Do Angels Live on Earth? Habtam Part II

I wish I had more pictures of Habtam

In a previous post linked here, you got to meet Habtam. Quick recap: Habtam was a magnetic soul; a woman our family met upon moving to Addis; the woman who became a source of stability for our three children amidst the craziness of an international move.

We left off the last post when Habtam received a call from Lalibela, her hometown, informing her that the person who gave her her beautiful name —her mother— had a debilitating stroke. Our housekeeper shared that Habtam left our home in a mad dash and in hysterics with just a few of her belongings in hand. Habtam went back to her village in Lalibela to see her mother, traveling to a war zone, once again demonstrating the depth of her loyalty and character.

In 2014, Betre and I visited Lalibela which is where the picture on our homepage was taken. Lalibela, a town 645 km north of Addis Ababa, holds religious and historic significance to Ethiopians. The town’s rock-hewn churches are a marvel and remain a UNESCO world heritage site. When we went in 2014, it was a peaceful, serene, religious oasis; an experience that was part of what pulled us back home.

But in December 2021 when Habtam was traveling back home to visit her mother, Lalibela had become one of the many regions devastated by the civil war in northern Ethiopia.

Upon hearing that Habtam left, I was worried sick: would Habtam come back alive? Suppose she did make it safely to Lalibela — who would watch after her son and her blind father if her mother’s stroke was debilitating? What would this mean for her and her efforts to better her family’s life by working in Addis and sending money back home?

A week later and still in the States, I called our housekeeper and learned that Habtam’s mother had passed away a day before Habtam arrived to see her. I later learned that Habtam had to stop for a few days in a nearby town — Gashena—because the roads to Lalibela had been closed. She’d stayed the night at a relative’s house as she waited for the roads to open. But, the sleep was hard to come by, she shared, as she kept wondering whether her mother was still alive and as the sound of gunshots ricocheted off those same mountains that nearly a decade ago had offered my husband and I such peace.

It was sounding more and more like Habtam’s efforts to live in Addis and send money home were in jeopardy. I tried to call her to offer our support in any way possible, to tell her that we care for her deeply, to suggest that she bring her son to Addis and that he grow up with our kids, but the phone lines were cut again. It must have been my 20th call when I finally reached her. I had one shitty, spotty phone conversation with her where I could barely hear what she was saying before the lines cut out again.

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When we came back to Addis after the holidays, our house felt empty. It may have been PMS, or it may have been Habtam’s absence, but shortly after I walked into the house, I boo-hoo’d like a baby. Ugly sobbing, snot dripping down my nose, the whole nine-yards. I had always realized what she meant to our family since our move to Addis, but in her absence, I felt it even more. What sucked most is that we couldn’t even reach her to hear if everything was alright.

A week later, I was sitting at Byogenic Day Spa gettin my hair braided when I received a call — it was Habtam!

After weeks of waiting to speak to her on a clear phone line, Habtam’s phone was finally working well. During our call, she shared the details I’d been eager to learn about. She shared that she had been in a village an hour outside of the nearest city in Lalibela since her family’s house and belongings had gotten ransacked in the war. To make this call, she had walked an hour to the city of Lalibela. “Marti, we have nothing to eat,” Habtam shared. “We have no harvest, no promise of food for tomorrow. There is no electricity. Family members from near and far are coming for the 40-day memorial of my mother’s passing. But as I prepare for it,  I am currently grinding teff and coffee beans manually for all of the guests expected to come.”

Now, if you know anything about Ethiopian —hell, African— culture, you know that guests do not come in your, or your relative’s honor and leave unfed. This meant that Habtam was preparing for this ceremony as she was processing her grief, and in the direst of circumstances. “I’m borrowing plates, cups, chairs, and all the things needed for the memorial from neighbors and relatives in the neighborhood,” she told me. “I’m using the money you gave me before you left to America to buy food, which is scarce as is. But the hardest thing to manage has been my son's grief,” Habtam shared. Her 4-year old son Dawit who was being raised by his grandmother in Lalibela, apparently was not processing her death well. “He cries during the day, at night, and in between. He screams for me to bring his ‘real mother’ back. He hits and bites me, telling me that I’m not his real mom. That he wishes I could go back to where I came from and she could be here instead.” I could hear in her voice that she was choking back tears.

The lady braiding my hair asked me if I needed a minute as tears were streaming down my face. I walked out of the salon, gripping onto the phone, hoping to continue the conversation with Habtam for as long as the phone lines would allow us.

After some discussion, I hesitantly asked her the question I didn’t really want to hear the answer to but felt I needed to know in order to make plans: “Are you planning to come back to Addis after the 40-day memorial?”

I felt a range of emotions as I heard myself asking this question out loud for the first time, but the emotion that reigned for me was guilt. I felt guilty for asking a question centered on my own relatively simple problems (finding a new nanny); guilty for being in the comfort and safety of my home in Addis Ababa with my family as she was struggling in Lalibela with hers; guilty for not being as much a source of stability to her in her times of trouble as she was to us all the months prior. She replied, “The challenge is that my father is old, blind, heartbroken, and he is now in a war-ravaged town. My siblings all live in Addis and are coming later this week for the 40th day memorial. They have been urging me to stay and take care of him. We will have a family discussion on Friday when they arrive. But I do worry about my father, thinking ‘what if he dies?’ I know they’ll all blame me for his death if I leave. And then there’s my son. What’ll he eat if I stay? How will he learn with all the schools being closed? I am so confused.” We ended the conversation on this cliffhanger, with me just as confused as she.

In my final installment, I share Habtam and her family’s final decision. Read it here.