Forgotten?

The shout comes up from the street below. “Big sister, are you ready?” Fatma and her daughters are here to be taken to hospital. The girls are cross-eyed and scheduled for surgery. Pilgrimage has brought me to this wee home in a forgotten neighborhood. My friend puts her shoes on and takes the three to the doctor. Having someone along who can read is important. Fatma never had that chance. She belongs to the people group who are allowed to collect trash, sell flowers, or be prostitutes. Their men folk can sometimes walk the streets with an accordion and make a few pennies with music, but women are left with fewer options. The small window onto the street gives a glimpse of the everyday. A woman hangs her wash out in time to catch the few rays of sun this narrow street will get. Her laundry line is slung between her window and that of her neighbor across the street. Creatively they pulley across, courageously hanging clean laundry in polluted air. Doves circle around, eyeing the colorful laundry for a landing spot. A young boy steps out on the neighboring balcony and they flock around him like a statue in a Roman fountain.

This simple act of life triggers hope. So many other stories fill this reality. A madam stands on the corner with hands on her hips belittling the prostitute crouching in the one ray of sunshine she’ll see today. Kids kick old soda bottles for lack of a ball. A toothless granny with signs of malnutrition talks ceaselessly in her doorway, repeating the same story. “Come in and have tea with me, I’m all alone, you don’t need to be shy, I have no one left.” Around her the many stray cats she’s collected hover expectantly.

Poverty is heavy and blinding. Alcohol sucks many of the hard earned wages away. Last year a neighbor began cutting herself, seeking suicide as a way out when she found she was pregnant. When the team came around her with love and compassion she came to herself and was able to hear them remind her that her children are beautiful and a blessing. Now the baby she lived to give birth to is the neighborhood treasure, passed from arm to arm and thriving on love.

A shepherd comes around the corner with a flock of sheep. I marvel that the animals find something to eat in the already carefully picked over trash pile. They meander through our midst with the same casual gait that one sees in a mountain setting. A few more turns and they’re gone. A careening taxi replaces them, scattering children and dogs. From another corner the vegetable vendor comes, pushing his cart laboriously up the steep hill. His melodious chant announces his arrival. Several ladies let baskets down from their balconies for him to fill.

The smell of frying onions comes from the neighboring balcony. The children’s play has shifted from the soda bottle to a rhyming game. The doves are cooing. Fatma’s daughter waves excitedly. When she comes home she will be able to see. Granny, her cats and I wave back. Yes, this neighborhood is forgotten by many, but the Good Shepherd has placed this team here. This afternoon the street children will be over for their daily arts and crafts. This evening the mother and babe will be here with the rest of their clan. They will gather by lantern around the Good Book and Granny will be over for tea. Forgotten by some, but not by the love of their Creator and those who follow Him where He leads.