Feeding the Homeless

One of the things that appealed to me about this particular volunteer opportunity was the diversity: three times a week I’m teaching in the classroom at the Mercy Ministry Home and twice a week I travel into Addis Ababa to feed the homeless at the Hope Feeding Center on Churchill Street.

This was my first impression when I arrived at the feeding center; men in a jumbled line that disappears down the hill between shanty houses. They wait all morning for the single meal the center serves at noon each day. This center is for men, although on the first day I did see a few women, but in retrospect, I believe they were all blind. The better-dressed women to the right work are Ethiopians who work (volunteer?) at the center. You’ll see all of my photos at the feeding center suffer for respect of the subjects:

First job at the center is to fold the injera (in-JEER-a), a sour bread that looks like the underside of a mushroom. Every person gets one piece, which we've folded in half and then thirds to make a triangle; apparently the folding technique is important as I was retaught twice. The injera is then placed on a plastic plate and a stack of 5 plates is delivered to the table to be passed out the window to patrons:

Patrons also receive a bean soup. The injera and the soup are apparently cooked off-site and brought to the center, the soup in these large barrels. Orange buckets are filled with soup and brought to the dining area to be ladled into the bowl with injera. Everyone gets 2 ladlesful, even if they ask for more. Several men have been insistent that the ladle be filled to the brim and a few showed their disgust if any spilled out of the ladle on its way to their bowl:

As I said, I’m not very comfortable taking photos of the patrons. Below aren’t very good representations of the energy and eagerness that fills this room, as I had more courage to snap a shot when there were fewer people there:

Organizers allow enough men in to fill all of the concrete tables. They’re herded like cattle a bit … orders are barked to move to the end of the table and to slide closer together to allow for more to be served. Once seated, we’re allowed to begin serving soup. I like serving the soup—although it’s pretty messy—because the men are generally polite and respectful. I thank each of them after I’ve served them and smile. They typically smile back, although a few seem ashamed or perhaps just sad. Most are grateful.

            The only thing I don’t like about serving is when I don’t get a place at the end of a table. The tables are very long and one bucket can only accommodate half of the table length. Consequently, one soup-server needs to situation herself in the middle of the table and lean over people to serve. The concrete floors become slippery with spilled soup and it’s difficult to lean across the concrete bench with a heavy bucket and ladle soup without spilling. Seating is tight, so it’s impossible to avoid bumping along people’s backs as you take your position. Further, you have to split two closely seated men to fashion a serving station: this sometimes takes convincing, impatient prodding by others, and inconveniencing people at best. And the worst part: these men are filthy. They smell. They likely haven’t bathed in weeks or months or maybe ever … seriously. Many are blind or deaf or deformed. Many are mentally challenged. And many carry all their belongings on them in a plastic bag and are wearing several layers of torn, filthy clothing, no doubt all they own. I’m conscious of fleas and lice. Still, I thank each and smile and communicate to those who wish and are able.

            I like doing this a lot, but I admit that I prefer serving from the end of the table.

On my first day, I estimated that we fed approximately 500 people in 5 shifts of 100 in an hour and a half. There were some children—maybe 75 of the 500.
One other thing that sticks with me that I haven’t had the courage to represent in a photo: A good number of men bring a plastic grocery bag along; whatever they don’t finish, they pour into the bag to eat later. Sometimes one man will give another his leftovers to add to the plastic bag. At the dish window, leftovers are knocked into a slop bucket; it’s common for men to come to the window to help themselves from the community slop bucket to fill their bag for a meal later in the day.

Most men stop to wash before the leave the center:

Dishes are “washed” in a basin of water and reused throughout the meal. Other Westerners in any photos are generally other volunteers and all I've met so far are Christian missionaries: