Haben Page 6

  The blind community has horror stories of blind kids who never contribute around the house because their parents tell them they can’t. My parents expect me to do chores, and I do. Most chores have tactile elements that make them easy to do blind.

  TT walks around me and stands on my left. Guessing she has something to say, I turn off the faucet and face her.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “I’m doing the dishes.”

  “Dude, I’m not stupid. You never just offer to do the dishes. What are you really doing?”

  I lower my voice. “Do you think they suspect anything?”

  “No! They’re too busy watching Crocodile Hunter. You know how Saba and Girma love that show.”

  “You like it, too. How come you stopped watching?”

  “There’s a commercial, and I wanted to find out what you’re up to. So, what’s up?”

  “Okay…Don’t tell them, though. I just joined this club called buildOn that builds schools in developing countries. They’re going to do a trip to Mali to build a school, and I want to go. I need Girma or Saba to sign the permission form.”

  “Dude, they’re gonna say no. You know they’re gonna say no.”

  “But after I finish all these dishes, they’ll have to thank me.”

  “Ha! More like if you do them for a whole year.”

  I smile. She gets it. Persuading our parents to let us step outside their comfort zone is like climbing Kilimanjaro.

  Following her lead, I join in the jesting. “Or they might let me go if I can find a cousin in Mali.”

  “Right?” TT giggles. “Just find one Eritrean in Mali. Then they’ll say, ‘Hey, we’re related!’”

  “Exactly. It always goes like that. That’ll be my Plan B.”

  “So you’re still gonna do the dishes?”

  I consider it for a moment. My parents expect me to work hard at school and at home. The fact that I’m doing the dishes won’t register as a big deal, but it may make them more receptive to my request. “Yeah, I’m still doing the dishes. Don’t tell Saba and Girma my plan, okay? I want to tell them myself.”

  “Okay.”

  We fight about a lot of things, but TT and I are always on the same team when it comes to our parents. I know I can trust her.

  The dishes beneath my hands shift around. TT has slipped two more plates in the sink.

  “Hey!”

  She runs out of the kitchen, chortling all the way.

  Twenty minutes later, I place the last dish in the dishwasher. My arms and back ache. The soap and warm water shriveled my poor braille-reading fingers.

  This time I walk right up to the big couch. One person is on the right and another is on the left. As I begin to sit down on the middle spot, I notice Saba’s legs stretched out over the cushion. She moves her feet without me asking.

  “Did you finish the dishes?” Saba asks.

  “Yes! I did eight spoons, two knives, four bowls, six plates, and ten cups.”

  “Oh my god! Haben, you didn’t have to count!”

  I shrug. “I wanted you to know how hard I worked.”

  “Thank you, Haben,” she says. “I appreciate that.”

  I beam at her. “You’re welcome.”

  Girma chimes in from the other side. “Did you finish your homework?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry, I’m gonna get straight A’s just like last year. Right now in world history we’re learning about Japan.”

  “Okay. What’s the capital of Japan?” he asks.

  “Tokyo. I’ve known that for years.” I search for a hard one. “What’s the capital of Estonia?”

  “That’s easy. Tallinn. What’s the capital of Chile?”

  “Oh come on! Santiago. What’s the capital of Indonesia?”

  “Jakarta. And…what’s the capital of Thailand?”

  “Bangkok. What’s the capital of Mali?”

  “Bamako. And…”

  “What do you think of Mali?” I can feel my heart speeding up as I try to act casual.

  “Mali is an important country in Africa. Timbuktu is there, which used to be a huge trade center. Merchants from Africa and the Middle East would sell their goods in Timbuktu.”

  “That’s so cool! What else do you know about Mali?” I prompt.

  “They have great music. I love their music. I actually have a CD by a Malian singer.”

  I struggle to keep my expression contained, neutral, indifferent. “How would you like it if I brought you a CD from Mali?”

  “What do you mean?” He sounds suspicious.

  I take a deep breath. “I joined a club called buildOn at school. It’s part of a national nonprofit that builds schools in developing countries. They also do local community service. In April they will send a group of students to Mali for three weeks to build a school. It’s completely free, they pay for the airfare, hotel, food, everything. All you have to do is sign the permission form.”

  Silence.

  “Everything will be taken care of by buildOn,” I reassure him. “I already filled out the application. You just need to sign the form—it’s easy.”

  Silence.

  “If I bring you the form, will you sign it?”

  “Why do you want to go to Mali?” Girma responds, finally.

  “I want to help build a better world. I want to help make sure kids in Mali get an education.”

  On my other side, Saba jumps in: “Haben, kids in Eritrea need schools, too. Why don’t you help build a school in Eritrea?”

  “Well…” I fumble around in my head looking for a response. “BuildOn doesn’t go to Eritrea. If there were a program that builds schools in Eritrea, then I’d do that.”

  “Great idea,” Girma says. “Next time we go to Eritrea, we’ll find a school where you can volunteer.”

  “I’d be happy to volunteer at a school in Eritrea,” I tell them. “We can plan to do that for our next summer vacation. But the buildOn trip is in April. I have time for both. I want to do both.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in school in April?” Girma demands.

  “BuildOn is a school club, and some of the teachers go with us, too.”

  Silence, again.

  “How about this: if you let me go on this trip to Mali, I promise to volunteer at a school in Eritrea next summer.”

  “No way,” Girma says.

  “Why not?” My spirits drop. TT was right. They’re not moved by my dishwashing.

  “It’s not safe,” he answers.

  “Mali is safe. BuildOn has been taking students there for several years. They only take students to safe countries.”

  “What about your disability?”

  I brace myself for a tricky conversation. Guiding him through his disability fears requires summoning up enough courage for all of us. My own fears need to stay hidden. Any sign of nervousness on my part will trigger their protective instincts. The production of courage for three people, my parents and I, feels draining. I’ve been doing it more and more; my steps toward independence keep bringing up their fears for my safety. They raised me with stories of their long, arduous journeys to freedom, and I’m determined to reach for mine, too. “What about my disability?”

  “How are you going to build a school when you can’t see?”

  “With shovels. With bricks. With hammers and nails. Just like everyone else. I don’t know how to build a school, but the other American students don’t know, either. We’ll have teachers to show us what to do. I’ll learn on the job just like everyone else, with everyone else.”

  “Haben, I’ve been to villages. I know what it’s like. It’s not safe,” he says.

  “You’ve been to villages in Africa and you survived just fine. If you can do it, I can do it.”

  “Haben,” Saba calls for my attention. “There are kids in Eritrea who need schools. Why don’t you help them?”

  Flabbergasted, I just stare at her. Then, I search for the surest way to settle this once and for all. “Yes,
I would be happy to volunteer in Eritrea over the summer. Right now, we’re talking about me going to Mali in April.”

  I turn back to Girma. “The village is safe. The organizers have already checked it out. I promise, we’ll be fine.”

  “Haben, I told you, it’s dangerous. You could be walking on a path and not see a snake. Then what?”

  My stomach clenches. He’s right: I wouldn’t see the snake. By the time I noticed, my body would be engulfed in pain.

  “Oooh! She doesn’t like snakes,” says Saba triumphantly. “You got her good, Girma! See, Haben, you should just build a school in Eritrea.”

  “Saba!” My frustration boils over. “Eritrea has snakes, too!”

  “No, the snakes there don’t bite. If they see you they’ll just think, ‘Oh, she’s Eritrean. I’ll leave her alone.’”

  I laugh and laugh, utterly floored by her fairylandish depiction of Eritrea. “Did you hear what she just said?”

  “Yup,” he chuckles. “Do you believe her?”

  “It’s true!” Saba insists. “They can tell when you’re Eritrean. Actually, we never see snakes in Eritrea. They tend to keep their distance from people.”

  I decide to play along. “Sounds like a great story for Animal Planet: Eritrea, the only country in the world where snakes never bite people.”

  Saba laughs. “Yeah, they should do a story. But they might bite you if you’re not Eritrean.”

  “Uh huh.” I nod and turn back to Girma. “There are snakes everywhere. In Eritrea. In Mali. In the Bay Area. I can’t stop going into our backyard just because of the small risk that there may be a snake. I don’t want to live a life of fear. I want to live a life of adventures. I want to go on this trip to Mali and help build a school.”

  “I don’t think it’s safe. Hey, TT! Do you know what your sister just said?”

  She sits in an armchair. “What?”

  “She’s saying she wants to go to Mali.”

  “That’s great!”

  “Don’t say that!” Girma protests. “It’s not safe. She could get malaria. She could get kidnapped.”

  “Then you’ll have to pay up the ransom.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  TT drawls, “It was nice knowin’ ya, sista.”

  “TT!” Girma scolds. “How could you say that?”

  “It’s a joke!” She storms off to her room, and I feel guilty for getting her involved.

  “Don’t worry,” I reassure Girma. “It will be safe. They’ve checked the village. They’re working with the village leaders. I’ll be with other students and teachers. I’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t like it. You’re not going.”

  “But why?”

  “I told you, it’s not safe. You’re not going. End of discussion.”

  My temples throb with a raging headache. My parents’ fears wrap around me like a tight chain. They may never, ever let me grow up.

  I stand up and walk away from the sofa, pausing at the edge of the living room to deliver my parting blow. “That’s the last time I do the dishes.”

  My parents holler back, their voices serving as the soundtrack for my exit march.

  I climb onto my bed, fuming at my stubborn parents. I explained everything so clearly: that we would be safe, that they wouldn’t have to pay for the trip, but they still wouldn’t budge.

  I’m trapped, held back from doing my part to help others. The pain of their refusal squeezes my neck, threatening to spill over into tears.

  Getting off the bed, I stand up and stretch my hands toward the ceiling. Bringing my hands down, I roll my head to the left. To the right. My neck begins to relax.

  My life belongs to me. I can’t surrender to feeling trapped.

  Girma doesn’t want to sign the forms because he thinks it’s not safe for me to go. He brushed aside all of my arguments. My good, clearheaded, logical arguments. Maybe he thinks I’m biased and I’m exaggerating my abilities. But I know my abilities, better than anyone else. I’m the expert when it comes to what I can and can’t do. My expertise didn’t sway him, though.

  The question then, is: who can convince Girma that I will be safe in Mali?

  Two weeks later, I’m still hard at work on Operation Get My Parents to Say Yes. Every day, I have asked them to sign the form, approaching the issue from different angles each time. They’re tired of the question. Girma has switched from saying, “No,” to, “We’ll see,” a trick for bringing arguments to a halt. His strategy has had limited success. After all, I got my stubbornness from him.

  Today, I’m using a different approach. I’ve invited my parents and the buildOn program manager for “just lunch.” We’re at Asmara Restaurant in Oakland, named after the capital city of Eritrea. I chose it as the site for my next move because my parents’ favorite thing to eat is—surprise, surprise—Eritrean food. We take our seats—Girma on my left, and Saba across from him. Sitting across from me is Abby.

  Abby has been leading buildOn treks for several years, taking high school students to places like Nicaragua, Haiti, and Nepal. Every week, she visits my high school’s buildOn club where we plan our fundraisers, the trek to Mali, and local volunteer work. The other weekend, I volunteered to carve pumpkins at a retirement center. Before the session, I took Abby aside for a heart-to-heart. Explaining that my parents worried about my safety in Mali, I asked if Abby could meet them over lunch and convince them that I would be safe. She agreed. That day, the seniors got a pumpkin with a huge grin.

  Inside Asmara Restaurant, Abby and my parents discuss Eritrean history. Abby seems fascinated, engaging my parents with thoughtful questions about their experiences. I keep busy eating, strategically staying quiet to maximize their bonding time.

  “The way you eat, Abby! You’re doing great,” Saba says.

  I beam at Abby. For the novice, Eritrean food requires a bit of training. The food is served on a large family-style plate covered with a spongy flat bread called injera. Depending on what people order, there might be meat stews, veggie curries, or salad on the main plate. We eat with one hand. Using the dominant hand, we tear off a piece of injera, about two inches in diameter, place it over a choice portion of meat or vegetable, and lift the injera and chosen food to our mouths.

  “I’ve had Ethiopian food before,” Abby explains.

  “Eritrean and Ethiopian food are really the same,” I tell her.

  “No!” Saba’s indignant. “They’re not the same. They are similar, but not the same at all.”

  “That’s right,” Girma affirms. “They’re similar. The dishes have different names. In Ethiopia, the names are in Amharic; in Eritrea, they are in Tigrinya. The style of eating is similar, and the way they cook it is similar.”

  I nod, smiling at his diplomacy.

  “In Mali, we’ll have lots of great food, too,” Abby assures them. “We’ll hire a cook to prepare meals for our team. Rice and vegetables. Beans. Chicken. Sometimes we’ll get a goat. You won’t have to worry about Haben eating well there.”

  “I see,” Girma mumbles.

  Silence.

  I shoot anxious glances at my parents. Deep down, we know this isn’t just about Mali. Mali is merely the first of many instances in which my parents will struggle to accept my independence. I don’t want their fears to direct where I go in life, especially when I don’t even allow my own fears to hold me back. If I survive Mali, my parents will start learning to trust me.

  “But Abby…” Saba pauses before continuing. “How is she going to build a school?”

  “She can do it. I don’t know exactly how, but we’ll find a way. I’ve seen her doing volunteer work in Oakland—she’ll do just fine in Mali.”

  My heart swells with gratitude. What a beautiful, thoughtful, and honest response.

  “Girma, what do you think?” Saba asks.

  “Are you going to be with her the whole time?” he asks.

  “I’ll be with the group the whole time. There will be three other teachers,
and we’ll all be keeping an eye on the students. Someone will always be around.”

  Silence.

  They’re making faces again. Their use of inaccessible communication frustrates me. People should just say how they feel.

  “Well…” Girma starts, “what about malaria?”

  “We’ll all be taking anti-malaria medication. They’ll be fine.”

  I hold my breath. Please don’t ask her about snakes. Please, please don’t bring up snakes.

  “Saba, what do you think?” Girma asks, handing the conversation back to her.

  “Well, as long as Abby is with her, I think it’s okay.”

  “Haben, are you sure you want to do this?” he asks.

  “Yes, I’m very sure.”

  He sighs. “Okay, then. It’s fine with me.”

  My heart dances salsa. He said yes! They both said yes! My persistence, my stubbornness, my careful planning—it all paid off.

  “Great! We’ll be happy to have Haben on our team,” Abby says.

  “Thank you, Abby,” I gush. “Thank you for having lunch with us.”

  Chapter Eight

  Water Fights in the Desert

  Kegne Village, Mali. Spring 2004.

  The Malian sun creates a scorching, brutal heat, even here in the shade. Abby and I rest in the shade of a tree as Ho Ying, another student, shovels desert sand through a sieve. The shovel makes a jarring swoosh as it slides into the sand.

  “You’re doing great!” Abby calls to her. Ho Ying is a sophomore, like me, and attends school in San Francisco.

  It’s our second day in Kegne Village, in southern Mali. Mali is a landlocked country in West Africa and includes a portion of the Sahara Desert. The Malian Empire was a thriving center for mathematics, the arts, and trans-Saharan trade, until France colonized Mali in 1892. Mali regained its independence in 1960. The official language is still French, but Bambara is the most widely used language. Like most of Mali, Kegne Village is a predominantly Muslim agricultural community.

  Someone walks over to our tree. “Are you guys drinking your water?” It’s Simone. She’s a sophomore at a high school in Berkeley.