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.
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