Straw huts

Dirt floors

Wooden beds

Smoke

From the fire

Filling the room

A small village

In Ethiopia.

Sunburnt children

Dust caking them

Like a second skin

Flies crawling

Nesting

Roosting

All over them.

Ruth

The name of a girl

Amongst these children

Me.

For all the twelve years

Of my being

I have believed

That education

Is the key to life,

The separation,

The dividing line,

Between ones who wonder

What dinner will be

And ones who wonder

If there will be

Any dinner.

Between ones who contemplate

On what they should wear

To go to the mall

And ones who wear

The same dusty

Fraying shirt

Each day.

Between ones

Who take education for granted

And ones who dream of it

Like a wonderful fantasy

Or fairy-tale

They may never experience.

Education.

Like a gemstone —

Finely faceted

Yet just

Out of my grasp

So close

Yet so far

As if — if I reached

I would barely touch it.

But I am reaching.

For I am caught

In an everlasting shackle

Of labor

To gather bare necessities

All day, every day

Going from tears, to sweat,

To a sense of routine

To help support

My family.

How I wish

I could break out of that shackle

Of endless labor

How I dream

I could be like

The other kids

And go to school each day

How I long

I had the time

That precious, fleeting time

To even try

To teach myself

The wonders

Others learn

At school.

But here I am.

Sweating hard to make money

Off the abundant flow

Of tourists

Who travel from all over

To admire

Our famed rock-hewn churches,

The moment

The sound of cameras clicking

Reaches my ears

My heart starts thumping

My nerves start tingling

And my legs start churning

So fast

That the dust

Long engraved

Into my skin

Is whipped off them.

In a few moments

I find myself

Yelling through

The mob

Trinkets in hand

Swarming tourists

For a few extra coins.

Their laughter

Is my dream for a pencil.

Their awe

Is my dream for paper.

Their photos of me

Is my dream for textbooks.

Their joy

Is my dream of a bright

And literate future.

When the sightseers

Are long gone

The sun

Long since sunk below the horizon

I stop and ponder

For a minute.

If I were

One of the tourists

Passing by

With my camera,

Would I notice the little girl

With her dream?

What would I think?

What would I say?

What would I do?