This post is part of a series on the cause of orphan care, adoption and social change that I hope to make you as passionate about as I am. You may want to start from the beginning if you’re just joining us.

We met our little girl for the first time on Christmas morning, and several days later, it was time to head into the southern part of Ethiopia to see where she was born, tour our agency’s operations there, and meet her birth mother. Except for Christmas morning, it was the highlight of our time in Africa.
Our motorcade consisted of three white vans, each seating about 10 people. Included in our traveling party were ten sets of adoptive parents. Three excited new siblings. A new grandmother. A passionate social worker. Several Holt Ethiopia staff members, including their development director Tesfaye. And our three drivers, native Ethiopians, led by a great fellow named Tsegaw.
Southern Ethiopia – at least the part we had the chance to see – isn’t the way you picture it from the movies. We saw nothing but beautiful rolling hills. Lots of little villages along the main highway. And more than a few small herds of cows or lines of donkeys, tempting fate by crossing the road while leaving small gaps for the vans to whisk through.
A caravan of “ferange” (foreigners) is a sight to behold, and the people we saw along the road all smiled and waved as we passed. When we would stop, the call would go out, children would come running and we’d be surrounded within moments – giving and receiving high fives, and taking photos of each child and showing them their picture on the digital camera screen. That always resulted in wild laughter.
At one stop in a small town called Butajirra, we parked and went inside a hotel to use the restrooms, and drink some Coca-Cola. A few of us wandered out on the balcony overlooking the main street, and quickly found ourselves waving at the kids passing by.
Two boys with a wheelbarrow carrying a third came to a stop, and all three came bounding up the stairs to the hotel balcony, the two oldest smiling and waving the entire time.

Achiro (middle) reached me first, and stuck out his hand. He spoke some English, which he proudly told me he was learning in school. He had no shoes, but no complaints, either. He introduced me to his brothers, Yusuf (left) and Kalu (right – clearly the skeptic of the three). The three boys were headed to the other end of the village with the wheelbarrow, to pick up some old vegetables for the family cow.
They lived in a small shanty on the north end of town. Judging from the looks of all the other shanties he pointed out to, theirs likely had a TV antenna sticking up out of the roof as their only link back to the rest of the world.
We conversed for a few minutes, and then he smiled and said he had to go – his mother and father were expecting him back to feed the cow. And with that, the three boys shook our hands and took off. We saw them again about ten minutes later, headed back with a wheelbarrow full of corn cobs and rotting greens.
Achiro, Yusuf and Kalu were some of the fortunate ones – they had parents who loved them, were raising them, were sacrificing to get them a basic education, and working to build a better life. As I watched them disappear down the muddy street, I couldn’t help but think of the other kids I was seeing on that street who weren’t as fortunate – most of them focused on begging for a few birr to buy some bread.
In other words, picture three young boys, who lived in a one-room dirt or concrete-floor shanty with a tin roof, and whose family income likely depended on a single cow that was fed rotten vegetables – you’ve just seen the typical middle class Ethiopian family.
One thing was patently obvious: it takes very little misfortune for a family to fall from the middle class to complete destitution. One illness, bad storm, death or tip of the wheelbarrow could be the difference. No savings account, no credit card, no emergency room, no safety net. These families live in the danger zone. Being middle class in the third world is a fragile thing.
The thing is, for every Achiro that exists in the developing world, there are about 9 kids living in deep and desperate poverty – ravaged by hunger, lacking clean water, wracked by diseases conquered elsewhere and exploited by corruption, violence or human trafficking. 145 million of those kids don’t have parents who are able to care for them. And every 18 seconds, another child joins their ranks.
It’s what led Africa to be called “a continent of orphans.”
I’m convinced that we will not change this reality unless we attack the problem at three separate points (I alluded to them in my first post).
Yes, we should adopt the precious kids whose birth parents are unable to care for them, and love them enough to make an adoption plan for them.
Yes, we must engage in caring for orphans worldwide, who are hanging in the balance between adoption or being reunited with their birth families.
But if we’re truly going to solve this problem, we’ve got to stop millions of these kids from becoming orphans in the first place.And you do that by helping families stay intact – either by giving them the tools to lift themselves out of poverty, or by helping them put some distance between themselves and the danger zone.
So let’s talk about poverty. I hope you’ll keep reading.
Next Post: Why Developing World Poverty Exists…and Persists
Photo Credit: Aaron and Cacey Klein in Ethiopia