Guitar Lessons

There is young boy in the compound who has waited with his sister almost three years now. He was hopeful at first. He believed. Now – now he sits every day on a broken post at the edge of the soccer square. His faces creases in thought: his brow furrowed, jaw jutting. Right there on the post he might as well be a million miles away. The hurt of waiting, the burden of questions – they sit on his thin shoulders like the earth on Atlas. This agitated moodiness overcomes him in the afternoons while he waits for his turn to play soccer. It’s written in his eyes, “Why? Why am I still here?” Gifted exceedingly in academics, this child caught my attention in the first few days during a class when I asked the students to write a few sentences about the place they loved most. Walking from computer screen to computer screen I paused the longest at his work station, captivated by the three simple, but softly poetic lines he had written about a tree. English is far from his first language (it’s his third or fourth I believe) and yet he had a better mastery than many native speakers.

My goal during my time here at Layla is to connect and build a relationship with each of the 64 children above the KG level. So far, very good. But this one little boy…he was, as I have so said, very, very far away. Attempts at conversation quickly died with one word responses or no response at all. Then on Wednesday evening I was walking by the compound around 7:00pm. Having left the compound only two hours before, I still felt an overwhelming sense of separation. I missed them, so I went back in, just in time to join the end of the soccer game and then go with them for prayers. Crowded on woven mats, the children took turns leading the prayers which they interspersed with Amharic spiritual music. Trundling some of the littlest ones off to bed, I began as I often do to sing a song.

It seems there is always a song on my mind if not on my lips as well. It was then that it came to me: does anyone sing them lullabies? Does anyone read them bedtime stories? So from room to room I went as the children settled into their bunks, singing lullabies and hymns as I remembered them, and distributing goodnight hugs and kisses. Even the older children settled back amiably for the songs. There were four youngsters in particular though, who followed me into every room, curling up in my lap, humming along. To the cries for “More! More!” I answered that on Saturday night I would bring the guitar and sing to them properly! It was then that I saw the young boy’s eyes open – at the word
guitar.

The next afternoon I observed him studying my practice as I searched for and rehearsed a few songs. Then yesterday he came to me. “Barbara, you teach me guitar? You teach me play?” As someone who can only fumble through a series of chords (primarly G, D, C, and Em) I perhaps should have said I couldn’t. But I saw the light in his eyes. I saw the anticipation, the earnest desire. So I said yes. Down came the little Luna for Z____’s first lesson. I played a chord, then gave him the guitar to try. Back and forth for 45 minutes we passed the small guitar until he had comfortably managed to sort his way through a few cycles of Em, C, G. It’s only been one day, but I’ve already seen him begin to open up, like a flower trying to decide
whether or not to face the sun. He asked for another lesson which I promised for tomorrow (Saturday). Music is opening him. He flashed one of his rare smiles and even attempted to crack a joke during practice.

The child with the guitar in his hands is not internally the same boy who sits on the broken post all afternoon. With the warm hum of the strings, an avenue inside opens up and a more comfortable, relaxed character comes out. One need not be a master to be a teacher. Patience and caring is one way to begin. If I can see even one child begin to find peace and hope through the sounds of the little guitar, that one accomplishment is enough to show me that I have spent at least some of my time
wisely and purposefully. It’s more valuable than any purchasable item. Hope cannot be bought and sold. Healing is not found in stores. Love is only available from person to person. You cannot have these things on your own.