Over the weekend, I was thinking a lot about Ethiopian mothers. Raised by one, an amazingly strong women I have to add, I know the struggle and the pain they go through. Dealing with the day-to-day struggle of life while staying sane to make sure we all get to the place they only wish about.  For most of them, at least when I was growing up, there is no advocate that pleads their case. So they face what ever life throws at them. If the economy gets bad, which always do, they work extra hard to put food on the table. If the government ask for the hand of their child to go fight, they hide their kids and risk being imprisoned. (that actually happened when I was in my teens, luckily I didn’t get snatched from home and sent to war, but i know a lot of others). If a deadly disease destroyed their neighborhood, like HIV,  they care for the sick. If one of them lost the battle they comfort each other. They do all of these while keeping their cool and march quietly

That is why I always look at their face and see pain, struggle, strength, sorrow, and all the other adjectives you can associate with it. Sometimes my words do not explain what is in my mind, so I try to capture it with my brush.

I showed the painting to my daughter (four years old) and she called it “Emama”….truthfully that is what I call my mom and my daughter have no idea about it because  her grandma died 15 years ago.

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