed net every night (it hangs from four of our bedroom walls, closing our bed in like a beautiful princess canopy). Daniel may prefer to think of it as an intimidating military fort. However you think of it, this net is not only a physical barrier between us and nighttime critters, but it is also treated with insecticide to kill bugs that land on it.

- Our bathroom window is not fool-proof. While all our windows have screens (ironically, the screens were made from old bed nets, by the volunteers who lived here before us), there’s a large hole in our bathroom screen that duct tape won’t fix. Because the female Anopheles mosquito that carries Malaria from person to person, home to home, generally comes out from 10PM to 2AM at night, I shut the bathroom shutters as soon as dusk hits. The one or two times we’ve forgotten, and it was 9:30 before I shut them, I got nervous, like a child knowing the Boogie Man is on its way.

- If we go out at night, we wear long sleeves and pants, and wear bug spray.

How it Spreads

Did you know that Malaria is passed from person to person? The female Anopheles mosquito bites an infected person, and then promptly bites another person, giving him or her the parasite. So when a person sleeps under a bed net, she is not only protecting everyone sharing a room and house with her, but all of her nearest neighbors, and hence, her entire community. Likewise, every person who neglects to take precautions against Malaria is not only putting herself at risk—but her entire community as well.

We didn’t understand how dangerous, unnecessary (preventable), and deadly Malaria is, until we came to Africa.

There is a myth that “Malaria’s not so bad, if you’re used to it”—that people who grow up in regions where Malaria is prevalent, build an immunity strong enough to protect them.

This is a myth. Every year, over one million people are killed by Malaria. In 2009, it was estimated that one child dies every 45 seconds from Malaria. Today, one child dies every minute. But if all children slept under insecticide-treated bed nets, the number of children dying from Malaria could be decreased by half. In 2010, Malaria’s death toll was 1.2 million. According to The Africa Malaria Report, Malaria is the single greatest killer of children under five, and is a dangerous threat to pregnant women and their newborns.

When we visited Uganda, our friend in her 50s or 60s walked around her home in her mumu and an IV attached to her arm. She had a severe case of Malaria.

Last year, one of our own Peace Corps volunteers serving in Ghana died of severe Malaria.

It’s preventable. And yet it’s sobering to see how few people are attempting to prevent it in their own homes and lives. I remember seeing two bed nets (Wela’s and Mebrit’s), of all the many houses we’ve visited in our community in the past two years.

Odd idiosyncrasies surrounding the use of bed nets:

1. Most Ethiopians prefer conical bed nets to the boxy four-corner ones (like my princess canopy). They may opt not to hang a free four-corner bed net in their home, because it’s “not fashion.” It’s too large and too cumbersome for their tiny one-or-two-room house. (Thankfully, you can change a four-corner bed net into a conical shape. Ethiopian Pinterest, anyone?)
2. Folks like new things. Like my dad and I who never remove the protective transparent sticker from our cellphone faces (“It stays nicer, longer!”), some Ethiopians, when given a brand new bed net, are much more likely to use it if it has first been removed from its bag. But if you give it to them in its original packaging, the life-saving net may find its way on a shelf or under the bed, so it can be kept nice and new.

It's preventable, and people are dying. Education is key. Information is key. Malaria myths are nearly as prevalent as Malaria. Some Ethiopian towns where Malaria used to be rare, (because they’re at an altitude of above 2,000 meters), are now experiencing warmer rainy seasons that welcome the Anopheles mosquitos to migrate. Climate change at its worst. And yet those living in the towns still think they’re safe to sleep without nets and keep their windows open at night.

“Malaria” in Tigrigna is “Aso.” I find the pronunciation, and what it sounds like in English, appropriate. Malaria is the dangerous punk roaming our worldwide neighborhoods, and we keep inviting him in. It’s time we shut him out for good.

Check out Peace Corps’  Stomp Out Malaria Facebook  page for more information. See what Peace Corps volunteers are doing around the world to finally stomp this deadly, preventative disease completely out. 

After you do that, watch this short video.

Our Friend Hani

            Walking along the main road, I see a familiar face. A three-year-old face at knee-level. He’s dressed in a green smock, coming from Kindergarten, about to cross the main road. We stare at each other, trying to place each other. Anti? he says. You?

            Hani! I yell. Hani! Hani! I’m elated. I barely recognized him in his smock; I don’t think we had ever seen Hani with pants on. Hani is a three-year-old terror, who used to live near our home, on an adjacent road, and every time he saw us, he’d attack us. With laughter, with his hands. His game was to somehow, some way get into our compound unnoticed, to presumably play with us, to see the ferengi house. Our game was to out-run him and slide into the gate before he could squeeze in. After that, he’d cackle from the other side of the gate, calling out our names in as tantalizing a fashion as a three year old can muster.

            An unruly, adorable little boy. I once saw his naked legs chasing after me through the back entrance to our yard, and I ran from him, laughing, as his older brother, in turn, chased him. He made it to our doorstep and cried and cried when a neighbor carried him away, back to his own house. But we haven’t seen Hani in maybe 7 months. He just disappeared. And now, there he is, holding the hand of an older girl, about to cross the road. As I yell Hani, recognition lights up his face, and he runs to me, head thrown back to look up at me. Danayit! Danayit! He grabs my legs, laughing, hugging my knees. I steer him to the sidewalk so we don’t get hit by a bajaj, and we have a quick conversation, three year old and twenty six year old:

            Where have you been? Where is your house? It’s not on Adi Haki anymore. Where is it?

            (Hani points into the distance.)

            Many times Daniel and I say, Where is Hani? Where is he? I am so happy! Here you are!

            Do you have Daniel?

            Daniel is at home. He is fine. I will tell him I saw you, and he will be so happy.

            Okay. Bye, Danayit!

And he runs to chase the older girl, grinning ear to ear, giggling. I watched him until he disappeared behind the truck.

            I was happy, so very happy.