It was written by a journalist in Atlanta, who was compelled to learn more about the AIDS/orphan crisis in Ethiopia after seeing an article in the paper about it. In There is no me Without You, Melissa Fay Greene beautifully intertwines histories of Ethiopia/AIDS/medicine with one woman's story of rescuing orphans in her home country of Ethiopia.
One thing I've known, yet feel like I have been exposed to a great deal this year, is that life is complicated. There aren't easy answers to complex solutions. I think I'm especially tainted having grown up in America with all that that entails, coupled with an A-type/fix it personality -- to make me want to slap a band aid on someone with cancer and call it a day because I did something. But that's not real life. Real life involves much more than a band aid. Greene showcases Haregewoin's personal journey of doing something. It isn't always easy or neat and tidy, but she's taken in hundreds of abandoned children over the years, and has changed countless lives.
It is sometimes humorously suggested that if only the Coca-Cola company were in charge of getting ARVs to the most remote villages and isolated regions on earth - even those with high illiteracy rates and unreliable refrigeration - it would do so splendidly, accompanied by bright signs and billboards and nationwide advertising. Everyone in the province would know the name of the product, what it did for your life, and where to line up for it (198).
Shedding tears, she felt she didn't care if she never saw the elegant house on Gojam Road again; while she would hurry, barefoot, down the dirt road, under the stars, if the police set her free, she would scurry back to her little foster homes. The children in them were life, the thick of life, the very middle and sweetness and silliness of life. Without the children in her two compounds, she had no life. She wanted no other life besides the one she lived with them in noise and sloppy kisses and broken windows and the kicking of little feet in her bed at night (361).
Harewegoin:
Yohannes. Holding a before picture and then weeks later after receiving ARVs:
Kids with Harewegoin at the compound:
A clean-faced freckled girl sat humbly over her plate of food. Haregewoin reminded her to wait for the blessing, then nodded that they could begin. Genet dropped her face down into the plate and began shoveling and gobbling and swallowing so fast and noisily that Haregewoin looked up in shock. Genet devoured everything in sight; she choked down the injera, dinich wat (potato stew), doro wat (peppery chicken stew), and an orange-hued, stew soaked hard-boiled egg, and another egg, then most of a sliced mango. She pushed back from the table, belched, laughed, jumped up, cleared the table, washed the few dishes, and skipped off to her room
Haregewoin slowly registered what she herself had done: she'd compelled the teenager to grocery shop, move in, shower, have her hair done, and even bow her head in prayer - and all the while Genet was hungry.
She would never make that mistake again. In case she ever hosted such a person in the future, she would know: when in doubt, feed first (100).
Shedding tears, she felt she didn't care if she never saw the elegant house on Gojam Road again; while she would hurry, barefoot, down the dirt road, under the stars, if the police set her free, she would scurry back to her little foster homes. The children in them were life, the thick of life, the very middle and sweetness and silliness of life. Without the children in her two compounds, she had no life. She wanted no other life besides the one she lived with them in noise and sloppy kisses and broken windows and the kicking of little feet in her bed at night (361).
Harewegoin:
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