An Ocean Apart

    I’ve always known I was adopted. My parents told me the story when I was small. My birth mother had died when I was a baby, and my birth father couldn’t take care of me on his own. So he made a hard choice: He brought me to an orphanage. Then my parents got matched with me.

    When I was 8, my mom got some surprising news. She had managed to track down my birth father. He sent her a message saying that he hoped I was doing well, and that my twin brother Mitiku was healthy.

    Wait . . . what?

    We had no idea I had a twin. I wanted to meet him right away. So my mom started planning a trip to Ethiopia.

    I’ve always known I was adopted. My parents told me the story when I was small. My birth mother had died when I was a baby, and my birth father couldn’t take care of me on his own. So he made a hard choice: He brought me to an orphanage. Then my parents got matched with me.

    When I was 8, my mom got surprising news. She had found my birth father. He sent her a message saying that he hoped I was doing well, and that my twin brother Mitiku was healthy.

    Wait . . . what?

    We didn’t know I had a twin. I wanted to meet him. So my mom planned a trip to Ethiopia.

    I’ve always known I was adopted. My parents told me the story when I was small: how my birth mother had died when I was a baby, and how my birth father couldn’t take care of me on his own. Although doing so was sad and difficult, my birth father brought me to an orphanage. Then my parents got matched with me.

    When I was 8, my mom received some astonishing news. She had managed to track down my birth father. He sent her a message saying that he hoped I was doing well, and that my twin brother Mitiku was healthy.

    Wait . . . what?

    We had never heard anything about a twin. I wanted to meet him right away, so my mom started planning a trip to Ethiopia.

    I was nervous. What would it be like? The village where I was born, Shamo Boyo, is very isolated. At the time, there was no electricity, running water, post office, or phones. 

    When I saw my birth father, Ashoro, for the first time, he picked me up and hugged me tight. He and my mom were both crying, but he had a bright smile on his face. We don’t speak the same language, so we talked using a translator. 

    Then I saw him: Mitiku. Ashoro took both our hands and held them together. Mitiku was smaller than me. His eyes were curious, but he was shy. It felt so weird to see him. He was a stranger, but I also felt like I recognized him.

    The village where I was born is called Shamo Boyo. At the time, it had no electricity, running water, post office, or phones. I was nervous. What would it be like?

    I met my birth father, Ashoro. He hugged me tight. He and my mom cried, but he was smiling too. We don’t speak the same language, so we talked using a translator.

    Then I saw him: Mitiku. Ashoro took both our hands and held them together. Mitiku was smaller than me. He was curious but shy. It felt weird to see him. He was a stranger, but I felt like I knew him.

    I was nervous as I prepared to visit my birthplace. The village where I was born, Shamo Boyo, is very isolated. At the time, there was no electricity, running water, post office, or phones.

    When I saw my birth father, Ashoro, for the first time, he picked me up and hugged me tight. He and my mom were both crying, but he had a bright smile on his face. Because we don’t speak the same language, we communicated with the help of a translator.

    Then I saw Mitiku. Ashoro took both our hands and held them together. Mitiku was smaller than me. His eyes were curious, but he was shy. Seeing him felt weird, like I was meeting a stranger but also gazing at someone familiar.

    We got the full story of my first months of life from Ashoro. What I had heard was true—it just hadn’t included Mitiku. Our birth mother died shortly after having us. Mitiku was sickly, but I was doing well. So my birth mom’s parents took him to their village, where there was more food. Ashoro kept me with him.

    But then I became malnourished. Ashoro did what he had to do. He chose adoption so I could survive.

    Seeing Mitiku, it was obvious that our lives were very different. He didn’t go to school. He didn’t always have enough to eat. He was, however, surrounded by love. 

    I felt that love shine on me too. People who hadn’t seen me since I was a baby were kissing my cheeks and crying. 

    Ashoro told us about my first months of life. I knew some of it but not all. Our birth mother died soon after having us. Mitiku was sickly, but I was doing well. So my birth mom’s parents took him to their village, where there was more food. Ashoro kept me with him.

    But then I became malnourished. Ashoro did what he had to do. He chose adoption so I could survive.

    Mitiku’s life was not the same as mine. He didn’t go to school. He didn’t always have enough to eat. But he was surrounded by love.

    I felt that love shine on me too. People who hadn’t seen me since I was a baby were kissing my cheeks and crying. 

    Ashoro shared the complete story of my first months of life, which was pretty much what I had heard—except that I hadn’t known about Mitiku. Our birth mother died shortly after having us. Mitiku was sickly, but I was doing well. So my birth mother’s parents took Mitiku to their village, where there was more food, and I stayed with Ashoro.

    Then I became malnourished, and Ashoro was forced to give me up for adoption so that I could survive.

    Seeing Mitiku, it was obvious that our lives were very different: He didn’t go to school, and he didn’t always have enough to eat. He was, however, surrounded by love.

    I felt that love shining on me too, as people who hadn’t seen me since I was a baby kissed my cheeks and cried. 

    After we left, something kept weighing on my mind. The village school had more than a thousand students. But they didn’t have nearly enough books, desks, or teachers. 

    I wanted Mitiku and all the children in Shamo Boyo to have the chance to learn. So I started selling lemonade and bracelets to raise money, and my mom made a GoFundMe page. We found a nonprofit in Ethiopia to help us too. Over the past five years, we’ve raised $100,000 for Shamo Boyo. The nonprofit worked with the villagers to decide how to use the money. They built a library and stocked it with books. They also repaired the school, which now serves more students. 

    Today, the school at Shamo Boyo is one of the best in the area. Mitiku goes there. I wonder sometimes if we’re learning about the same things—just an ocean apart. 

    After we left, the village school stayed on my mind. It had more than 1,000 students. There weren’t enough books, desks, or teachers.

    I wanted Mitiku and all the kids in Shamo Boyo to have the chance to learn. I started selling lemonade and bracelets to raise money. My mom made a GoFundMe page. We found a nonprofit in Ethiopia to help us. Over the past five years, we’ve raised $100,000 for Shamo Boyo. The nonprofit worked with the villagers to decide how to use the money. They built a library. They repaired the school too. It now serves more students.

    Today, the school at Shamo Boyo is one of the best in the area. Mitiku goes there. I wonder sometimes if we’re learning about the same things—just an ocean apart. 

    After we left, something kept weighing on my mind. The village school had more than 1,000 students and nowhere near enough books, desks, or teachers.

    I wanted Mitiku and all the children in Shamo Boyo to have the opportunity to learn, so I started selling lemonade and bracelets to raise money. My mom made a GoFundMe page, and we found a nonprofit in Ethiopia to help us. Over the past five years, we’ve raised $100,000 for Shamo Boyo. The nonprofit worked with the villagers to decide how to use the money, and they built a library and stocked it with books. They also repaired the school, which now serves a greater number of students.

    Today the school at Shamo Boyo is one of the best in the area, and Mitiku is a student there. I wonder sometimes if we’re learning about the same things—just an ocean apart. •