French Toast Breakfast

We ran into one of the officials from the local government office on Tuesday at the airstrip when Bryan and Mama Dona flew home. Seeing our happy reunion, and no doubt considering the Eid celebrations ahead, the official told us not to worry about registering Mama Dona officially at his office that week. “I’ll just come by the house to get her name and paperwork tomorrow,” he said and waved us off.

He popped in the next morning as we were finishing up a jet-lagged breakfast amidst the detritus of new clothing tags and stray Starburst wrappers. As Bryan went to fetch her travel documents (“legal” travel here is still carried out under a rebel movement stamp of approval), Mama Dona welcomed our government official friend to a plate of French toast and a cup of tea, her big Southern hospitality both jutting oddly out of place and yet simultaneously melting in perfectly. As the official carefully worked the sticky slices onto his fork my mother-in-law began to ask him questions. What is your name? Where is your home? What is your language? How many languages do you speak? Her happy curiosity about this new part of the world spilled out in an eagerness to learn as much as she could all before breakfast was over. Each question was answered concisely in concentrated English, though often accompanied with a subtle smile. At one point, after lamenting the fact that her babies have chosen to live so far away, Mama Dona patted Bryan’s hand lovingly and pointedly asked our guest, “Now where does your mother live?” The official swallowed the bite in his mouth and then answered matter-of-factly, “My mother was shot during the war when all of our people were trying to run across the border.” Bryan and I exchanged glances while Mama Dona took this new information in. “Oh. And how old were you when this happened?”
“I was eleven.”

“I…I’m so very, very sorry.”

There was a moment’s silence and then Bryan explained that our guest had spent almost twenty years in a refugee camp and had only returned to his childhood home a few years ago, when the peace agreement was signed. “But I was very lucky.” Our guest went on casually, wiping his face with a napkin and giving the travel documents a cursory glance. “I learned English there and received an education. Now I have this job.”

Bryan eventually walked our guest back out to his motorcycle at the gate and I begin stacking up syrupy plates. Mama Dona stayed sitting in her chair at the table and then said in a voice as monotone as the departing official’s, “Okay, I am going to have a good cry now.” She then picked up a paper napkin, delicately unfolded it, put it to her face and began to sob. I put down the dishes I was holding and wrapped my arms around her, a few of my own tears sliding into her silver blond hair. Through her fingers I heard a mumbled “Oh God why? He was only eleven…” and then later, “I knew this happened. We all knew it was happening but it was so far away.”

We sat like that for a while. And I watched as many of the emotions I have experienced in the past year and a half – the guilt and grief and gratitude – all bound themselves up in one conversation, one face, and one story all around my table in one morning over breakfast.