by: Deborah Roberts
ABCNEWS Correspondent, 20/20

I have always welcomed new experiences. It is one of the true joys of my job as a journalist. Over the years I have taken some amazing journeys: to Kuwait, to cover the Persian Gulf War. To Barcelona, reporting on the Summer Olympics. To rural Ohio, investigating shocking claims of sexual abuse within the Amish community. Each assignment has resonated with me in its on way.

But it was my recent sojourn to Ethiopia which has had the most profound impact on me as an individual. Who knew that this whirlwind assignment would leave such a lasting memory?

It began unexpectedly as so many of my assignments do, with a late night phone call. On the other end was Meredith White, a senior producer at 20/20 with a frantic, direct question. What was I doing tomorrow, and did I have any interest in catching the next plane to Africa for a promising but uncertain story. What? Africa, tomorrow?
It turns out that someone on our staff had stumbled upon an intriguing story. An American woman of Ethiopian heritage who had overcome an unimaginable disability was travelling back to Africa in search of the mother who'd abandoned her as a child. The woman, described as quite beautiful and accomplished, had lost both legs in a terrible accident as an infant and had been raised by missionaries in Ethiopia. Now, three decades later, she was a mother of three in Seattle.

It had all the markings of a heartwarming, dramatic story.

The next day, I was bound for Addis Ababa to catch up with Lydia Assefa, who was in the throes of a nerve-wracking moment of discovery. What I couldn't know is that this trip would also come to represent a defining moment for myself. I had visited Africa just a year before while covering a story on post-war atrocities in Rwanda. It was a heartbreaking assignment. This one, thankfully, was filled with joy and hope.

From the moment I stepped off the plane, I had a visceral feeling that this was no ordinary assignment. As I looked into the dark, warm faces of the handlers who were to pick me up, it was as though I had stepped back into my old close-knit neighborhood in tiny Perry, Georgia. Though I was halfway around the world, and listening to an undiscernible language, something felt eerily familiar.

The next morning, my crew and I met Lydia and her husband Troy and boarded a small plane with them to embark on an uncertain journey to an unknown village, with the hopes of finding her mother. The beauty and wonder of this story were already unfolding. The plane was being piloted by Solomon Gizaw, an old friend Lydia met in America. He'd recently returned with his family to settle in his beloved Ethiopia. A handsome man with a bright warm smile, Solomon was so touched by his friend's desperate longing to connect with her roots that he dropped everything to transport her to the remote village where she believed her mother still lived. Solomon's unselfish gesture was remarkable.

As we touched down on the remote, grassy landing strip that would lead to the village, the smell of fresh earth hung in the air. I set about my duties as a reporter, interviewing Lydia and gathering information on our whereabouts. But even as I worked, I was struck by the engaging, beautiful faces of the curious children who began to swarm around us, fixated on our every move. Usually I have no trouble distancing myself from my surroundings as I go about my job, but this time something was different. The beautiful smiling faces I stared into looked so familiar. Again, I was momentarily transported to my rural childhood home.

Our assignment quickly took on dramatic twists. First, we had to take another arduous journey to a nearby guest house where Solomon had arranged for us to interview Lydia's mother. It would be difficult. The dirt roads were designed for foot traffic only. The ride in a rickety pickup truck offered to us by a villager was bumpy and long.

When we arrived, we were greeted by a smallish woman with a broad smile who showed us into a spare cement house. It was simple and clean. She pointed to an outhouse indicating the facility for us to relieve ourselves. I was touched by the charm of the rustic surroundings and the warmth of the people.

For hours we waited, until finally, just after darkness had settled, Lydia's mother arrived. It took hours for Solomon and our camera to make it to her tiny village just a few miles down the bumpy, jagged road. As the tiny woman, draped in a headwrap, made her way into the candlelit house, heavy emotion filled the room. She buried her long lost daughter in breathless hugs and kisses. Some of us wept at this amazing scene of incredible love.

After conducting an interview with mother and daughter, we realized that we would camp overnight with all who filled the room. It was too dangerous to attempt a flight in the darkened village. In other settings I might have felt some anxiety over the situation. Being stranded in the middle of nowhere isn't exactly desirable. But I was completely at ease, somehow comforted in this home surrounded by the loving, nurturing spirits of my newfound African friends. As we all shared in the spicy lamb stew and the native bread, again I was flooded with vivid memories of my childhood home thousands of miles away, the scene in this small, crowded house in Africa reminiscent of my loving home jammed with relatives sitting around the kitchen table.

For years I had viewed Africa, like so many American Blacks, as a distant place. The people and their experiences, I felt, were in no way connected to me. But on this night, something changed. Spiritually, I recognized that we were all one. The Ethiopians sitting next to me, warmly gazing into my unfamiliar face, were as much a part of me as my own family. We shared more than skin color. We shared a common heritage. I knew that this was no longer just another assignment. I was truly at home.

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