They look like the scrawny camp followers of a medieval army as they gather under a huge bluff called Dongordo. The earth is boiled beige, with hardly a blade of green. There are nearly 7,000 of them, and they began assembling here long before dawn. Dressed in ragged homespun cotton and wrapped in long shawls called netela, they come in entire families, grandfathers and grandchildren. The men hold herding sticks; the women carry babies bound to their backs with cloth. And then there are the youngsters, some of them naked and with their heads shaved except for a single tuft in front. They are strangely silent.
The multitude comes from two Ethiopian villages, Asbi and Habes, in the dusty, barren hills to the north. Some walked all day and all night across 31 miles of craggy terrain to reach this scorched patch just outside Wukro, a district capital in the province of Tigre. Once again a drought has cursed Tigre, and once again the hungry have come to receive food from relief workers. Family after family moves past the rough wood table to register for the donations. Each supplicant dips a finger in purple dye to ensure that there is no cheating for seconds. "It is worse this year than it was in 1984 and 1985," laments Chief Elder Muboulle Osman, a tall, worried-looking man of about 50. "There are 72,000 people in this area, and we have no food, not even grazing for our animals. Without this," he gestures toward a long, green tarpaulin piled high with wheat flour, beans and grain, "we would starve and die."
Before the families receive their ration of food, the children are examined by health workers. Their eyes are peered at; their skin is checked. The aides take measurements of each child. If he or she is too small, it can be a sign of chronic malnourishment. Danish Nutritionist Birthe Pedersen, who works for the International Committee of the Red Cross, is measuring an eight-year-old boy. The upper part of his sticklike arm is 9.8 cm around; a normal child's arm is about 15 cm. After the boy walks away, Pedersen looks grim. "He will not live very long," she says.
Three years ago, a famine began to strike Ethiopia with apocalyptic force. Westerners watched in horror as the images of death filled their TV screens: the rows of fly-haunted corpses, the skeletal orphans crouched in pain, the villagers desperately scrambling for bags of grain dropped from the sky. What started out as a trickle of aid turned into a billion-dollar flood. The U.S., the largest donor, sent $500 million, and that does not include millions in private contributions. Irish Rocker Bob Geldof enlisted the help of his fellow musicians, dubbed his crusade Band Aid and raised $140 million. The rescue effort was plagued by delays and controversy, and some 1 million Ethiopians eventually died. But more would have perished if the world had not responded so generously.