Chapter 9
Mom

After Friday night dinner I met up with Naama and Adi, and it was just like old times. They were really impressed that I had traveled all the way by myself on the bus. They promised to come to Herzliya together soon for a sleepover in my new room. I didn’t tell them about the trouble with the kids at school, but their friendship gave me strength.

On Sunday morning I returned home by bus.

“I don’t want you traveling on Saturday night. I’ll meet you at the Tel Aviv bus station at 10,” Ima said on the phone. I was afraid she would be really angry with me, but she just sounded resigned. I wondered if I would be in big trouble when I got back.

When the bus stopped in Tiberias, I remembered Dekel, the friendly soldier, and looked for him as the new passengers boarded, but of course, he wasn’t there. All the way home I gazed out the window at the beautiful scenery, thinking about my weekend in Katzrin. It felt so much longer than just a weekend. For the first time in ages, I actually felt okay about going back to school. I knew what I had to do. Grandma’s story, like magic, had paved the way forward.

When I got off the bus in Tel Aviv, I looked around for the bus stop to Herzliya. There were Abba and Ima waiting for me—Abba with his sling, Ima tall and beautiful. Their eyes lit up when they spotted me, and I flew into their arms. They both hugged me tight. “Thank God,” Ima murmured. When I saw her smile, I knew she wasn’t angry anymore. Abba had to leave us to go to a meeting, so we said goodbye, and I walked with Ima.

At the corner we stopped at a local bakery. To my surprise Ima sat down at a table outside and motioned for me to join her. “Don’t you have to be at work?” I asked.

“I’m having coffee with my daughter,” she replied.

I smiled. As I sipped my chocolate milk, I wondered what she would say if I told her about the kids at school. I wondered what she would say if I told her that I knew that it wasn’t so simple for her at work either. Now that I wasn’t so angry anymore, I could see how much she loved me and how keeping the secret of my miserable school life for so many weeks had somehow changed things between us.

“Ima,” I said casually, “do you have any pictures of Ethiopia?”

She looked up at me, and her face lit up as she replied, “Of course I do. I didn’t think you were interested in Ethiopia. I’ll show you when we get home.”

• • •

At home, she opened her computer and showed me her presentation about Ethiopia and where the new immigrants had come from. I was stunned. It was such a beautiful place!

“Ima! All these green pastures and hills, the cattle and sheep grazing, the children playing . . . it looks lovely!”

Ima smiled at me. “And here is the Fasilides Castle, and this is the market in Gonder. Look at all those colorful woven baskets and all the different herbs . . .” She sighed. “You see, Meskerem, one of the problems is that people often assume things based on appearances.”

I said quickly, “Like if you’re black, you’re an interpreter and not an expert in early childhood education?”

Ima looked stunned. “How did you know?”

“I heard you talking to Abba.” I lowered my eyes. “The kids at school thought I was a new immigrant,” I mumbled.

Ima nodded, understanding. “There’s nothing wrong with being an interpreter or a new immigrant. It hurts when people think they know you because of how you look. The only way to overcome this is to let people know who you really are.”

That first day at school came back to me: all the kids staring at me and shouting. As if she had read my thoughts, Ima said softly, “There’s no escaping people’s responses to our skin color. A lot of people feel uncomfortable or even afraid when they see someone who’s different. That’s why the children at your school were unfriendly to you.”

I let her words soak in. These last few months I’d been so wrapped up in my own private world, sure that nobody could understand me, especially not my mom, and yet she was the one who would have understood me the most. I got up and hugged her. “I’m sorry, Ima.”

“What for?”

I hung my head. “I didn’t want the other kids to know where you came from,” I confessed.

“My dear Meskerem, we have nothing to be ashamed of.” She stroked my braids. Her face was serious as she stared into my eyes. At that moment I felt very close to her. “If you know for sure who you are, nobody else can determine that for you, and it doesn’t matter what ugly words they use. Always remember that, because you are a lovely, special girl, and there is no reason on earth for you to feel less than anybody else.”

“Ima,” I blurted, relieved that she wasn’t angry with me, “tell me about growing up. I’m getting a pen and paper. I want to write everything down.”

I had already heard a lot about growing up in Ethiopia from Grandma, but my mom never spoke about her childhood. I only knew that she used to dream of her mother and, waking up at night alone in the dark, she would creep into her grandmother’s bed and cry herself to sleep. But I never knew about her life and how she spent her days before she arrived here.

I sat beside my mom as she described the people and places of her childhood. For two hours, I listened and wrote. I regretted never asking these questions before, and I was ashamed at never taking an interest in Ima’s childhood. Maybe if I had known what she had gone through, it would have helped me to understand her better.

“In the years that I was separated from my parents,” Ima was saying, “there was no contact between us: no letters, no phone calls. I didn’t even know if they were alive or if they had reached Israel . . . I wondered if they had a new family and had forgotten about me. Later, I discovered that my mom had written many letters that never reached our village.”

“How did you get to Israel?”

“Your great-grandmother was a very kind and generous woman. I will never forget her. But the trip was too hard, and she was old, so she refused to come. I traveled with my uncle Tegavu, but when the opportunity arose he sent me ahead to Israel on a plane with a group of children.”

“By yourself?!” I couldn’t even imagine it. I had felt grown up just traveling to Katzrin. Suddenly, it was clear to me why my mom had always found it so hard to part from me or even let me out of her sight. “So what happened when you got here?” I asked, curious. “How did you find Grandma?”

“When I arrived, I was all alone. All of us kids were placed in temporary housing together while they looked for our families. It was so strange. People were speaking Hebrew, which I didn’t understand, wearing different clothes, and there was so much food! Things I had never tasted before, like ice cream—I couldn’t get enough of it!” Ima continued. “But the officials couldn’t find my parents on their lists. Since I was only nine, I needed to enroll in school. One of them said they should just send me to boarding school and not to bother looking anymore, that my parents probably didn’t make it over. Luckily, the interpreter refused to give up, and he insisted on going over the lists again and again, looking for my parents’ names. He kept asking me questions, like if they had any other names or if I could be more specific about the exact date they left Ethiopia.

“It took a long time. I prayed with all my being that I would find my parents. I’ll never forget that moment when the translator walked over with a big smile on his face, looked me right in the eyes and said, ‘I think I found your mother.’

“I was so happy, I didn’t even ask where my father was; I just assumed they were together. The officials sent me by taxi all the way to Katzrin from Ashkelon. I thought the journey would never end! When we reached Katzrin, my mother was waiting for me on the swing beside her house, the same swing that you and she sit on together and talk. I ran out of the taxi and fell into her arms, and we both cried and cried.”

My mom was quiet. “Later, she told me my father didn’t make it.” She stood up. “I’ll be right back,” she said and left the room. She returned a minute later, holding a small box, which she handed to me. “Meskerem, this was your grandpa’s. It’s the only possession of his we have left. Grandma gave it to me, but I want you to have it.”

“What is it?”

“Open it and see.”

I opened the box carefully. Inside was a small Star of David on a chain. The Magen David was made of real gold.

“Grandpa could not wear the star in Ethiopia because it was too dangerous to be openly Jewish,” Ima explained. “He kept it in his pocket and said that when he reached Israel, he would wear it with pride.”

I took the necklace out and put it on. It made me feel connected to Grandpa and to both Ethiopia and Israel. “I will wear this with pride,” I said. “I promise.”

• • •

It was almost midnight when I finally finished my project. The next day, when I got up, I went straight to the living room table to see my family tree. It was ready. Each family name had a picture beneath. Shades of white, brown, and everything in between. Flowers, branches, trees, and roots. Grandparents, uncles, cousins.

“Wow, amazing!” Lemlem said admiringly.

“Come, wash up and come and have breakfast.” My mom hurried us along.

I followed her into the kitchen. “Ima, I can’t eat. My stomach hurts.” I complained. She turned toward me. “You’ll be fine,” she said reassuringly. “I’ll help you roll up the tree.”