Peace on Earth

So I finally pulled out my Christmas tunes on the old ipod .(Correction- new ipod, thanks to Uncle Jeff). If I was back in the states, I would have been listening to these for weeks now, taking time in the afternoon to brush up on the piano so that Grandpa’s version of “silent night” would ring loud and clear on Christmas night. I’m someone who lives for the Christmas spirit, but this year, I’ve been in denial a bit. I can wake up in the morning, not wanting to get out of bed because all I am thinking about is what our Christmas tree looks like this year, the smiling faces of my family, and how this will be the first year in my life that I will not curl up on the couch with my family before going to bed on Christmas eve to read aloud our ancient, heirloom book, “The night before Christmas”. I’m missing them, I’m missing all of you, and lately, I’ve really been missing my grandmother, “Nanie,” who is still present in all of my Christmas memories of childhood.
But then eventually, I get out of bed, go for a run, eat my porriage and arrive at work. I greet Irene, my fun-loving co-worker and friend Sali, my supervisor, Kassoum, and all the sick folks. I hang out with Irene as she gets ready, late as always. I play with her son, Noelle, who’s first birthday is coming this Christmas. He can almost say my name now (it comes out as “Tata”). I weigh pregnant women or some of the most adorable babies I’ve ever seen with their little winter caps. I ride my bike out into the villages to find lost patients. I rejoice when the mother of a severely malnourished child made the 23 kilometer journey to seek help in our office. After discovering that the child was not only malnourished, but dangerously dehydrated, I showed her how to make homemade Oral rehydration solution, which the child eagerly drank, much to the mother’s delight. And suddenly, I’m not thinking about Christmas anymore. It’s still summer isn’t it? The world I left has stopped for me. I’m distracted by the life I love here. And at night, after my run with Shaka, my dinner of macaroni or potatoes, my warm bucket bath, I almost fear going back into my hut alone, letting myself remember Christmas and everything back home.

But tonight, I’ve faced it. The Christmas carols are playing. I’m singing here, alone in my hut. And I’ve realized that I never really forgot the season after all. I feel myself there with you all, but even more so, I feel you all here with me. The love that you have for me, is never ever forgotten. It never leaves my heart. I want you all to remember that. Even if you don’t hear from me for a long time, we are still connected. Distance is abolished at Christmastime- we are all close right now- to each other and to Bethlehem. So why be alone? Night has fallen. I take out my guitar, and greet my sidekicks, who have proudly crafted a drum out of an old gorge and some animal skin. I teach them how to sing jingle bells- which with their limited English, was almost too hysterical for me to handle. I’m not alone here. I’m not outside of the loving care of a family.

So to answer Bandaid’s age old question “Do they know it’s Christmas time at all?”, the answer is, yes. They know. And in my village, the Christians and the Muslims celebrate it side by side. The zylophones will play just like on Tabaski, we’ll eat meat but this time- pig. As far as the spirit of giving- everyone here gives everything they have to their neighbors anyway, that there really is no difference. An NGO came to the village yesterday, as close as we are going to get to Santa Claus. They had come last year, to take pictures of the children, promising them gifts. Dozens of kids walked away with new sneakers. Beautiful Nike sneakers, all of them as big as boats. The surplus sizes that no one in the Western world wants anymore. I don’t even think Zach Scott could fit in them. So the past couple of days everyone has been trying to figure out what to do with the dozens of humungous shoes we have acquired.

I asked Denise, my homologue’s 5 year old ward, about Christmas. She is very excited because she just got her hair braided and she is traveling to Kati to see her mother. I asked her what she wanted for Christmas- the concept of getting gifts was foreign to her. She thought really hard and then her eyes lighted up as she told me “I want a piece of candy!” Similarly, my Christian neighbor, Dalfin, asked me for a packet of macaroni and some powdered milk. Now I didn’t come here to be Santa Clause- to just give stuff away and most of the villagers think. I sigh because I see how dependent they are- how they have this idea in their minds that their lives will never improve until some white person in a big NGO car comes to change things. I’m the first volunteer, but I’m not the first person to try to help Dombila. But I am not here to help Dombila as a village, I’m here to help the people of Dombila. And maybe one day, they will have the self-initiative, the understanding, and the pride in themselves to improve their village for the sake of their health, and that of the future generations. And many are working so hard to do this too. But many, many have given up on so many things.
So yeah, it’s been a little hard lately. But I knew the hard times were coming. I’m in limbo where I’m ready to do something, but can’t really effectively do it until after my month of training in Bamako in January. I still am having a great time in village, but especially with Christmas coming up, I feel like my ability to give right now is completely absent. Dad, I hope you don’t mind, but I want to share with everyone what you wrote to me, because it made all the difference.

“ It will never be easy. it will be lots of fun at times, sometimes sad and lonely, sometimes totally amazing.
But most often it is hard in someway. The easy times are for regeneration and centering. The hard times are for growth and learning and achieving. God has a way of preparing us for the hard and it that success that we feel full-filled from. When things don't go well, look elsewhere for opportunity. As I said on the phone, nurture relationships not just accomplishments. That is an investment that will never stop paying dividends. Even if you don't feel the connection or appreciation coming back, it is something that you can always give. And is that what it really about. Especially around this holiday, find hope and spread hope through others. December 25th comes with the same message of love no matter where you are on this globe.”

And I think that says it all. I’ve learned such a lesson about giving this Christmas. It’s not about driving a truck with surplus Nike shoes, throwing them at kids and driving away. It’s not about proving yourself, that you can change the world. It’s about the smile on your face, the time you take to sit down with your neighbor, the respect you show for the people around you. And don't any of you worry a second about me- I've got a great pig roast in a little Christian village with all of my Peace Corps friends to look forward to. My friends, all I can give you this Christmas is all my love. With all the love you’ve given me, I just pray you will understand it is right back at you. From all your friends here and the other forgotten corners of the world- Merry Christmas.

A baby on my back

So I have a baby. Her name is Fatima and I made her out of cardboard. She has two heads- one is a skinny crying face, the other is a big fat-cheeked smily one. My homologue and I were to do a skit about child weaning. Her chubby baby, Noelle, is the poster child for our program. And I’m the bad mother who let her child get malnourished. To prepare, I’ve been walking around village for the past few days, carrying this cardboard baby on my back just like the Malian women. It’s sick, sad face draws a playful concern from my neighbors. I take it to the doctor’s office, and the pharmasit refuses to give it medicine because she says its too ugly. I wait with the mothers for baby weighing, and they ask me who the father is. They laugh and scold me because my baby isn’t even 1 kilo. My neighbors even made an afternoon visit to the doctor’s office- we heard your baby’s sick, we came to give it blessings. So they begin the traditions “May God lessen the pain.” Amiina. “May god make it eaiser.” Amiina. “May God banish the sickness completely.” Amiina. I travel the village, they point and laugh at my back, and I tell them I am taking my baby to the doctor’s office to enroll him in the malnutrition program, and donni, donni, I begin to explain what we do there. I return home, and the neighbors see my baby’s cardboard leg is broken and give more blessings. After they are done, I am supposed to say, “May God answer these prayers.” Amiina. Then Shaka appears from behind his house. “Aminata!” Yes? “May God strike your baby dead!” “Shaka! May God strike you dead! May he send snakes to bite your feet so you can’t run” “Aminata- may God give you ugly babies, uglier than this one.” And so it started. I love how at this point, my Bambara is good enough where I can really rip on people, and understand when they rip on me. It’s true, Malians do two things better than anyone else in the world- drink tea and joke.

A Chicken Dinner

Warning: Isa and Caroline (my two young god-cousins, vegetarian and animal rights activists)- Don’t read this, you’ll never look at me the same. For Tabaski, I wanted to surpise my family with a big gift. I knew that they couldn’t afford a goat to slaughter, and for that matter, neither can I, but I thought I would treat them to a nice chicken dinner. Now in Mali, treating your family to a nice chicken dinner is a little different than calling up Mia’s or the Brewery and getting some nice grilled up chicken breasts. The family of course, must kill, pluck, gut, and roast the chicken themselves. I wasn’t really planning to be involved in all that. My only job was to get them the animal.
So I rode my bike the 7k to Dio on market day, Shaka running at my side. “One chicken won’t feed your family,” Shaka says, “You should buy two.” When we reached the town, we wandered the road until we found a vendor. Shaka approved- they were good and fat. I bought two, the total came to less than what would be $10. The vendor tied its feet together and I hung the chickens by their feet on my bicycle handle. This of course, was a first for me, but felt completely normal. I see people with live chickens hanging off their bikes all the time, with goats tied to the back of their motorcycles, people scattering chickens and frogs from their homes and bathrooms. Shaka decided to hang back with his older sister, so I got back on my bike to head home. Every so often, my tires would clip the wings of one of my chickens and they’d give a sickly yell. “Oh, sorry you guys.” I said. Yeah, you’re my dinner.
So about 1 or 2 k into the 7k trip, I popped a tire. Great. I spend the better part of the next hour walk/jogging my bike back by its handlebars, slushing around two wailing chikens, and being laughed at by women passing me with their wares in baskets on their heads and babies on their backs. Coming back to Dombila, I told my family that there was something wrong with my bike. I left it out of the complex. The tire is popped, I told them, and besides that there are some animals on it. Animals? My mother went to take a look. She seemed very concerned about the flat tire, but then I pointed out the two chickens hanging upside-down on the handle bar. Wait for it, wait for it. Ohhhhh. Chicken! Let’s go call dad to come slit their throats.

Journal entry- Tabaski troubles

ISA and CAROLINE- you might want to skip this one too. Well it’s the feast of Tabaski today, and though I’ve been looking forward to it as an opportunity for cultural integration, I’ve never felt like more of an outsider. Lately, the big joke in my family is “Aminata can’t do anything right!” They make fun of me for not being able to light my lantern or for not being able to change my bike tires- but really, they hardly give me a chance. Yeah it’s a funny joke but really, I feel like nothing I do is ever good enough. Especially today. Aside from this morning, when I got some beautiful pictures of the sunrise prayer, I can’t say I’ve enjoyed myself on the feast day. Pretty much all I’ve done today is sit around on my butt while women criticize me for not tying my pagne right, for the stain on my shirt, for my hair not being done correctly. And all day I’ve been force-fed every part of goat, sheep, and cow you can imagine- not to mention the fact that they were slaughtered right in front of my eyes. “Why don’t you like meat? Why don’t you eat it? Oh, well try this kind, try this kind. Come on, just try a little.” Alright, I tried a little. But I’m not going to suck the blood out of the bones like the rest of you. And my feeble efforts to tell them to wash their hands before they eat go unheard. This simple thing is such a big cultural barrier- they will not use soap. It brings bad luck. And they all wash in the same water, so they’re picking up even more germs. Even my homolouge and the most educated villagers refuse. And they laugh at me for being so dirty as to have a stain on my outfit. How the heck do they even notice? And why is it the one thing everyone keeps pointing out to me? I feel like I’m treated like a little child. No one can trust me to do anything by myself, everyone keeps pointing out my faults and talking to me like I’m deaf. They give me a long line of Tabaski blessings in which I graciously respond “Amiina” (Amen). And then they laugh at me because I don’t understand them. Alright, it is the first time a foriegner has shared their most sacred cultural feast. And I may not be doing everything right. But give me a break- it’s not easy. And they don’t understand.
So here, I’ve escaped in my hut for a precious few minutes before going to the big zylophone-dance place. All day music has been playing on the radio and people will say “Aminata, get up and dance.” And sometimes I do, and they get a kick out of it. It’s like I’m their little dancing monkey. Oh look the white girl is dancing, that’s so funny. So really, I’m not looking forward to the rest of the evening. I can’t blend in with the crowd. I can’t escape to go to bed at a decent hour without offending people. I’m Aminata. And as they like to say- I can’t do anything.

Awa's crime and punishment

Awa, my homolouges daughter, is around 20 years old, I think. She claims she’s 22, but everyone else says she’s either 16, 18, 20, 17- no one seems to know for sure- which is not uncommon for Malian women. After spending many months with her, I think she might have a slight learning disability. She’s nice enough, and does the cooking and cleaning for Irene’s household. She can be bothersome at times, talking to me like I’m a baby in really simple Bambara, but really she’s alright. However this past week, she has not been herself. Even since Irene yelled at her for hitting Denise, her little sister, she has basically shut down. She claims she is sick, and boy she looks it. She refuses to eat, refuses to work. Therefore, Irene has been cooking my lunches and with her work, sometimes I wait one, two, three hours for food. I try to help, yes, but they only entrust me with very simple tasks. Mashing onions. Then I’m done. Awa stays in her room, laying in bed, all day, except to go to the negen. And when Irene would usually shove her baby to Awa, she now gives him to me to watch. I’m concerned about Awa, and encourage her to see the doctor, which she does, but will not ask her mother for money to pay for medicine, so basically it is worthless.
So I spent another long afternoon sitting around Irene’s house thinking about what I haven’t done this week. Well we found a few more of the lost malnourished babies. I did some boring computer work for my supervisior, but was also able to teach him and some teenage boys how to enter the medical records in our “new” (ie 1998 PC). Alright. Donni, donni. I took out a piece of paper and began writing a letter to home, speaking of the “small accomplishments” that despite all the obstacles keep me going. Just then, a motorcycle pulled up. It was my homolouge’s brother, an English teacher who she had been anxious for me to meet. Really though, his English was no better than my Bambara, but we enjoyed some good conversation in over lunch. Irene stops eating and asks him to “Explain in to her in English.”
The man turns to me. “Awa is very bad. She doesn’t work.”
“I think she is sick.”
“No. She is not sick. She is hungry. She doesn’t eat. She doesn’t work. She is very bad. Her mother is mad.”
“I understand.” I do. She is probably sick, but she has had a bit of an attitude. Refusing to eat or do her usual work is not really admirable but let’s put things in perspective here. She’s somewhere between 16 and 22, she hardly has a 4th or 5th grade education, she is stuck at home all day watching over two small children and cooking. Her big plan, she once told me, is to start making biscuts and selling them at the health center. Then, she will save up enough money to buy a bicycle in which she can ride to go to school in Dio, about 5 miles away. So far, I haven’t seen any biscuts. But she usually takes pride in her cooking- my lunches, though rice and sauce everyday, are tasty enough. She usually as a smile on her face. Until lately.
“I have come to correct this,” the uncle says.
“I understand.” Oh, I thought naively, this is just like they taught us in cultural class. When two people are not getting along, a third party comes in to settle the disagreement. The uncle had ridden his motorcycle from Kati, and before lunch, he had a good stern talking with Awa in the presence of her mother.
Wait a minute.
“So it’s good now? It is corrected?” I asked.
“No! It is not good!”
“What are you going to do?”
“I am going to beat her!”
I look at Irene, who does not understand the English, but understands that he has just explained it to me. After lunch, we talked some more. I was thankful that though his English was sub-par, we could have a private conversation. I spoke carefully, telling him that this was not what we do in America and that I didn’t agree with it. Yet he insisted that this was the only way to get her to behave. I didn’t want to offend the Malian way, but I do not want to see my friend hurt and I do not think this will change her attitude. Now he’s in a predicament.
“I respect you,” he says, “and I want you to respect me. But I must do this. But then you will not respect me.”
“And I,” I said, “if I am the reason that your action is prevented, and Awa does not begin working again, Irene will loose respect for me.”
“This is true.”
So I talked to Awa, she barely listened through trembling tears while the rest of the CSCOM staff laughed at me for paying attention to her. Receiving no response from the girl that had already surrendered to her punishment, I asked her uncle, “If you would like me to leave, I understand.”
“No. I am going to leave,” he said.
And with that he gave Awa another stern talking to, and then pulled me aside. He expressed his respect for me, and his understanding of why I did not agree with his actions. He then invited me to his classroom to give a lesson one day in the future. We shook hands, he mounted his motorcycle, and was off. He’s really a good guy, I thought. Irene gave me a tender smile, and nodded her head in approval. I went back to my letter; it’s the little accomplishments.
My only concern after that was that Awa was not going to shape her act up, and that I was going to be the one to blame. But nevertheless, Awa was back to her old self the next day, which happened to be the feast of Tabaski. Her, I and Sali, the nurse’s assistant, a fun loving, pretty girl my age who has become a great friend, all went to the “donke yorro” (dance place) - which was a high school classroom transformed into a sort of dance club. Though I felt like the dorky exchange student, dancing by myself in the corner, I was happy to see Awa shakin her booty around the boys, with her goofy, drooling laugh. Things were going to be back to normal. And though I do not totally understand her emotional trouble, or am not totally convinced of their resolution, at least she returned to her character without having to be physically beat into it.