Lost In Her Eyes

We were gathered there to celebrate her 81^st birthday. A couple of years ago, her husband passed away and her Alzheimer’s kicked in high gear. As her mental capacity deteriorated, an army of friends and family gathered around to support her. This day was just another poignant example of their unrelenting dedication.

She used to sing in the church choir. Unable to continue this passion, the choir came to her. When I arrived they were already sitting in the living room around a keyboard that had been set up for the performance. After kisses and handshakes, I took my place alongside the rest of the choir.  She was sitting on the couch between her brother and son. Sheet music was passed around, and I struggled to keep up with the fidel.

Her brother stood up, thanked us for coming and led us into a prayer. Meanwhile her son guided her to the chair placed in the middle of the room. Refusing, she instead toured the perimeter of the room, finally returning to her original spot on the couch. The choir began to sing. Her face was buried in the sheet music trying to follow along, however within a few minutes, she stood again.

It was all in her eyes. Her heavy, half-obstructed, glazed eyes. Her face was contorted to a permanent state of disorientation. I remembered all too well what that feeling was like. Behind her on the wall was a framed wedding picture. Catching my eye, my neighbor told me that picture was 63 years old and proof of the advantages of early marriage. The walls were covered with many blown up family portraits. Behind me sat a picture of guest of honor in her twenties, rocking an Angela Davis fro. Her eyes told me of her cheerful yet rebellious spirit.

She wandered around trying to escape this place that didn’t make sense. She moved around as if someone was continually altering all of the rules. She knew exactly what she wanted to do, but couldn’t figure out how to do it. She knew where she wanted to go, but the route changed. She didn’t know that the distorted path was transformed until she was standing inches from the wall.  Beyond frustrated, her mind betrayed her body’s instincts. The incongruent reality gave her no refuge from her mental anarchy.

While she tried to adjust to the new rules, people rushed by her side to persuade her sit down. Her independent and defiant nature was unrelenting. The choir sang while her heartbreaking search for the correct route continued.

An hour later, we took a chai and cake break. We sang Happy Birthday while her son coaxed her to blow out the candles. To us, the inverse candles read 18. She looked at all of us, trying to understand what was happening. Her frazzled eyes rolled over everyone in the room. But there was just too much to take in. Cameras flashed. People clapped. Singing voices overshadowed hushed whispers. Feet shuffled uncomfortably. A nearby dog incessantly barked. Curtains billowed through the windows. Glasses clinked as the cook shuffled between the kitchen and adjacent living room.

It was too much. Baffled and near tears, she hid her head in her hands. The jovial atmosphere that we desperately attempted to create was wrapped in an overlay of despair. Despite our best intentions, I felt like we were making things worse. Stiffened with heightened emotion, my neck ached. Eating our cake and drinking our chai, I tried to suppress the intense sadness that washed over me, not sure if others were struggling to do the same.

Her younger brother stood up. Choked up, he thanked us again. While I missed most of his words, I understood the tender message. I lowered my eyes, trying to contain the swell of emotion. Memories of watching my mother’s own deterioration and her eyes of hopelessness flooded my mind. Emotionally depleted, he wiped his nose and sat down.

Her eyes drew me in. In them I saw a lifetime of memories lost. The years of anguish etched on her face could not eclipse her smoldering eyes of determination. She continuously wrestled her reality to make the world make sense again - to find her way home. She was trying to piece together a puzzle with all of the wrong pieces. But her efforts were in vain. With every passing moment, everything around her became increasingly shrouded in mystery and her world even smaller.

As we made our way out of the door, I was relieved to leave. The unexpected emotional afternoon took its toll on my heart. Silent and distant, my companions worried that I was bored. Unable to articulate how I felt, I weakly attempted to dispel their fears that the afternoon was anything but mundane.

Without using words, she told me her story. She was more dynamic than her tiny five-foot frame suggested and this was more than a birthday. Despite life’s seemingly insurmountable struggles, she trudges on. It was all in her eyes and they stayed with me well beyond that afternoon.

Embassy Road

In an impromptu decision to make the most of my long layover in Egypt, I decided to explore Cairo for the afternoon. As the airport bank teller flipped through every page in my passport to find a clear spot to place my transit visa, it was apparent that I needed to get more passport pages.

Within a week of my arrival, I mustered enough courage and spatial understanding of the city to venture out to the US Embassy. Early in the afternoon, I found myself crossing the main road, which was entirely under construction, towards the ever-elusive bus stop. As I dodged construction trucks and climbed over the mountains of torn up cement, dirt and rusted pipes, I carefully made my way towards the detoured traffic. As I patiently waited on the side of the road inhaling the billowing exhaust and dust as young men hung out of the windows shouting out their destinations. After a couple of attempts, I climbed into the back of a rusted out minibus with a dozen other passengers.

Three detours and one fuel pit stop later, reaching the last stop in the crowded downtown area, we all piled out of the van. I hastily moved through the crowds of people trying to find the next minibus. Scanning the crowd, I saw a well-dressed priest, looking as out of place as I felt. He donned a crisp long black robe with gold and silver embroidering. Drawn to his presence, a bearded homeless with dead eyes was immediately intrigued. Weighed down from layers of mud-caked clothing, he laboriously shuffled toward the priest clutching a log in his right hand.  He gestured for priest to kiss the log. Bewildered, the priest waved the jilted man away. Not to be cast aside, the man threatened to strike the priest with his log instead. As I watched the scene escalate, I created more distance from the deranged man.

Despite my subtle maneuvering, he caught a glimpse and bee lined it for me. He sidled up next to me and unabashedly gawked at me. I tried to dodge him by deftly cutting through the constant stream of traffic. I was fast, but he would not be discouraged. He was staring so hard at me that I could feel his eyes crawl all over my body. With opposite goals in minds, we jockeyed for better positions while I continued to look for the minibus that would whisk me away from this uncomfortable situation.

Frustrated by the constant repositioning, he reached out and violently clutched my hand. Squeezing my fingers and pointing to my ring, he slurred something. Forcing me to a stop, I wrenched my hand free, yelling my indignation with my limited language abilities. In no mood to prolong this experience, I walked away quickly, looking for an attendant to ask for directions. Seeing the homeless man still following me, a fellow commuter hissed a few threatening words that stopped my bearded stalker in his tracks. He slinked away and was swallowed up by the mass of constantly moving cars and people.

Safely on my next minibus, we trudged up a lengthy hill heading towards the Entoto Mountains. From the spacious front seat, I watched the city disappear behind me. Oversized ministry buildings passed on both sides and the masses of people dissipated.  Farther up the hill, passing the National Museum and Addis Ababa University, the cascades of people reappeared. Shops and cafes line the street to meet the demand of students and tourists.

Even farther still, we climbed. Again, the people disappeared. We were nearly out of the city when I saw a large sterile building surrounded by security on my right. Daring to be noticed, the embassy sits on a large campus with a massive steel building as its centerpiece. Sorely out of place, I wondered what Ethiopians think of this over-the-top edifice. Distracted by its commanding presence, I hadn’t noticed that we stopped. The driver nudged me, indicating that this was my stop. I hopped out of the bus and walked towards the main entrance. Feeling immediately underdressed and self-conscious, I wondered if they would let me inside. Over an hour since I started this journey, a sigh of relief swept over me as I opened the heavy metal doors. Greeted by multiple security guards, one of them said, “Sorry, we have closed”.

Feeling defeated and exhausted, I slowly made my way back down the hill trying to accept this as a lesson in patience and managing expectations. My western philosophy has deceived me into thinking that I can control my surroundings. However, I also moved here with the full understanding that I would be leaving my American comforts behind. This journey was a reminder that everything will happen in its own time despite our schedules. Next week, I will try again.