A Reflection by Nicole Oudenhoven
We are hot and sweaty and crammed
into a once-white min van that is now coated in a thick film of dust.
The air in the van is thick with the Ethiopian dirt that was stirred up
as we made our way to the school, and the faint smell of vomit hangs in
the air. The road we traveled to get here, if you can call it a road,
was so bumpy that our bottoms are now sore from repeatedly being
ejected from the seats. The earlier part of our five-hour journey was
filled with jokes, laughter, and conversations that passed the time,
but for the past hour little has been said.
As we eagerly exit the van, we take in our surroundings. The
school campus consists of four concrete buildings large enough to hold
two thousand students at once. The entire school consists of four
thousand, but only half come at a time. On the wall of one of the
buildings there are faded paintings of thinks that pertain to various
educational subjects: a human body with anatomy labeled, a map of the
world, the parts of a flower, and the English alphabet. In the center
of the four buildings there is a grassy area, a sort of courtyard or
field, where children have stopped their playing to stare at us, the foreigners. We are met with curious, cautious eyes, but our smiles are
returned when we offer them. With each smile we give, the children come
closer and closer, until their fear is replaced with trust, and they
beg us over and over to take pictures of them. Here, the simple act of
snapping a photograph can turn into a frenzy of children who swarm you
and ask for you to take, "One photo! One photo!"
On the far side of the campus, we see the library, our
destination. As we enter the building, we are struck by the smell of
fresh-cut wood from the new furniture. The light brown wood shines on
each of the ten long tables that serve as desks, and each table has six
chairs to match. The library is void of students except for one table
in the back where five children huddle around a stack of books, reading
out loud in English. They read slow, and their voices are thick with
the Ahmaric accent, but nonetheless, they can read.
The principal of the school wears one of the biggest smiles, and he immediately approaches us to embrace.
"Thank you," he says. "Thank you again and again for this wonderful gift."
The gratitude he feels for us is so great that it causes some
of us to cry. In America, we take the simple action of being able to go
to the library for granted, but here, having books to read is a privilege.
The principal's face glows, and he continues to smile from ear to
ear as he says, "This school has been here for forty years. In all
those years, this is our first library. Thank you."
There are four words to describe the reason we are here: Noel and Tammy
Cunningham. For seven years they have been coming to Ethiopia to
improve the living conditions for those who live here. They are the
people who inspired the Colorado donors to raise money for this library
at this school. They believe in connecting the developed world to the
developing world, and we have just experienced first-hand one of the
many ways this is done.
Like the principal of the remote school in Ethiopia, we are
gracious for our opportunity. We are grateful to have been able to
experience the magical works of Noel and Tammy Cunningham, and maybe we
will be inspired to devote our lives, as they have done, to helping
people in need in Ethiopia.
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