The slip of paper read. I stared bewildered. How am I supposed to respond to that?
What was it really like?
It was like watching myself grow old. Students who had never been to a proper school before, wearing hand-me-down khakis, grew to become young men and women. Babies were born and died. Goats were born and killed. Girls became mothers. Boys became farmers and carpenters. Old women stopped going to the fields and stayed home to watch growing numbers of children crawl in the spaces between legs, pots and mudwalls. I saw new buildings, new enterprise and growth. I saw displacement, decay and neglect.
What was it really like?
It was like watching Sisyphus toil for two years. Tears well up in my eyes when I think about the quiet afternoons shelling sesame seeds with Mama at the storefront, listening to her loud, percussive lectures in Fon. She gets up, stirs something in a pot with one hand, shoos a goat with the other, serves a customer, gives change to a child, hails a passing motorcycle all with the other other hand which has yet to reveal itself. She won't sit again until it is night, and her grown children have scrubbed the blackened rice pots. Women walk by with enormous logs on their heads shouting, "E-Kabo Wit-taou", I bow low in my awkward whiteness as they sweat on by. Miriam comes for a visit, walking slowly, waving shyly and balancing an enormous, heavy tray of shoes on top of her head she’d like to sell to make money for her baby’s medicine. Papa snores drunkenly under the shea tree.
What was it really like?
It was like listening to a symphony of car crashes. The quiet sitting of funerals. E-Ku-jo-ko. The slow, back-bent dance at weddings. The miraculous births. E-ku-djoun. The homecomings, the liberation ceremonies, the drums. The many, many fights. The bleating goats and screeching chickens. The women calling out "Awadja!" at market.
What was it really like?
It was like re-coming home. While here, in Africa, in a new community, I have been fortunate enough to rediscover the community I left behind. The unfailing support of my parents and friends, the dedication to my projects and goals, has been as much a blessing as it has been a surprise. My projects have all found their funding, and have either been implemented or are almost there. I could never have done my work here if not for the army of people that work at home. I am excited to go back and make it up to all of you.
What was it really like?
This question was part of a game during our Close-of-Service Conference. We were all to answer one question out of nearly 50 frequently asked questions for RPCVs. When I saw the slip of paper, tears sprung to my eyes.
What was it really like?
It was wonderful. And thank you. Thank you.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Happy Mother's Day
Most of you have already seen this, but the sentiment is timely and necessary:
In the United States today, it is Mother's Day, a day we celebrate and appreciate the women who have made enormous contributions and drastic differences in our lives and communities.
As many of you know, I have spent the past two years as a Peace Corps Volunteer in West Africa, in the Republic of Benin. As my service is winding up to a close, there are a few things I'd like to share with you.
The first is, we cannot hope to reasonably combat abject poverty if we continue to underutilize the population that suffers the most: women. According to some estimates, women make up 70% of the world's poor. According to UNIFEM, Women perform 66 percent of the world’s work, produce 50 percent of the food, but earn 10 percent of the income and own 1 percent of the property. This isn't a political, economic or societal issue- it's a human right's issue through and through.
Now, this isn't new news- multinational and non-governmental organizations have been talking about the "Feminization of Poverty" for years; nor is combatting global poverty revolutionary. However, giving individuals, not corporations or large governments, the opportunity to contribute to individual projects to empower the world’s women, is.
With this in mind, I would like to bring to your attention Camp Success, a Girls' Empowerment Camp in the north of Benin. This week-long camp’s goal is to award high-achieving middle schoolers with the opportunity to learn, lead and navigate their own futures. I urge you, on behalf of all women and mothers everywhere, to support this generation of future mothers, who at this moment in time need all the help they can get.
The link attached to this message is to the site to donate. If you are not interested in donating, or cannot at this time, please visit the site anyway. Your support is not limited to your financial generosity. Please repost this link with a message of support. Or forward this message. Every little thing helps those with nothing.
Best,
Sarah Pedersen
https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=680-210
In the United States today, it is Mother's Day, a day we celebrate and appreciate the women who have made enormous contributions and drastic differences in our lives and communities.
As many of you know, I have spent the past two years as a Peace Corps Volunteer in West Africa, in the Republic of Benin. As my service is winding up to a close, there are a few things I'd like to share with you.
The first is, we cannot hope to reasonably combat abject poverty if we continue to underutilize the population that suffers the most: women. According to some estimates, women make up 70% of the world's poor. According to UNIFEM, Women perform 66 percent of the world’s work, produce 50 percent of the food, but earn 10 percent of the income and own 1 percent of the property. This isn't a political, economic or societal issue- it's a human right's issue through and through.
Now, this isn't new news- multinational and non-governmental organizations have been talking about the "Feminization of Poverty" for years; nor is combatting global poverty revolutionary. However, giving individuals, not corporations or large governments, the opportunity to contribute to individual projects to empower the world’s women, is.
With this in mind, I would like to bring to your attention Camp Success, a Girls' Empowerment Camp in the north of Benin. This week-long camp’s goal is to award high-achieving middle schoolers with the opportunity to learn, lead and navigate their own futures. I urge you, on behalf of all women and mothers everywhere, to support this generation of future mothers, who at this moment in time need all the help they can get.
The link attached to this message is to the site to donate. If you are not interested in donating, or cannot at this time, please visit the site anyway. Your support is not limited to your financial generosity. Please repost this link with a message of support. Or forward this message. Every little thing helps those with nothing.
Best,
Sarah Pedersen
https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=680-210
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Pencils Down
School is winding down. Easter break will begin in just a couple of days. It’s so hard to believe that the school year could begin in mid-October, and finish in mid-May. I know one Volunteer, out of nearly 30, who has said she has almost finished the curriculum for this year. I wish I had more time to complete the lessons I had wished to complete. I wish I had just one more month at CEG Manigri.
But I will not miss it.
I will not miss struggling to keep my temper down as students continue to talk and bicker amongst each other. I will not miss reprimanding 16 year old students for hitting younger students in class. I will not miss staring out at a sea of clueless faces, only wishing to lie face down on the bare cement floor. I will not miss drilling conjugation, sending students to be beaten, chalk dust, or dwindling class sizes as the year rolls onward.
I will not miss it.
I will not miss how kids will exclaim, “Teacharr!” when I’ve finally made a joke they understand. I will not miss the broken English phrases, phrases like, “I finish!”, “May I gho owwt?” and “Give me yo’ pen!” I will certainly not miss the headache of grading papers, filling out page after page of grades in different colored ink, and how no matter how many times I make them go back to their seats; they never wear shoes to the chalkboard.
I will not miss poorly pronouncing their names, names like Mournijatou, Souradji, Samoussirath, I will not miss children speaking to me in Nagot in front of other teachers just for laughs; or responding, knee-jerkingly, “oh-wah” or “moti yo”, to giggling girls in khaki.
I will not miss being strange, foreign, and awkward.
I will not miss acheke at 10am breakfast, or the harried woman who sells it. I will not miss the youngest students running out of their classroom to greet me and take my basket full of books and lesson plans. I will not miss them placing it on their heads and walking quickly back to class, breathing “goo’ morning teachar” through their winded smile. I won’t miss the other teachers, the men with their good-natured jokes and warm handshakes. I will not miss Hafissou asking me, “How do you feel?” and greeting Narcissis, through the door, with a salute. I will miss walking home with Arouna, I will miss getting fresh eggs, wagasi and cashew fruit from my students. I will miss the drumming, pounding and dancing part of singing in class. I will miss Zoumal, Douritimi, Azouma, Bariatou, Fassouni, and all three Azizes.
I will miss all of them. And I look forward to the last day, when I can tell them the impact they have had on me. How my life has been infinitely enriched as a result of their kindness, joviality, and strength. I will never know how (in)effective or influential my teaching or presence has been, but even if I have been a poor teacher, I am certain I am a good student. Finals are coming up.
But I will not miss it.
I will not miss struggling to keep my temper down as students continue to talk and bicker amongst each other. I will not miss reprimanding 16 year old students for hitting younger students in class. I will not miss staring out at a sea of clueless faces, only wishing to lie face down on the bare cement floor. I will not miss drilling conjugation, sending students to be beaten, chalk dust, or dwindling class sizes as the year rolls onward.
I will not miss it.
I will not miss how kids will exclaim, “Teacharr!” when I’ve finally made a joke they understand. I will not miss the broken English phrases, phrases like, “I finish!”, “May I gho owwt?” and “Give me yo’ pen!” I will certainly not miss the headache of grading papers, filling out page after page of grades in different colored ink, and how no matter how many times I make them go back to their seats; they never wear shoes to the chalkboard.
I will not miss poorly pronouncing their names, names like Mournijatou, Souradji, Samoussirath, I will not miss children speaking to me in Nagot in front of other teachers just for laughs; or responding, knee-jerkingly, “oh-wah” or “moti yo”, to giggling girls in khaki.
I will not miss being strange, foreign, and awkward.
I will not miss acheke at 10am breakfast, or the harried woman who sells it. I will not miss the youngest students running out of their classroom to greet me and take my basket full of books and lesson plans. I will not miss them placing it on their heads and walking quickly back to class, breathing “goo’ morning teachar” through their winded smile. I won’t miss the other teachers, the men with their good-natured jokes and warm handshakes. I will not miss Hafissou asking me, “How do you feel?” and greeting Narcissis, through the door, with a salute. I will miss walking home with Arouna, I will miss getting fresh eggs, wagasi and cashew fruit from my students. I will miss the drumming, pounding and dancing part of singing in class. I will miss Zoumal, Douritimi, Azouma, Bariatou, Fassouni, and all three Azizes.
I will miss all of them. And I look forward to the last day, when I can tell them the impact they have had on me. How my life has been infinitely enriched as a result of their kindness, joviality, and strength. I will never know how (in)effective or influential my teaching or presence has been, but even if I have been a poor teacher, I am certain I am a good student. Finals are coming up.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Blood Sacrifice
I have a feeling I'm going to have a difficult time coming to any coherent point in this entry. But I suppose when you consider the three months that have passed since I've last written, that can't be entirely surprising.
Manigri is more or less the same as when I last wrote. The babies are all getting bigger, the children keep growing and the dry stalks that so bravely fought Harmattan winds are now being rewarded with the Mango rains. Cashews are being harvested at break-neck pace, as last year the crop was dissappointing and many farmers are hoping to make up for lost profits and fill hungry bellies. The mangos aren't all quite ripe in Manigri yet. The boughs of the tree in my concession are propped up by big sticks to keep them from breaking and tumbling the unripened fruit on the ground. Everyday a cluster of five or six boys perch outside of my house, patiently waiting for me to motion them inside so they can play with paper airplanes, jump-ropes, chalk, markers, or any of the other 100 children's toys I’ve inherited from previous Volunteers. Typically they only last twenty or thirty minutes before I am throwing them all out for fighting, wrestling or trying to jump off my kitchen cabinet (Jojo). They're good kids, but their boyish energy is much better suited outside in the dirt where they can build cars out of baby powder bottles or ”pumps” out of tin cans.
But I suppose there is news. The presidential election was last Sunday. Since February there had been nearly constant parades of singing, chanting and drumming down the dusty streets, the cheering going well into the night. “ABT!”, women and children would call over and over again. Abdoulaye Bio Tchani was the challenger from the Donga region, his hometown being Djougou. The president, incumbent and front-runner, Yayi Boni, came to visit Bassila and Manigri. I saw him for only a moment as his motorcade drove through Ikanyi on its way to a former Minister’s mansion. Yayi Boni ended up with 53% of the vote, a clear majority given the 13 other candidates. On election day I toured the election booths at the primary schools and CEG, asking questions about ballots, counting and corruption. Mama Latifou, my next-door neighbor, met me outside of the CEG, purple ink still wet on her thumb. I pushed my right thumb to hers, gaining a sliver of purple on the outer-edge. I have one, gross and sweaty, photograph of it hidden in my new camera.
A few weeks ago my friend Djibril noticed that I am frequently sick. It’s usually nothing serious, just stomach pains or diarrhea, but enough to keep me beached on my living room couch for hours at a time. This was the conversation,
“Are you protected?”
“Protected? From sorcery?”
“Yes”
“No one would want to do sorcery on me… would they?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“So do I need protection?”
“Yes.”
And so last night at about ten pm, Bradley and I followed Djibril down the narrow, winding footpaths to his parents house. The wind shook the leaves of the enormous sacred tree as we slowly trudged through the yam fields beneath a moon much brighter and larger than usual. I met Djibril's father, dressed in his clothes from evening prayer, a long white robe and round, embroidered hat. He was washing his hands, face and feet in preparation as we arrived. Djibril's younger brother ushered us inside where a stone-faced man with a voice like a lion's purr sat on a prayer rug, also dressed in white. This was a clairvoyant, a seer, and Imam. Djibril's father sit on the floor and motioned to us two hard-backed chairs. The Imam lit two candles to call the spirits to us to listen, then two sticks of incense to intice them to stay. Djibril's father laid a large platter of corn with four kola nuts in the center on the floor. We exchanged nervous salutations and awkward small talk in nagot. Djibril's father nodded at the Imam, and then they began the prayer. Thirty, forty-five minutes, an hour- I honestly do not know- passed. The sunbaked ciment walls radiated heat from a sun that had set hours before. The Imam stood and then knelt in all four directions. His voiced raised and lowered in pitch, but never in volume which was like a dryer running in a distant basement. Djibril’s brother got up quietly and slipped outside. I glanced at Bradley as I heard the rustle of feathers of the white rooster we had purchased at the market. He was laid down carefully by the doorstep. I quickly began concentrating on my hands and fingers as it began to chuckle to the dark. The Imam’s voice grew louder. It rumbled and rustled the hair on my arms like a breeze through tall grass, wind through leaves. Djibril and his father punctuated the prayer, chanting. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. A distressed cry from the white rooster. Amen. Amen. Amen. I focused on my hands in front of me, willing myself to believe in magic, God and blood sacrifice. The rooster continued to call out into the night. My vision blurred. Then a loud shriek, a gurgle, a sigh.
Then silence.
Right now Djibril is coming with some teasane, a tea-type concoction of leaves and traditional medicines. Then he will take a razor and cut a very small incision into my legs. He will rub ash and poultice into the wound and bandage it. I will drink the teasane quietly and marvel at the cross-section between faith and mystery; medicine and science, as the church behind my house plays its drums to the darkening sky- the evening stars strung out like chicken feed, the moon a red, round kola nut.
Manigri is more or less the same as when I last wrote. The babies are all getting bigger, the children keep growing and the dry stalks that so bravely fought Harmattan winds are now being rewarded with the Mango rains. Cashews are being harvested at break-neck pace, as last year the crop was dissappointing and many farmers are hoping to make up for lost profits and fill hungry bellies. The mangos aren't all quite ripe in Manigri yet. The boughs of the tree in my concession are propped up by big sticks to keep them from breaking and tumbling the unripened fruit on the ground. Everyday a cluster of five or six boys perch outside of my house, patiently waiting for me to motion them inside so they can play with paper airplanes, jump-ropes, chalk, markers, or any of the other 100 children's toys I’ve inherited from previous Volunteers. Typically they only last twenty or thirty minutes before I am throwing them all out for fighting, wrestling or trying to jump off my kitchen cabinet (Jojo). They're good kids, but their boyish energy is much better suited outside in the dirt where they can build cars out of baby powder bottles or ”pumps” out of tin cans.
But I suppose there is news. The presidential election was last Sunday. Since February there had been nearly constant parades of singing, chanting and drumming down the dusty streets, the cheering going well into the night. “ABT!”, women and children would call over and over again. Abdoulaye Bio Tchani was the challenger from the Donga region, his hometown being Djougou. The president, incumbent and front-runner, Yayi Boni, came to visit Bassila and Manigri. I saw him for only a moment as his motorcade drove through Ikanyi on its way to a former Minister’s mansion. Yayi Boni ended up with 53% of the vote, a clear majority given the 13 other candidates. On election day I toured the election booths at the primary schools and CEG, asking questions about ballots, counting and corruption. Mama Latifou, my next-door neighbor, met me outside of the CEG, purple ink still wet on her thumb. I pushed my right thumb to hers, gaining a sliver of purple on the outer-edge. I have one, gross and sweaty, photograph of it hidden in my new camera.
A few weeks ago my friend Djibril noticed that I am frequently sick. It’s usually nothing serious, just stomach pains or diarrhea, but enough to keep me beached on my living room couch for hours at a time. This was the conversation,
“Are you protected?”
“Protected? From sorcery?”
“Yes”
“No one would want to do sorcery on me… would they?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“So do I need protection?”
“Yes.”
And so last night at about ten pm, Bradley and I followed Djibril down the narrow, winding footpaths to his parents house. The wind shook the leaves of the enormous sacred tree as we slowly trudged through the yam fields beneath a moon much brighter and larger than usual. I met Djibril's father, dressed in his clothes from evening prayer, a long white robe and round, embroidered hat. He was washing his hands, face and feet in preparation as we arrived. Djibril's younger brother ushered us inside where a stone-faced man with a voice like a lion's purr sat on a prayer rug, also dressed in white. This was a clairvoyant, a seer, and Imam. Djibril's father sit on the floor and motioned to us two hard-backed chairs. The Imam lit two candles to call the spirits to us to listen, then two sticks of incense to intice them to stay. Djibril's father laid a large platter of corn with four kola nuts in the center on the floor. We exchanged nervous salutations and awkward small talk in nagot. Djibril's father nodded at the Imam, and then they began the prayer. Thirty, forty-five minutes, an hour- I honestly do not know- passed. The sunbaked ciment walls radiated heat from a sun that had set hours before. The Imam stood and then knelt in all four directions. His voiced raised and lowered in pitch, but never in volume which was like a dryer running in a distant basement. Djibril’s brother got up quietly and slipped outside. I glanced at Bradley as I heard the rustle of feathers of the white rooster we had purchased at the market. He was laid down carefully by the doorstep. I quickly began concentrating on my hands and fingers as it began to chuckle to the dark. The Imam’s voice grew louder. It rumbled and rustled the hair on my arms like a breeze through tall grass, wind through leaves. Djibril and his father punctuated the prayer, chanting. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. A distressed cry from the white rooster. Amen. Amen. Amen. I focused on my hands in front of me, willing myself to believe in magic, God and blood sacrifice. The rooster continued to call out into the night. My vision blurred. Then a loud shriek, a gurgle, a sigh.
Then silence.
Right now Djibril is coming with some teasane, a tea-type concoction of leaves and traditional medicines. Then he will take a razor and cut a very small incision into my legs. He will rub ash and poultice into the wound and bandage it. I will drink the teasane quietly and marvel at the cross-section between faith and mystery; medicine and science, as the church behind my house plays its drums to the darkening sky- the evening stars strung out like chicken feed, the moon a red, round kola nut.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Merry Christmas
And to my mother, Happy Birthday.
They roar past like ghosts on their tired, choking motorcycles. Harmattan sands cake their skin and clothes. Many peer past clouded goggles protecting their eyes from the intrusive grit. These gray specters fly down terre rouge on their way from Nigeria near the end of every December. It's the rural exodus.
Nigeria's farming and lumber industries pay more, drawing economic migration from all over the country. At Christmastime, however, the migrants come home. The small dirt paths leading to villages all over Benin are crowded with moto-caravans, racing by in groups of eight or nine. Big, eighteen-wheel trucks, carry loads men in their beds. Men who cheer as you wave to them. Men on their way home. They're always blanketed in gray, a mix of ash from the fields being burned and the choking dust clouds of Harmattan.
In Manigri, you can tell when someone has finally come home. In my house I can hear cheers erupting from all over Ikanyi, as entire concessions pour out of their homes to greet their returned brothers. It's difficult to describe. For these men, their entire lives were spent in these concessions, surrounded by multiple inter-married and related families. And then they had to leave. Leave their mothers, fathers, wives, children, to seek work and better wages in a different country with a new language. They bring back gifts, the back of their motos are weighed down with cement sacks; pockets heavy with money. But the real gift, of course, is themselves. And it's not just the concession that celebrates- the surrounding concessions come out. Old mamas, babies, papas, brothers, cousins, sisters rush out of their homes to see the stranger who has returned. It's pandemonium and joy and possibly the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
They don't really come home for Christmas, however, as you may think. Christmas is largely seen as a holiday for children. Papa Noel is just some cartoon character that gives presents to little kids. Of course, most kids don't get Christmas presents as families save their kabri for the New Year celebration, a feast that lasts up to three days. That is the real fête. While I never felt as though we celebrated a religious Christmas in my family, there remains a nostalgia for snow, lighted trees, and the general spirit of love, generosity and kindness encouraged through the season. This is the kind of nostalgia that makes me choke up when teaching my students, "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" in class. (I'll chalk this emotionalism up to not having had to endure christmas music, obnoxious advertising or shopping mall santas.)
The new pastor and his wife (of the church directly behind my house) are possibly the sweetest couple I've ever met. Their speech is soft and they shake hands earnestly. I like visiting them to ask them about their chickens, the service, the choir, etc. Last time I was sitting in their house, I glanced into one of their side rooms to see a stack of boxes. The side facing me read, "Samaritan's Purse". Where have I seen that before? I got up from my vastly uncomfortable seat to examine the cardboard boxes. "Operation Christmas Child." No. No way.
I was just talking about them last year in a scattered blog post. My sisters and I would get a slip of paper with the information: boy, age 13. or girl, age 3 typed out on it. We'd fill a shoebox with hard candy, small toys and picture books. It was, looking back, one of the better parts of Christmas. And as I wrote last time, as a kid I knew someone would put in a little book about Jesus and Christianity in attempts to proselytize, but that didn't bother me. The generosity and uncommon kindness to strangers was more appealing to me than any religious basis for the organization.
And then, there they were. Shoeboxes little girls and boys filled with hope for a merry christmas to kids they could never hope to meet. Shoeboxes filled with toys that will undoubtedly bring so much joy, excitement (and confusion) to the homes of children who have only tin cans and matchbooks to play with. I remember vividly helping my mom stuff socks and a toothbrush into a shoebox and wrapping it, wondering about the lives of those children abroad in the Philippines or yes, Africa. And now , staring there I was, staring at the same boxes that I had once wrapped. And I know these kids now. And those kids. It was like straddling the continental divide. It was miraculous to me that in all of the churches in Benin, this small mud-brick congregation was a recipient of Samaritan's Purse, and that I had the opportunity to be on the receiving end of someone else's generosity and charity. Someone else's christmas wish, if you will.
I know there are a lot of people out there who don't celebrate or even particularly like Christmas. I used to be one of them. In the United States it's really easy to see the seedy underbelly of this vastly commercial holiday. However, once removed from the status quo of gift-wrapping, terrible television commercials and nerve-wracking economic analysis, I find myself discovering what the holiday means to me. It's a shoebox, wrapped by small hands in the United States and opened in the bush of Africa.
With that I'd just like to say, Happy Holidays. I miss you all.
They roar past like ghosts on their tired, choking motorcycles. Harmattan sands cake their skin and clothes. Many peer past clouded goggles protecting their eyes from the intrusive grit. These gray specters fly down terre rouge on their way from Nigeria near the end of every December. It's the rural exodus.
Nigeria's farming and lumber industries pay more, drawing economic migration from all over the country. At Christmastime, however, the migrants come home. The small dirt paths leading to villages all over Benin are crowded with moto-caravans, racing by in groups of eight or nine. Big, eighteen-wheel trucks, carry loads men in their beds. Men who cheer as you wave to them. Men on their way home. They're always blanketed in gray, a mix of ash from the fields being burned and the choking dust clouds of Harmattan.
In Manigri, you can tell when someone has finally come home. In my house I can hear cheers erupting from all over Ikanyi, as entire concessions pour out of their homes to greet their returned brothers. It's difficult to describe. For these men, their entire lives were spent in these concessions, surrounded by multiple inter-married and related families. And then they had to leave. Leave their mothers, fathers, wives, children, to seek work and better wages in a different country with a new language. They bring back gifts, the back of their motos are weighed down with cement sacks; pockets heavy with money. But the real gift, of course, is themselves. And it's not just the concession that celebrates- the surrounding concessions come out. Old mamas, babies, papas, brothers, cousins, sisters rush out of their homes to see the stranger who has returned. It's pandemonium and joy and possibly the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
They don't really come home for Christmas, however, as you may think. Christmas is largely seen as a holiday for children. Papa Noel is just some cartoon character that gives presents to little kids. Of course, most kids don't get Christmas presents as families save their kabri for the New Year celebration, a feast that lasts up to three days. That is the real fête. While I never felt as though we celebrated a religious Christmas in my family, there remains a nostalgia for snow, lighted trees, and the general spirit of love, generosity and kindness encouraged through the season. This is the kind of nostalgia that makes me choke up when teaching my students, "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" in class. (I'll chalk this emotionalism up to not having had to endure christmas music, obnoxious advertising or shopping mall santas.)
The new pastor and his wife (of the church directly behind my house) are possibly the sweetest couple I've ever met. Their speech is soft and they shake hands earnestly. I like visiting them to ask them about their chickens, the service, the choir, etc. Last time I was sitting in their house, I glanced into one of their side rooms to see a stack of boxes. The side facing me read, "Samaritan's Purse". Where have I seen that before? I got up from my vastly uncomfortable seat to examine the cardboard boxes. "Operation Christmas Child." No. No way.
I was just talking about them last year in a scattered blog post. My sisters and I would get a slip of paper with the information: boy, age 13. or girl, age 3 typed out on it. We'd fill a shoebox with hard candy, small toys and picture books. It was, looking back, one of the better parts of Christmas. And as I wrote last time, as a kid I knew someone would put in a little book about Jesus and Christianity in attempts to proselytize, but that didn't bother me. The generosity and uncommon kindness to strangers was more appealing to me than any religious basis for the organization.
And then, there they were. Shoeboxes little girls and boys filled with hope for a merry christmas to kids they could never hope to meet. Shoeboxes filled with toys that will undoubtedly bring so much joy, excitement (and confusion) to the homes of children who have only tin cans and matchbooks to play with. I remember vividly helping my mom stuff socks and a toothbrush into a shoebox and wrapping it, wondering about the lives of those children abroad in the Philippines or yes, Africa. And now , staring there I was, staring at the same boxes that I had once wrapped. And I know these kids now. And those kids. It was like straddling the continental divide. It was miraculous to me that in all of the churches in Benin, this small mud-brick congregation was a recipient of Samaritan's Purse, and that I had the opportunity to be on the receiving end of someone else's generosity and charity. Someone else's christmas wish, if you will.
I know there are a lot of people out there who don't celebrate or even particularly like Christmas. I used to be one of them. In the United States it's really easy to see the seedy underbelly of this vastly commercial holiday. However, once removed from the status quo of gift-wrapping, terrible television commercials and nerve-wracking economic analysis, I find myself discovering what the holiday means to me. It's a shoebox, wrapped by small hands in the United States and opened in the bush of Africa.
With that I'd just like to say, Happy Holidays. I miss you all.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Mirror Phase
What is the phase in Child Development Theory that toddlers finally understand that just because someone has walked out of a room, they haven’t vanished forever? The way things changed since I Ieft post have been unsettling; as though I expected Manigri to remain static during my prolonged absence this summer. My ‘sister’ Rafia (17) moved out of Mama's house and to Oke, where she's living with her 'husband.' Mama Victoire is now Mama Ines. The new baby is soft and sweet and smells like every other baby I've ever held. Sidou has a new baby brother, now there is a Mama Edison. Jo Jo is starting primary school, and he was so upset about it he hasn't been the same kid. It’s like he finally realized that at some point he's going to have to stop running through the bush naked. He's going to have to grow up; the inertia of the world is far too strong for him and his big belly.
The last time I was here it was the Fete for Ramadan. I live in an all-Christian concession, and so I had to seek out people to celebrate with. I ended up going to Bassila to see Mazou and a few of his friends. We saw a soccer game and ate at my favorite buvette despite the fact that we were invited to swankier restaurant nearby. Yvette, a tanti from Camp Sucess, was there in meme tissue with her friends. She chasitized me for not calling her to tell her I was in town. I smiled because I knew that it wouldn't have made any difference. She's too much of a big shot for me. Manigri was so loud, the air vibrated. I couldn't hear the bleats of goats over the stereos pumping and pilees pounding. Mama made cous cous and goat that actually tasted almost good. I have never been a fan of her cooking. It always makes me a little queasy. Perhaps it was the goat tooth I found in the bushes after throwing up my first night at post. Or perhaps it's just that she actually doesn't care how food tastes, just that it gets made.
Mama's little buvette literally exploded over the summer. She received a loan from her savings and loans group facilitated by (Danish NGO) Bornefonden. She built a small concrete store, where she now sells a lot of liquor and things such as detergent, cous cous, spaghetti, sardines, mayonnaise- basically all of the things that the other stores in Manigri sell. This has greatly dampened my incentive to go into Oke or even into greater Ikanyi since I've arrived back. Why go searching for toilet paper when... Oh yes, she sells toilet paper too. Just steps outside my door. I can yell from my couch and magically it appears in Gi's hands, his grinning face peering through my screen door. As a result I haven't seen my Nagot ladies in a long time, and I haven't gone to salue anyone but Olivier and the Director. Edwidge and her family moved to another town up north, I forget the name, but the same place she was born. I have no idea who the new pastor is. Papa's cousin in Oke died a few weeks ago, I missed the ceremony. KoKaDa (my cat) is pregnant. It's just so strange to be so estranged from a place that is so strange, and yet I am the stranger.
Also, petit chaleur has begun. Right now the sky is threatening rain and I can see lightning bickering around the edges of my back wall, but it is so bright and hot in the sun. I still have full buckets of water almost every couple of days, which is a luxury I am unsure as to how I ever lived without. Harmattan will be here soon and it will grow cold. I smile thinking about how during December the professors would show up at school in their down jackets and hats, asking me how I liked the cold. I always told them I loved it, that it pleased me, that I thought it was so much better than the heat. They'd laugh and shake their heads at my enthusiasm for the la frecheur. I wonder if it will feel as good this year, or if I too will be showing up dressed like a zemidjian, rubbing my hands together as if over a fire.
I have begun working on planning a bike tour for the Donga Region. I'd like to do about seven or eight hand-washing formations from Bassila to Aledjo and then up to possibly Djougou this Harmattan. After that I will begin planning the "Best Pratices: Camp BLOW and Camp GLOW" workshop for January. Then it's monthly meetings for Camp Sucess and Camp Espoir until July. Oh, and teaching. Of course. And Girls' Club, bien sur.
I have no fear that as I become habituated again I will venture out farther from the confines of my concession and experience more. There are always ceremonies and babies and school activities to go to. There are always people to have late evening conversations with about America, race, gender, development, time and, mostly, the familiar sound of silence. There are a lot of things in my periphery. I just want to focus on the most important ones, which are all right in front of me. My work, my friends, and my life in Manigri.
"We ought to see that the work that needs doing for [the poor] in their misery, not as mere "good work", but as a duty that must not be shirked." Albert Schweitzer.
The last time I was here it was the Fete for Ramadan. I live in an all-Christian concession, and so I had to seek out people to celebrate with. I ended up going to Bassila to see Mazou and a few of his friends. We saw a soccer game and ate at my favorite buvette despite the fact that we were invited to swankier restaurant nearby. Yvette, a tanti from Camp Sucess, was there in meme tissue with her friends. She chasitized me for not calling her to tell her I was in town. I smiled because I knew that it wouldn't have made any difference. She's too much of a big shot for me. Manigri was so loud, the air vibrated. I couldn't hear the bleats of goats over the stereos pumping and pilees pounding. Mama made cous cous and goat that actually tasted almost good. I have never been a fan of her cooking. It always makes me a little queasy. Perhaps it was the goat tooth I found in the bushes after throwing up my first night at post. Or perhaps it's just that she actually doesn't care how food tastes, just that it gets made.
Mama's little buvette literally exploded over the summer. She received a loan from her savings and loans group facilitated by (Danish NGO) Bornefonden. She built a small concrete store, where she now sells a lot of liquor and things such as detergent, cous cous, spaghetti, sardines, mayonnaise- basically all of the things that the other stores in Manigri sell. This has greatly dampened my incentive to go into Oke or even into greater Ikanyi since I've arrived back. Why go searching for toilet paper when... Oh yes, she sells toilet paper too. Just steps outside my door. I can yell from my couch and magically it appears in Gi's hands, his grinning face peering through my screen door. As a result I haven't seen my Nagot ladies in a long time, and I haven't gone to salue anyone but Olivier and the Director. Edwidge and her family moved to another town up north, I forget the name, but the same place she was born. I have no idea who the new pastor is. Papa's cousin in Oke died a few weeks ago, I missed the ceremony. KoKaDa (my cat) is pregnant. It's just so strange to be so estranged from a place that is so strange, and yet I am the stranger.
Also, petit chaleur has begun. Right now the sky is threatening rain and I can see lightning bickering around the edges of my back wall, but it is so bright and hot in the sun. I still have full buckets of water almost every couple of days, which is a luxury I am unsure as to how I ever lived without. Harmattan will be here soon and it will grow cold. I smile thinking about how during December the professors would show up at school in their down jackets and hats, asking me how I liked the cold. I always told them I loved it, that it pleased me, that I thought it was so much better than the heat. They'd laugh and shake their heads at my enthusiasm for the la frecheur. I wonder if it will feel as good this year, or if I too will be showing up dressed like a zemidjian, rubbing my hands together as if over a fire.
I have begun working on planning a bike tour for the Donga Region. I'd like to do about seven or eight hand-washing formations from Bassila to Aledjo and then up to possibly Djougou this Harmattan. After that I will begin planning the "Best Pratices: Camp BLOW and Camp GLOW" workshop for January. Then it's monthly meetings for Camp Sucess and Camp Espoir until July. Oh, and teaching. Of course. And Girls' Club, bien sur.
I have no fear that as I become habituated again I will venture out farther from the confines of my concession and experience more. There are always ceremonies and babies and school activities to go to. There are always people to have late evening conversations with about America, race, gender, development, time and, mostly, the familiar sound of silence. There are a lot of things in my periphery. I just want to focus on the most important ones, which are all right in front of me. My work, my friends, and my life in Manigri.
"We ought to see that the work that needs doing for [the poor] in their misery, not as mere "good work", but as a duty that must not be shirked." Albert Schweitzer.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Au Revoir Nos Cheres Amies
Immediately after returning from the United States, there was Camp Sucess. I didn't have time to go back to Manigri, I met everyone in Djougou with a duffel bag full of tuna fish and ostrich jerky. I had always been told that the highlight of one's service was camp. Within the first day it was easy to see why. The way the girls' eyes lit up when they sang and danced. How motivated and interested they were in every activity- even the more difficult ones. How many of them had never seen a city as big as Djougou, or perhaps had ever been outside of their villages- and there they were, at a cyber cafe in the biggest city in their region, googling Michael Jackson.
My post has had a special relationship with this camp for almost five years. The first Volunteer in Manigri, John, created it with my current counterpart Olivier. Olivier then worked with Carly for two years on the same camp, culminating in a mega-ultra huge wonderful fantastic spectacle known as the current Camp Success, where 12 villages send 60 girls to Djougou for six days. It's the largest girls' camp in the country and also the most intense. By the end of it, there wasn't a dry eye in the room as my girls sang "Au revoir de notre cheres amies", one singer barely able to croak out the refrain, tears streaming down her face.
In teams of eight and paired with both a Volunteer and a HCN "Tanti", they learned about sexual health, stress, the importance of education and self esteem. They spoke to a panel of great professional women, they climbed a mountain, they saw Tata Sambas, they learned the greater art of journaling, they did yoga and sang songs. So many songs. So, so, so many songs.
We talked through-out the planning process about whether or not a girl could come back for a third year to Camp Sucess. It didn't feel right somehow that the same girls could come year after year when in reality we needed to help as many as possible. It was heartbreaking to watch the girls say goodbye to their friends. It was also heartbreaking watching my friends say goodbye to the girls knowing they too would be absent next year. As we do two year tours, so will they. And in between laughing and crying we'll find time to work and teach and learn. (oh yes, I am that cheesy)
Jessica Bruce, Naima Ferrell, Melissa Perry and Benjamin Jakob will all be leaving the greater Bassila Commune in two weeks for their homes abroad. I want everyone to know what an enormous inspiration and help they've been to me this past year, and that no one will ever be able to replace them. I only hope I can do what I can next year to be as half as influential as they have been to me.
I will leave Saturday to work Stage for the new Volunteers who have just arrived. I will not be back in Manigri until likely September. If I am at all difficult to reach during this time I apologize, I imagine a busy and interesting month is ahead.
My post has had a special relationship with this camp for almost five years. The first Volunteer in Manigri, John, created it with my current counterpart Olivier. Olivier then worked with Carly for two years on the same camp, culminating in a mega-ultra huge wonderful fantastic spectacle known as the current Camp Success, where 12 villages send 60 girls to Djougou for six days. It's the largest girls' camp in the country and also the most intense. By the end of it, there wasn't a dry eye in the room as my girls sang "Au revoir de notre cheres amies", one singer barely able to croak out the refrain, tears streaming down her face.
In teams of eight and paired with both a Volunteer and a HCN "Tanti", they learned about sexual health, stress, the importance of education and self esteem. They spoke to a panel of great professional women, they climbed a mountain, they saw Tata Sambas, they learned the greater art of journaling, they did yoga and sang songs. So many songs. So, so, so many songs.
We talked through-out the planning process about whether or not a girl could come back for a third year to Camp Sucess. It didn't feel right somehow that the same girls could come year after year when in reality we needed to help as many as possible. It was heartbreaking to watch the girls say goodbye to their friends. It was also heartbreaking watching my friends say goodbye to the girls knowing they too would be absent next year. As we do two year tours, so will they. And in between laughing and crying we'll find time to work and teach and learn. (oh yes, I am that cheesy)
Jessica Bruce, Naima Ferrell, Melissa Perry and Benjamin Jakob will all be leaving the greater Bassila Commune in two weeks for their homes abroad. I want everyone to know what an enormous inspiration and help they've been to me this past year, and that no one will ever be able to replace them. I only hope I can do what I can next year to be as half as influential as they have been to me.
I will leave Saturday to work Stage for the new Volunteers who have just arrived. I will not be back in Manigri until likely September. If I am at all difficult to reach during this time I apologize, I imagine a busy and interesting month is ahead.
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