Who is Tesfaye?

Anywhere in the world, government offices are scary places.  Like a haunted house where around each corner a new fiendish problem is undoubtedly lurking! Here in Ethiopia, the problem is often related to all kinds of confusion. I, Travis, had the privilege of entering this maze of confusion as I pursued Micah’s birth certificate. Sure, we have the one from the hospital, hand-written on card stock, but in order to get Micah’s passport at the American embassy, we need an official civil birth certificate. So, some of our friends (whose little girl was born here 5 years ago) told us to go to the city hall - “the process is really easy, everybody there is just excited that you chose to give birth in Ethiopia.” However, our balloon of optimism began to deflate when the door guard / information guy told us that the birth certificates are no longer done here but instead we needed to go to Addis Gebeya (a place we’d never heard of). When we clearly showed that we didn’t know that area of town, the guard recruited a guy standing nearby to ride with us and to show us the building (that was REALLY NICE!).

 

When we arrived, our guide jumped out of the car and talked with a man outside the compound (having his shoes shined by a local boy). Quickly, our new friend returned to the car and said in Amharic “That guy works in there and he said that they don’t do it here anymore either, you need to go to your kebele office.” A kebele is the lowest level of government and our kebele office happens to be right in our neighborhood. When we arrived, we were waited on quickly, given forms to fill out, followed by clear instructions on what to do (all in Amharic, of course). “Make a copy of your passports.” “Ok, where?” “Outside.” Now, outside meant a whole lot of other unmarked doors in this government compound. So I just kept walking in the direction I was pointed, asking confirmation from every person I encountered. Finally, in the back, outside the compound gate, there was a little window in a concrete house, inside which I could see a few office supplies. Sure enough, tucked away in this tiny dark room was a copy machine with a young guy who apparently opened his own “Kinkos” next to the government compound, from which he receives consistent business. So, moments later, I proudly reentered the office where Andrea and Micah had waited. The lady at the counter looked at me inquisitively “Klaser yet new?” (Do you have a “Klaser”?) Now, I had noticed that everybody except me had this large sheet of purple construction paper which was folded in half and used as a file folder, so I pointed at one and said “Klaser?” and I saw a nod of affirmation. “Do I have to buy one?” Another nod, “Where?” “The photocopy place.” “Ok, it’s called a klaser? klaser, klaser klaser…” and I walked out of the room repeating the new word to myself (much to the amusement of all the people in the room). I returned to the man in the little dark room and simply said “klaser?” hoping that he knew what I was talking about and sure enough he grabbed a beautiful piece of purple construction paper for which I forfeited 1 birr (that about 8 cents). Klaser in hand, and even more puffed up at my success, I marched back into the office where Micah’s file was soon born!

 

Now, the process from this point on should have been very easy. The nice lady takes our form, enters the information into the computer program which nicely lays out the birth certificate, prints it, attaches pictures and stamps it a bunch of times – done! However, nothing should ever happen that simply! In this case, there was one problem, but it lay in two places: the inflexibility of the computer program, and the confusion of the Ethiopian workers (who had never processed a foreign baby’s birth certificate before this day). You see, in Ethiopia, a baby is called by their given name, their father’s name and the name of their grandfather. So, Micah was supposed to be Micah Travis Gary and I would be Travis Gary Jack. Ethiopians have a hard time understanding the concept of a family name (like Williamson) even though most of the world does it that way. So when I say that my name is Travis Todd Williamson, they assume my father’s name is Todd and my grandpa is Williamson.

 

So the conversation went around and around like this: “You are the father, what is your name?” “Travis” “Ok, so who is Tesfaye?” “That’s the baby’s name, Micah Tesfaye” “Ok, so, Tesfaye Travis Williamson” “No, Micah Tesfaye Williamson.” “Who is Tesfaye?” “Micah Tesfaye is the baby’s name. In our culture we give two names.” “A baby cannot have two names, only one! The baby’s second name is the father’s name. You are the father, so what is your name?” Now, these things can be explained to people, who eventually will understand at some level, but computer programs can’t be convinced so easily (except by programmers, of which they had none). So, when the nice lady correctly entered Micah’s name on the birth certificate Micah Tesfaye Williamson, the wonderful program automatically put the Father’s name as Tesfaye Williamson. When she went down and changed the father’s name to Travis, then Micah’s middle name also changed to Travis. The inability to override this convenient feature led to hours of fun. When quitting time came that evening, they printed off a birth certificate for Micah Travis Williamson and sent us on our way.

 

I laid awake in bed for several hours, sad about Micah’s name change, the loss of his beautiful middle name and knowing that everything (passport, social security, resident ID) would be based on this birth certificate alone. We didn’t want it that way. So, the next morning, I swallowed my fears and marched back into the kebele office for a correction. To make an already long story a bit shorter, I spent 5 more hours, being sent to two other offices in different parts of the city and then back to the original kebele office I started in. The computer program was not going to budge and yet the father’s name needed to be correct on the birth certificate. So, we compromised in making the baby’s first name “Micah Tesfaye”; middle/father’s name “Travis”; last/grandfather’s name “Williamson.” That way the “Travis” and the “Williamson” dropped nicely into the father’s name slot on the birth certificate. So, unless another problem awaits us between here and the American embassy, our baby will soon be registered as Micah Tesfaye Travis Williamson. Now that’s a mouthful.