She held my hand and wouldn't let go.
I think she's seen me around and has been wanting to talk to me. She asks me the questions I can answer in Hassaniya and thinks I'm Bilani (White Moor - a way of saying I integrate well). I don't stop her. She shows me her house and lets me know i'm welcome anytime. Her mulafe is pink like her cheeks.
She held my hand and wouldn't let go.
He said he saw me and didn't know how to talk to me.
He has been in Aleg as long as I have and he struggles with Hassaniya. He does not know French, only English and his dialect from Ghana. His English is broken but he speaks in a genuine way. When I ask him about his past he says he doesn't know how to tell me. He falls silent with saddness in his eyes. His robe is white as a cloud.
He said he saw me and didn't know how to talk to me.
She wondered when I'd finally find her.
She is large and lays lazily in her botique. She gives me peanuts to eat and tells me I look Mauritanian. She asks me about my father. The mat on the floor is plastic and she gives me a pillow to lounge. She calls me an old friend. Her smile is as big as I remember. She tells me not to lose her again. Her hair is freshly braided.
She wondered when I'd finally find her.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
The Intelligence Test
A fellow volunteer and I went to the local Jardin D'Enfants to check out a Mauritanian Preschool one sunny day. We wandered through the streets and followed directions and pointed fingers along the roads until we came upon a small, rather governmental looking compound. Upon entering our eyes fell upon what looked to be abandoned playground equipment. There was a swing-set with no swings, a unidentifiable metal frame, a rusty slide and a short metal jungle gym set up on the dirt and gravel ground. There were obvious attempts at making the swing-set an actual play thing. A black cord was strung to the top and swung down in a loop as a makeshift swing (tied and tied again from what looked to be many breakdowns). Our snooping was interrupted by the groundskeeper who welcomed us with a shy smile and offered us a seat on the steps as he prepared for the day. He mechanically laid out a mat on the dirt and began sweeping out the interior of the school.
We watched the metal door to the compound as children trickled in. The first were two young wide eyes boys brought by their teenage brother. They wandered in and stopped as they saw us, wondering what kind of people would interrupt their habitual morning. the groundskeeper herded them onto the mat where they sat quietly staring at nothing in particular. It continued as such, small children with curious faces taking seats on the mat outside. The teachers began to arrive, dressed in fantastic Pulaar clothes with grand head-wraps and bright smiles. They sat next to us on the steps and chatted as the kids continued to come in and take a place on the mat. There was one small girl who began to cry as her mom set her down, a typical response for a 2 year old. She ran to the door and her mother, one step ahead of the game, slipped sneakily out and closed it behind her. The teachers giggled at the ways of children and one woman went to sit with the traumatized toddler on the mat. One small girl, perhaps 4 years old, wandered in by herself, carrying a back-pack and a small bottle of water.
The director arrived with a flow of energy, her mulafe flowing behind her and business in her eyes. She greeted us and began to show us around. We stepped into the lobby and were greeted by the wonderful scent of stale urine. There were three rooms off the lobby, divided by 2-3, 3-4 and 4-5 year olds. The rooms were typical preschool, yet a bit more depressing. The only floor with a "carpet" was the youngest room, all others were small white rooms filled with small plastic kid-stained picnic tables. The walls were decorated with scribbles drawings and torn artwork from postcards and books. There were no toy shelves or counters filled with paper and crayons, only a chalkboard in the corner a drawing of a toothbrush and toothpaste. After a whirlwind tour she brought us to her office, just as a repetition song began, voices blending sweetly the way only children can achieve.
Once in her office she showed us cardboard boxes filled with a mess of wooden and plastic toys. With blocks, beads, and plastic pieces the torn box looked like the miscellaneous drawer everyone seems to have in a forgotten corner. She sat us at her desk and pulled out a large piece of cardboard with the edges cut out.
"An intelligence test," she said, motioning toward the wrinkled pieces "try it."
So we put the paper puzzle together (which, i might add, had us worried for a second). When she came back in she was delighted to see we were smarter than the average preschooler and quickly mumbled something about "velos". We were rushed into another room and slowly took in the mess of tricycle pieces on the floor.
"Can you put these together?" She asked.
Glancing at each other and checking the time, we agreed to take a look. We ended up back on the mat outside where the children sat in the morning with the tricycle parts to about 5 bikes lay scattered before us. The paper directions were torn and wrong, and we began to notice certain important parts were not present in the mess before us. The director came back out and handed us the tool she thought we would need.... a green and red plastic child's play hammer. I began to giggle at our situation. Sitting there with a tricycle puzzle in front of us, a bit harder than the cardboard pieces, and equip with a plastic preschool hammer. A little boy wandered out of the building and gazed at us for a while, wondering why were were having such problems when we had the best tool in the school.
After getting some of the bikes partially assembled we notified the director that while the hammer had helped a lot (we actually used it) that we had tools that would work better at our house and would return tomorrow to finish our work. We left the preschool as the children continued their rote learning repetition games. I could only wonder if we had really passed the intelligence test she had laid out before us, or if we would be forever failed in her mind - only achieving the initial cardboard stage of her tests.
We watched the metal door to the compound as children trickled in. The first were two young wide eyes boys brought by their teenage brother. They wandered in and stopped as they saw us, wondering what kind of people would interrupt their habitual morning. the groundskeeper herded them onto the mat where they sat quietly staring at nothing in particular. It continued as such, small children with curious faces taking seats on the mat outside. The teachers began to arrive, dressed in fantastic Pulaar clothes with grand head-wraps and bright smiles. They sat next to us on the steps and chatted as the kids continued to come in and take a place on the mat. There was one small girl who began to cry as her mom set her down, a typical response for a 2 year old. She ran to the door and her mother, one step ahead of the game, slipped sneakily out and closed it behind her. The teachers giggled at the ways of children and one woman went to sit with the traumatized toddler on the mat. One small girl, perhaps 4 years old, wandered in by herself, carrying a back-pack and a small bottle of water.
The director arrived with a flow of energy, her mulafe flowing behind her and business in her eyes. She greeted us and began to show us around. We stepped into the lobby and were greeted by the wonderful scent of stale urine. There were three rooms off the lobby, divided by 2-3, 3-4 and 4-5 year olds. The rooms were typical preschool, yet a bit more depressing. The only floor with a "carpet" was the youngest room, all others were small white rooms filled with small plastic kid-stained picnic tables. The walls were decorated with scribbles drawings and torn artwork from postcards and books. There were no toy shelves or counters filled with paper and crayons, only a chalkboard in the corner a drawing of a toothbrush and toothpaste. After a whirlwind tour she brought us to her office, just as a repetition song began, voices blending sweetly the way only children can achieve.
Once in her office she showed us cardboard boxes filled with a mess of wooden and plastic toys. With blocks, beads, and plastic pieces the torn box looked like the miscellaneous drawer everyone seems to have in a forgotten corner. She sat us at her desk and pulled out a large piece of cardboard with the edges cut out.
"An intelligence test," she said, motioning toward the wrinkled pieces "try it."
So we put the paper puzzle together (which, i might add, had us worried for a second). When she came back in she was delighted to see we were smarter than the average preschooler and quickly mumbled something about "velos". We were rushed into another room and slowly took in the mess of tricycle pieces on the floor.
"Can you put these together?" She asked.
Glancing at each other and checking the time, we agreed to take a look. We ended up back on the mat outside where the children sat in the morning with the tricycle parts to about 5 bikes lay scattered before us. The paper directions were torn and wrong, and we began to notice certain important parts were not present in the mess before us. The director came back out and handed us the tool she thought we would need.... a green and red plastic child's play hammer. I began to giggle at our situation. Sitting there with a tricycle puzzle in front of us, a bit harder than the cardboard pieces, and equip with a plastic preschool hammer. A little boy wandered out of the building and gazed at us for a while, wondering why were were having such problems when we had the best tool in the school.
After getting some of the bikes partially assembled we notified the director that while the hammer had helped a lot (we actually used it) that we had tools that would work better at our house and would return tomorrow to finish our work. We left the preschool as the children continued their rote learning repetition games. I could only wonder if we had really passed the intelligence test she had laid out before us, or if we would be forever failed in her mind - only achieving the initial cardboard stage of her tests.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
A new view, an open eye
I hear the metal door to my compound pull open and I lift my head to the sound of rusty metal scrapping. I am sitting on the floor with papers and grammar books spread around me lesson planning for the following week. This group of lessons I’m trying to figure out the best way to tell my students about irregular present participles, a topic I know will be greeted with blank stares and squinted brows. Pausing, I gaze out the door of my house waiting to see who appears in the frame. I hear her before I see her.
“Ash-e-lee?” She calls, with excitement laced through her tone.
“Fatou! Je suis la – I’m right here.” I tell my friend.
She steps into my view with a huge smile plastered on her face. Opening her arms wide she shouts, “FELICITACIONS! Barack Obama – President
I laugh and stand up, immediately folded into her waiting arms while each cheek is excitedly kissed. She tells me she has been watching the news all night and that she was so happy for me – and so relieved that Americans “have chosen the right one”. I tell her about my lucky friends who were in
The day after elections electricity pulsed through my veins. I stayed up the night before listening to the radio as the polls rolled in, gazing at the brilliant stars above me and willing the American people to show the world that they can change. I received calls throughout the night, from the U.S.A., from Belize and from Mauritania, all family and friends’ assuring me that the charged pulse I felt was not only pumping in my body. That morning as the cool night turned itself over to the African sun I sat with another volunteer listening to that
Though, as in the
Living in a country that is still trying to figure out Democracy, it is a good feeling to see the message Americans are sending out to the world. An example that Democracy can work, that people should have a voice, and that there are places where those voices are heard. At times it’s unreal to see that new respect and that lingering smile in the eyes of those who watch their own country struggle.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Dreams of Different Colors
The culture in front of me is bold. It is bright. It is sacred. A father teaches his children how to pray, quietly whispering time-old secrets into their ears. A mother sifts couscous, tossing the grains into air and letting it fall into the waiting bowl. A sister shifts her baby brother on her back, old enough to stand tall, young enough to not feel the burden. A brother laughs without reserve, head tossed to the sky, as his friend chases a goat through the dusty streets. Here, a person must wait to uncover the mysteries of this sandy world, it will not happen immediately. I would never have known the secrets of fabric if I had not sat and watched, wide-eyed, as they danced in front of me. The light shone golden into the room through barred windows and outdoor children pressed their faces against the rusty metal to get a glimpse – smiles and eyes illuminated. Women step surely, carried by the Arabic strings and drums, swirling multicolored mulafes. They fix their faces into a rather proud poses, arms waving with attention to the fingers. Occasionally they cover their face with cloth, more often, they expertly shake their butts, ticking and swishing in time with the scratchy cassette tape. The men are like birds, and with their grand bou-bou’s spread like wings they fly around the room with ease. They flutter around the women, showing off the solid steps and hopping lightly with the beat. They swirl and mix, tangle and part. Laughter bubbles as they show off their moves and minutes fold into themselves.
Sometimes it seems like the sun shines too bright, or too much sand blown into your eyes to actually see. But, I suppose that is why we have five senses. I will always hear prayer call echoing through the labyrinth streets and smell lunchtime as rice and fish simmer over fire. I will feel the touch of a greeting hand and taste the bitter sugary tea from a sticky glass. I’m learning to quit making over-assumptions, and to let things go quickly. I’m learning to take it slow and to enjoy the quiet. I’m learning to laugh in a different language.
School began this week, but once again, culture morphs something so familiar to me into the unidentifiable. On the first day of classes I wondered, as I gaze at the empty school yard before me, occupied by wandering donkeys, if I’ll ever understand completely. I find the school director, Ahmed, in his quiet office. Wise and quite official looking he is dressed in a bou-bou surrounded by papers on his desk. He smiles and tells me that maybe tomorrow he’ll have the schedule ready. And – he adds – you don’t have to come by tomorrow if you’re tired. The back to school vibe is still there, I can see it when I visit the market. Children pour over carts of notebooks, choosing their colors importantly. They walk down the streets with blue UNICEF issued backpacks, the glow of newness alive in their struts. I suppose a week from now I’ll be in the swing of things. Classes will begin and students will trickle in, switching from lazy summer days to pencils, pens and notebook paper.
I have decided to move in with a Mauritanian to try and catch some things I might be missing. She is a bright spunky woman who has a three year contact with an international organization in Aleg. One year into her contract, she will finish her time in Aleg right when I will. Her name is Fatou and her family lives in Nouakchott, with her adorable son. She lives alone in a house, very similar to the one I live in currently, except that it is two minutes away from the school. She has created family here and they have welcomed me into their lives with ease. We speak in French mostly, though she knows Hassaniya (and Wolof… and Pulaar!) and helps me figure things out. I sat in a boutique late one night with her as she visited her friends. They behaved like sassy schoolgirls and we joked and sipped tea and let the night seep into our bones.
My dreams have a new shade to them. They have taken on a new tone. I see broken toothed smiles and wrinkled expressive hands. I see swirling fabrics and piles of onions on sheets. In my sleepy minds eye there are blue backpacks, wise men and unfinished schedules.
Sometimes it seems like the sun shines too bright, or too much sand blown into your eyes to actually see. But, I suppose that is why we have five senses. I will always hear prayer call echoing through the labyrinth streets and smell lunchtime as rice and fish simmer over fire. I will feel the touch of a greeting hand and taste the bitter sugary tea from a sticky glass. I’m learning to quit making over-assumptions, and to let things go quickly. I’m learning to take it slow and to enjoy the quiet. I’m learning to laugh in a different language.
School began this week, but once again, culture morphs something so familiar to me into the unidentifiable. On the first day of classes I wondered, as I gaze at the empty school yard before me, occupied by wandering donkeys, if I’ll ever understand completely. I find the school director, Ahmed, in his quiet office. Wise and quite official looking he is dressed in a bou-bou surrounded by papers on his desk. He smiles and tells me that maybe tomorrow he’ll have the schedule ready. And – he adds – you don’t have to come by tomorrow if you’re tired. The back to school vibe is still there, I can see it when I visit the market. Children pour over carts of notebooks, choosing their colors importantly. They walk down the streets with blue UNICEF issued backpacks, the glow of newness alive in their struts. I suppose a week from now I’ll be in the swing of things. Classes will begin and students will trickle in, switching from lazy summer days to pencils, pens and notebook paper.
I have decided to move in with a Mauritanian to try and catch some things I might be missing. She is a bright spunky woman who has a three year contact with an international organization in Aleg. One year into her contract, she will finish her time in Aleg right when I will. Her name is Fatou and her family lives in Nouakchott, with her adorable son. She lives alone in a house, very similar to the one I live in currently, except that it is two minutes away from the school. She has created family here and they have welcomed me into their lives with ease. We speak in French mostly, though she knows Hassaniya (and Wolof… and Pulaar!) and helps me figure things out. I sat in a boutique late one night with her as she visited her friends. They behaved like sassy schoolgirls and we joked and sipped tea and let the night seep into our bones.
My dreams have a new shade to them. They have taken on a new tone. I see broken toothed smiles and wrinkled expressive hands. I see swirling fabrics and piles of onions on sheets. In my sleepy minds eye there are blue backpacks, wise men and unfinished schedules.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Pictures on the Walls
Stepping back, I look at the faces of my family and friends staring back at me from my walls. Now that I am in my own house in the town I will be in for the next two years, I can finally unpack all my bags and carve my place into this country. As I look a picture of my nephew Gavin stuck in a happy pose at a baseball game, cheering and holding a two-year-old fist full of hotdog toward the sky, I can feel the odd sensation spread over me once again. The realness of my situation continues to catch me off guard. The distance from the people I love and the proximity to the people in my neighborhood with whom I’ll form relationships. Not to mention the tragedy of that hotdog, something I won’t taste for a very long time... But unidentifiable ground meat becomes somewhat miniscule in comparison to the things I’m gaining here. Aleg, my town, seems to have a lot to offer me, and hopefully I’ll figure out what I can give in return.
My house is across the street from a Mosque and two doors down from my landlord’s boutique. I live in a small walled compound with a couple rooms, a small kitchen and a salon. The doors and windows, covered in bright blue cracked wood, obey the weather expanding and shrinking with Mother Nature’s commands. My bathroom and “shower” (place to stand in while I bucket-bath) are outside and laundry lines are strung about the yard. For now, there are small green patches on the ground, where sporadic grass and the infamous Death Star plants grow. Death Star is not, in fact, the real name of this macabre plant, only a name we have so lovingly assigned. Starting out rather beautiful, the Death Star dries up in the desert sun, creating tiny and very prickly balls of death, which stick into skin like an orb of splinters. Though the Death Stars are a negative, I am lucky to have electricity in part of the house, which works a good percentage of the time, and running water, accessed by a pump outside. My roof is tin and my walls are concrete and my kitchen counter was built with bricks and wood planks. My stove is a portable gas camp-style with one burner and is mostly used outdoors. It has already been used to create some rather delicious creations (Pad-Thai is very do-able here).
Every day the Mosque is my alarm clock, the sunrise call to prayer my morning wake up call. It is Ramadan this month, so the days are slow. Fasting (no food or drink – water included) is required between sunrise and sunset and the hottest and most unproductive time is between 1-3pm. Walking around at this time brings you face to face with a ghost-town. Store owners and produce vendors sleep in the shade, slowly rising if you ask for something. Eating and drinking in view of other Mauritanians seems rude and awkward, though it is sometimes forced upon you when you sit to talk with a fatigued family, as they understand many foreigners do not participate in their religious holidays. The children and oldest of old do not usually partake in the fasting, and those that do will not utter a word of complaint more than “it’s hot out today” or “I’m a little bit tired”. The dedication is empowering to see, especially given the climate. What must get them through is the wonderful event of breaking the fast at sundown. Women start preparing in the early afternoon, cutting and chopping slowly, getting things ready to drop in a pot and quickly prepare. When the Mosque announces the breaking of fast, the chanted song is only on the second syllable when cups are brought to parched mouths. What follows is amazing. I broke fast with a family one night and was in disbelief at the never ending bowls and plates set before me. There were dishes of beignets, dates, juice, water, milk, and a sweet cous-cous/water/milk/sugar mix brought out to start. A dish of meat and potatoes with bread to dip followed by a round of tea, and then even more drinks set before you. Finally there was a large dish of pasta and meat set out on a plate, followed by more rounds of tea. This celebration takes time, and I even made the mistake of trying to leave before it was over – thinking there couldn’t possibly be another course…. That night I would lay under my mosquito net in a food coma, staring up at the stars, happily stuffed and planning out another visit to break fast.
Walking through my town can take forever. I greet everyone in the Mauritanian way, which is to spit out as many inquiries as fast as possible. Included are things such as “How are you with the heat?” and “How are you with your health?” I am discovering my favorite people to sit and take tea with, and faces and names are easier with each passing day. I once walked back from the market with an empty trunk for my room, balancing it on my head with a hand, when I heard an excited greeting. I recognized that it was the mother of the family I broke fast with the night before. She beckoned me over and we went through the greetings – followed by the common “whatareyoudoing –whereareyougoing-wherewereyou.” I slapped hands and touched my heart doing my best to keep up with her Hassaniya/French. I told her I had to bring the trunk home, and she smiled and pressed a bag of beignets into my hand. When I asked her how much she waved my money away like an annoying fly, telling me it was a gift.
I know that not everyone I meet here will be as nice as her. Not everyone is willing to put up with my broken Hassaniya and cultural slip-ups. I have embarrassed myself many times already, and I know it’s only the beginning. Laughing is a good way to deal, because really, some of the situations I find myself in are simply ridiculous. Another is to always remember those pictures on the wall are always there, reminding me not of what I left behind, but of the people who continuously offer me support.Sunday, August 24, 2008
Flashpoint Mauritania
****There has been a Coup d’Etat. Hadij, my host mom sits over our fish and rice lunch and shakes her head. The government is bad, she tells me, this (she waves her hand over the rice) it’s too expensive. She is unsatisfied with the current state of the economy welcomes change, even though democracy is threatened. I find out information from bits of French news on T.V. and word of mouth. The president Sidi Ould Cheikh Abdallahi has been kidnapped and 11 military officials, lead by Mohamed Ould Abdelaziz, have ousted the government and taken over the capital. There are many protests over weekend supporting and protesting the coup. Hundreds of Mauritanians march the streets with signs and honk car horns, democracy may be in straits, but it is alive. Most are not surprised as Mauritania only recently had its first smooth election transition with democracy. From the Mauritanians I’ve talked to, this seems normal and will be remedied soon. There is a little tension overseas, but for the most parts all seems peaceful. The directors of Peace Corps keep close tabs on the news and update us frequently.
****A little girl peeks over the wall at me, I smile immediately. She is my buddy – petite Hadij. She had the same name as my host mom, and the same silly attitude too. I beckon her over and she climbs the wall into my courtyard. Her bright yellow dress looks perfect next her dark chocolate skin. Petite Hadij speaks only Hassaniya, and I only know bits and pieces. Though who needs language when you have a secret handshake? We created one shortly after meeting each other and we use it often. Petite Hadij loves to sit next to me under our tent in the courtyard and watch me make my English lesson plans for the following day. I let her use my colored pencils and she draws little pictures at my feet. Sometimes she dances. Tongue clicks and feet flying she shows me how to get down Mauritanian style. I found out the other day that her mom died the past year, and grande Hadij (my host mom) is one of petite Hadij’s caretakers – one of the reasons she is at our house so often. You would never be able to tell, her personality as bright as the yellow dress she wears so often. I’ll miss her sunny face peaking over the wall when I leave my host family. In my mind she’ll be dancing forever.
****”Do you understand?” Murbana asks me with imploring eyes. “Who is that? Is that the wife of the main character?” I ask. Murbana and I sit outside my house on a mat with a T.V. in front of us. The T.V. cord stretched from a plug in the saloon, and after some fiddling we got the reception working. We are watching a Wolof (Senegalese and Mauritanian culture) Drama that is very soap-opera-like. Murbana is Senegalese and speaks French, Hassaniya, Wolof and a little tiny bit of English. She is sitting next to me braiding my hair, translating the show from Wolof into French. “You see, that is the husband and that girl there is trying to be with the husband. She is pregnant and does not know who the father is. She needs to get married, so she will try to trick him… Watch!” She explains. With Murbana’s translations, I am heavily invested in the show. I lean forward and flick an ant off the screen. We hear the pot of rice and fish shift on the coals and the boiling water softly hisses. Murbana gets up and expertly adjusts the pot, most of her attention on the show. She is eighteen-years-old and is currently working for Hadij. She does some of the cooking and cleaning around the house – she may or may not get paid, that I haven’t exactly figured out, but she does get treated well and eats with us. She is beautiful. Her oval eyes are wide and shine with kindness, her thin face and African skin framed with a white and pink mulafe (veil, wrapped around body and head). I enjoy spending my afternoons sitting and chatting with her about Senegal and telling her stories from America. We laugh about my few words in Hassiniya and her few words in English, and we teach each other as much as we can. Murbana sits next to me again and continues with my braids. She informed me earlier that braids were necessary and made me go buy some rubber bands so she could do my hair. “See,” She says pointing at the T.V. “This is the real wife, she is going to be angry when she finds him with that girl.” I nod in agreement and the Wolof drama mixes with the Mauritanian sounds of goats braying and lunch over coals.
****”You will help me tonight.” My host mom Hadij announces. I laugh and agree, unsurprised by now at her forwardness. Dinner is cooking and the night surrounds us, a cool breeze whisking the heat off the day baked earth. My mom has just fixed the refrigerator that had been sitting in the corner of the saloon and changed the whole thing into a freezer. She now sells Bisap (a cold red drink) and bags of ice from her house. Tonight she is making more bottles and I am helping her. We sit on the bidons (yellow jugs of water) and begin the process. Boil the Bisap leaves, strain the juice, mix with water, mix with sugar and red drink mix and finally add the special essence (which is some unknown herb). I chat with her about my day as I clean out the bottles. Bisap bottles are reused water bottles – and when a customer drinks one, they return the bottle so it can be reused again. I clean the bottles with bleach and water, shaking them and wiping the tops, then passing them to Hadij to be filled. Salem, my host cousin, sits next to us playing cards with his friend. We taste our creation and smile at each other. “Me,” Hadij announces “I am a fabulous cook. One day I will go to America and make lots of money.” I laugh and agree on her cooking skills but try unsuccessfully to explain the inner-workings of American business. After we finish, I take a cold Bisap from the fridge and enjoy the icy delicious treat. “Make sure you tell your friends.” She tells me “There is enough for all of them now – only 50 ouguiya.” Sure, I tell her, they love the Bisap, I will have them come over tomorrow.
****It is early morning and I have just returned from an excellent run with one of my Peace Corps friends. My capri’s are dripping with sweat and the morning air is cool, just starting to warm. We ran along the main road and our minds wandered over the vast and dusty landscape dotted with green. The cars that rushed past us were driven by turban-wrapped men with sunglasses and we prided ourselves at being faster than the donkey carts. In the dunes and ditches, we caught glances of the slaughtering of goats and camels to be sold in the market. Back at my house, there was no water. I need my bucket bath and we do not have a water pump in our compound. I grab a bidon and a 20 ouguiya coin and walk down the street to the local boutique. They know me by now, and we exchange morning greetings and they fill my jug at the pump. I also grab a piece of bread and butter, the bread still fresh and warm, just brought in by the local baker. I lug the water back to my house, still quiet, and sit on the jug. As I eat my bread I watch the morning stretch across the sky.
****There is a goat head in the hand of my host cousin, Salem’s. He stands next to me and I stare at the lunch laid out before me. I just got back from teaching a morning English class and my appetite is wavering as the bloody blank eyed goat stares at me. Today Hadij is having a party, and to celebrate a goat was brought into out compound and slaughtered. It arrived the day before and stood braying for hours, perhaps knowing of the impending doom. I did my laundry that day and as my clothes hung on the line the mischievous goat hooked one of my t-shirts on its horn and ran around our yard. Hadij and her friend laughed deep belly shaking laughs as they watched me chase the white goat with a bright blue t-shirt attached to its head. I finally caught it and adjusted my clothes line a little higher, out of goat-horn range and laughed at the silly situation. Recalling the situation as I sat there eating my lunch, the white head, stained red, dangling next to me, I contemplated justice and retribution. Surely the poor goat didn’t deserve to be my dinner that night, but it was nice to know my future laundry was no longer in danger.
****I stand in front of my classroom. The front of my shirt dusted with chalk and my fingers smeared with erased words. I am teaching summer school and my students are in high-school (sixth year Lycee in Mauritania). Because it is summer school, there are not a lot of students; only about 20 show up each day. Today I’m teaching about Present Perfect and Present Perfect Progressive, a lesson I had to review and teach to myself again. English is not an easy language, and you soon discover that though you may know how to create a sentence, it’s very difficult to explain how it’s done. “Teacher, teacher!” They shout, snapping their fingers in the air when they know the answer. I feel comfortable teaching and though the summer school is a lot of work, it is also great practice for when I will have regular English classes during the school-year. Five days a week I create a lesson plan and teach for one or two hours a day. This will go on for three weeks, and then I will test my students and give the top students prizes. “What is the Past Participle of ‘to go’?” I ask them. I am met with dozens of snapping fingers and I choose a student, “Gone!” she answers. In Mauritania, the summer school kids are smart.
****I stifle a laugh as I sit on a rock in our yard. I am watching my host cousin Salam and our dog. Salem is standing by the dog with a bottle of black watery liquid in his hand. “Le chien est malade” He tells me. The dog is, as a matter of fact, sick. It has black bugs that resemble ticks on its back, face and ears. I’m sure it picked up some sort of disease in the thousands of garbage dumps that surround us. It’s a funny sight though, watching Salem apprehensively brushing black liquid onto the dog, quickly backing up and staring as the dog nonchalantly stares back at him. The dog, brown and white, slowly changes to black and brown as Salem brushed on the ‘medicine’. “Look at him…” Hadij scoffs “Salem, the ‘le médecin de chien’.” This makes me laugh out loud. Salem looks at me and I see a smile at the corner of him lips – the dog doctor. My mom is now laughing too, commenting on how soon, the dog will be as black as ‘le médecin de chien’. This has us all roaring as we watch the once white, now black dog, trot away and escape through a hole in the wall.
****Computers buzz around us and a wall fan hums, pushing around hot air. I am at the local Cyber with me new friend Cheihk. He works there and through talking with me and the other volunteers that frequent the internet café, has come to understand I teach English. He expressed his desire to learn English and asked if I could help him, so now I come a couple times a week to teach him one hour lessons – in exchange of course, for one hour free internet. This works out very well for both of us. I get to save my Peace Corps money for other things and still get to use the internet every week and Cheihk gets to learn English 101. I get the extra bonus of working on my French with him, as he is fluent.
****My Peace Corps friends and I lie on the roof and stare at the night sky. We are taking a break from ‘cultural integration’ and having a small American gathering. Our heads in a circle and our minds ticking, we discuss our life in Mauritania. The conversation shifts from hilarious conversations about pooping (a common subject here…) and deep thoughts about religion and government. They have quickly become my family. We support each other when our minds can’t wrap around a cultural norm, and ease the tension with jokes when we are sick and frustrated. Sometimes we lay quietly, silenced by the beauty of the endless sky. Shooting stars start up discussions once again and we chat into the Mauritanian air.
****A little girl peeks over the wall at me, I smile immediately. She is my buddy – petite Hadij. She had the same name as my host mom, and the same silly attitude too. I beckon her over and she climbs the wall into my courtyard. Her bright yellow dress looks perfect next her dark chocolate skin. Petite Hadij speaks only Hassaniya, and I only know bits and pieces. Though who needs language when you have a secret handshake? We created one shortly after meeting each other and we use it often. Petite Hadij loves to sit next to me under our tent in the courtyard and watch me make my English lesson plans for the following day. I let her use my colored pencils and she draws little pictures at my feet. Sometimes she dances. Tongue clicks and feet flying she shows me how to get down Mauritanian style. I found out the other day that her mom died the past year, and grande Hadij (my host mom) is one of petite Hadij’s caretakers – one of the reasons she is at our house so often. You would never be able to tell, her personality as bright as the yellow dress she wears so often. I’ll miss her sunny face peaking over the wall when I leave my host family. In my mind she’ll be dancing forever.
****”Do you understand?” Murbana asks me with imploring eyes. “Who is that? Is that the wife of the main character?” I ask. Murbana and I sit outside my house on a mat with a T.V. in front of us. The T.V. cord stretched from a plug in the saloon, and after some fiddling we got the reception working. We are watching a Wolof (Senegalese and Mauritanian culture) Drama that is very soap-opera-like. Murbana is Senegalese and speaks French, Hassaniya, Wolof and a little tiny bit of English. She is sitting next to me braiding my hair, translating the show from Wolof into French. “You see, that is the husband and that girl there is trying to be with the husband. She is pregnant and does not know who the father is. She needs to get married, so she will try to trick him… Watch!” She explains. With Murbana’s translations, I am heavily invested in the show. I lean forward and flick an ant off the screen. We hear the pot of rice and fish shift on the coals and the boiling water softly hisses. Murbana gets up and expertly adjusts the pot, most of her attention on the show. She is eighteen-years-old and is currently working for Hadij. She does some of the cooking and cleaning around the house – she may or may not get paid, that I haven’t exactly figured out, but she does get treated well and eats with us. She is beautiful. Her oval eyes are wide and shine with kindness, her thin face and African skin framed with a white and pink mulafe (veil, wrapped around body and head). I enjoy spending my afternoons sitting and chatting with her about Senegal and telling her stories from America. We laugh about my few words in Hassiniya and her few words in English, and we teach each other as much as we can. Murbana sits next to me again and continues with my braids. She informed me earlier that braids were necessary and made me go buy some rubber bands so she could do my hair. “See,” She says pointing at the T.V. “This is the real wife, she is going to be angry when she finds him with that girl.” I nod in agreement and the Wolof drama mixes with the Mauritanian sounds of goats braying and lunch over coals.
****”You will help me tonight.” My host mom Hadij announces. I laugh and agree, unsurprised by now at her forwardness. Dinner is cooking and the night surrounds us, a cool breeze whisking the heat off the day baked earth. My mom has just fixed the refrigerator that had been sitting in the corner of the saloon and changed the whole thing into a freezer. She now sells Bisap (a cold red drink) and bags of ice from her house. Tonight she is making more bottles and I am helping her. We sit on the bidons (yellow jugs of water) and begin the process. Boil the Bisap leaves, strain the juice, mix with water, mix with sugar and red drink mix and finally add the special essence (which is some unknown herb). I chat with her about my day as I clean out the bottles. Bisap bottles are reused water bottles – and when a customer drinks one, they return the bottle so it can be reused again. I clean the bottles with bleach and water, shaking them and wiping the tops, then passing them to Hadij to be filled. Salem, my host cousin, sits next to us playing cards with his friend. We taste our creation and smile at each other. “Me,” Hadij announces “I am a fabulous cook. One day I will go to America and make lots of money.” I laugh and agree on her cooking skills but try unsuccessfully to explain the inner-workings of American business. After we finish, I take a cold Bisap from the fridge and enjoy the icy delicious treat. “Make sure you tell your friends.” She tells me “There is enough for all of them now – only 50 ouguiya.” Sure, I tell her, they love the Bisap, I will have them come over tomorrow.
****It is early morning and I have just returned from an excellent run with one of my Peace Corps friends. My capri’s are dripping with sweat and the morning air is cool, just starting to warm. We ran along the main road and our minds wandered over the vast and dusty landscape dotted with green. The cars that rushed past us were driven by turban-wrapped men with sunglasses and we prided ourselves at being faster than the donkey carts. In the dunes and ditches, we caught glances of the slaughtering of goats and camels to be sold in the market. Back at my house, there was no water. I need my bucket bath and we do not have a water pump in our compound. I grab a bidon and a 20 ouguiya coin and walk down the street to the local boutique. They know me by now, and we exchange morning greetings and they fill my jug at the pump. I also grab a piece of bread and butter, the bread still fresh and warm, just brought in by the local baker. I lug the water back to my house, still quiet, and sit on the jug. As I eat my bread I watch the morning stretch across the sky.
****There is a goat head in the hand of my host cousin, Salem’s. He stands next to me and I stare at the lunch laid out before me. I just got back from teaching a morning English class and my appetite is wavering as the bloody blank eyed goat stares at me. Today Hadij is having a party, and to celebrate a goat was brought into out compound and slaughtered. It arrived the day before and stood braying for hours, perhaps knowing of the impending doom. I did my laundry that day and as my clothes hung on the line the mischievous goat hooked one of my t-shirts on its horn and ran around our yard. Hadij and her friend laughed deep belly shaking laughs as they watched me chase the white goat with a bright blue t-shirt attached to its head. I finally caught it and adjusted my clothes line a little higher, out of goat-horn range and laughed at the silly situation. Recalling the situation as I sat there eating my lunch, the white head, stained red, dangling next to me, I contemplated justice and retribution. Surely the poor goat didn’t deserve to be my dinner that night, but it was nice to know my future laundry was no longer in danger.
****I stand in front of my classroom. The front of my shirt dusted with chalk and my fingers smeared with erased words. I am teaching summer school and my students are in high-school (sixth year Lycee in Mauritania). Because it is summer school, there are not a lot of students; only about 20 show up each day. Today I’m teaching about Present Perfect and Present Perfect Progressive, a lesson I had to review and teach to myself again. English is not an easy language, and you soon discover that though you may know how to create a sentence, it’s very difficult to explain how it’s done. “Teacher, teacher!” They shout, snapping their fingers in the air when they know the answer. I feel comfortable teaching and though the summer school is a lot of work, it is also great practice for when I will have regular English classes during the school-year. Five days a week I create a lesson plan and teach for one or two hours a day. This will go on for three weeks, and then I will test my students and give the top students prizes. “What is the Past Participle of ‘to go’?” I ask them. I am met with dozens of snapping fingers and I choose a student, “Gone!” she answers. In Mauritania, the summer school kids are smart.
****I stifle a laugh as I sit on a rock in our yard. I am watching my host cousin Salam and our dog. Salem is standing by the dog with a bottle of black watery liquid in his hand. “Le chien est malade” He tells me. The dog is, as a matter of fact, sick. It has black bugs that resemble ticks on its back, face and ears. I’m sure it picked up some sort of disease in the thousands of garbage dumps that surround us. It’s a funny sight though, watching Salem apprehensively brushing black liquid onto the dog, quickly backing up and staring as the dog nonchalantly stares back at him. The dog, brown and white, slowly changes to black and brown as Salem brushed on the ‘medicine’. “Look at him…” Hadij scoffs “Salem, the ‘le médecin de chien’.” This makes me laugh out loud. Salem looks at me and I see a smile at the corner of him lips – the dog doctor. My mom is now laughing too, commenting on how soon, the dog will be as black as ‘le médecin de chien’. This has us all roaring as we watch the once white, now black dog, trot away and escape through a hole in the wall.
****Computers buzz around us and a wall fan hums, pushing around hot air. I am at the local Cyber with me new friend Cheihk. He works there and through talking with me and the other volunteers that frequent the internet café, has come to understand I teach English. He expressed his desire to learn English and asked if I could help him, so now I come a couple times a week to teach him one hour lessons – in exchange of course, for one hour free internet. This works out very well for both of us. I get to save my Peace Corps money for other things and still get to use the internet every week and Cheihk gets to learn English 101. I get the extra bonus of working on my French with him, as he is fluent.
****My Peace Corps friends and I lie on the roof and stare at the night sky. We are taking a break from ‘cultural integration’ and having a small American gathering. Our heads in a circle and our minds ticking, we discuss our life in Mauritania. The conversation shifts from hilarious conversations about pooping (a common subject here…) and deep thoughts about religion and government. They have quickly become my family. We support each other when our minds can’t wrap around a cultural norm, and ease the tension with jokes when we are sick and frustrated. Sometimes we lay quietly, silenced by the beauty of the endless sky. Shooting stars start up discussions once again and we chat into the Mauritanian air.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Lesson 1
The National Syllabus booklet dropped on the desk in front of me, sending up puffs of dust from my desk into the air. I thumb through the photocopied paper bound with a plastic spiral. Inside those pages are the building blocks to my future success as an English Teacher in Mauritania. I stretch my neck around and take in the classroom. Basic. There is a chalkboard, broken and chipped on the wall with lesson plans of the past scrawled in French and Arabic. There are rows of desks in bench style crammed against each other, time and weather worn. The walls, ceiling and floor are all cement, the windows are sparse and the paint is thin. In these schools the learning environment must come directly from the person standing in front of the room. Most things, actually, must come from directly from the teacher. In the majority of the schools there are no books, rather, you create the book as you teach. Each word written on that blackboard will be published on the spot, written as law inside the notebooks of students. The education system in Mauritania is anything but desirable. A rough history of reforms and disagreements split minds on what and how things should be taught. These discussions push classroom supplies, management and upkeep into the background. Surprising? Not at all. Frustrating? Infinitely.
To start, it’s important to note is that Mauritania is divided in many ways, like so many of its African sisters. Colonized by France, Mauritania became independent in 1961. This was long enough for traditions of French school systems, government and politics to saturate the culture. Before the 1999 reform schools were taught patchwork quilt style. Each region and school adapted to a different style of education and language depended on geographical location. After 1999 schools developed a language-specific education style. Science type classes (math, biology and chemistry) are taught in French while Humanities type (theology, history, religion) classes are taught in Arabic. English education is a requirement and begins halfway through College (equivalent to American middle school) and continues through Lycee (equivalent to American high-school). I spent a good amount of time and wasted a good amount of paper figuring out and internalizing the system.
In comparison to the American school system there is one thing that stands out in my mind. Teaching to tests is very prevalent. And it’s getting worse. The requirements to graduate Lycee (taking the Brevet) are getting more rigorous and graduating College (taking the Bach) is next to impossible. There are many brick walls for Mauritanian youth as they make their way through an already perplexing system. A student is extremely lucky to make it to University (American College) and if they do get there, they better have the resources to travel out of country to get to a good facility. One can only begin to imagine the mental damage such a frustrating system can cause on the psyche.
On top of all this, the shinning façade of the Millennium Development Goals comes into play. MDGs, in short, are 8 sector specific guidelines to achieve preconceived goals determined by the United Nations meant to directly improve a developing country’s status and economy by 2015. Though, something along the way of achieving these goals is beginning to sour – a case of good intentions gone wrong. Take Mauritania’s approach to the education MDG into consideration. The goal is to achieve universal primary education – an objective that is great, solid and measurable. The Ministry of Education in Mauritania is starting to achieved this goal but at a grave cost. The push to get more kids in school has worked, but now, there aren’t enough crumbly schools for all those kids and many are being taught by poorly educated/trained teachers. Too many kids and not enough teachers is the name of the game. This is why when I finally land my spot in the classroom, 90+ sets of eyes will be staring back at me. I’ll have the usual mix of jaded burnt out pre-teens, over-achievers and some that just don’t care. Yet these students will be jammed into a hot classroom, fighting for desk space and wondering why the hell I’m teaching in their village. Sounds fun right? But alas, I’m up for the challenge.
For many students, the burning question bubbles from the sulfurous surface “what can an education do for me anyway”. I respond – if nothing else, an education gives you self worth. No matter what you’re learning or who you are, when you learn you discover; you discover more about yourself and others. When it comes down to it, I’m teaching English to these kids so they can pass the test and head toward higher learning, not so they can have conversations with other people in the street. Most will not continue, many will fail and the few lucky ones will struggle. I’m going to try my hardest to teach them to my greatest ability, and try to develop side projects to get the creative juices flowing. I’m going to run into walls with my kids, and I’m going to get lost in the maze – but it’s good to know education is a universal struggle, that I have solidarity over seas. Plus, as a bonus, I just picked up a box of colored chalk at the market and it comes with the color green.
To start, it’s important to note is that Mauritania is divided in many ways, like so many of its African sisters. Colonized by France, Mauritania became independent in 1961. This was long enough for traditions of French school systems, government and politics to saturate the culture. Before the 1999 reform schools were taught patchwork quilt style. Each region and school adapted to a different style of education and language depended on geographical location. After 1999 schools developed a language-specific education style. Science type classes (math, biology and chemistry) are taught in French while Humanities type (theology, history, religion) classes are taught in Arabic. English education is a requirement and begins halfway through College (equivalent to American middle school) and continues through Lycee (equivalent to American high-school). I spent a good amount of time and wasted a good amount of paper figuring out and internalizing the system.
In comparison to the American school system there is one thing that stands out in my mind. Teaching to tests is very prevalent. And it’s getting worse. The requirements to graduate Lycee (taking the Brevet) are getting more rigorous and graduating College (taking the Bach) is next to impossible. There are many brick walls for Mauritanian youth as they make their way through an already perplexing system. A student is extremely lucky to make it to University (American College) and if they do get there, they better have the resources to travel out of country to get to a good facility. One can only begin to imagine the mental damage such a frustrating system can cause on the psyche.
On top of all this, the shinning façade of the Millennium Development Goals comes into play. MDGs, in short, are 8 sector specific guidelines to achieve preconceived goals determined by the United Nations meant to directly improve a developing country’s status and economy by 2015. Though, something along the way of achieving these goals is beginning to sour – a case of good intentions gone wrong. Take Mauritania’s approach to the education MDG into consideration. The goal is to achieve universal primary education – an objective that is great, solid and measurable. The Ministry of Education in Mauritania is starting to achieved this goal but at a grave cost. The push to get more kids in school has worked, but now, there aren’t enough crumbly schools for all those kids and many are being taught by poorly educated/trained teachers. Too many kids and not enough teachers is the name of the game. This is why when I finally land my spot in the classroom, 90+ sets of eyes will be staring back at me. I’ll have the usual mix of jaded burnt out pre-teens, over-achievers and some that just don’t care. Yet these students will be jammed into a hot classroom, fighting for desk space and wondering why the hell I’m teaching in their village. Sounds fun right? But alas, I’m up for the challenge.
For many students, the burning question bubbles from the sulfurous surface “what can an education do for me anyway”. I respond – if nothing else, an education gives you self worth. No matter what you’re learning or who you are, when you learn you discover; you discover more about yourself and others. When it comes down to it, I’m teaching English to these kids so they can pass the test and head toward higher learning, not so they can have conversations with other people in the street. Most will not continue, many will fail and the few lucky ones will struggle. I’m going to try my hardest to teach them to my greatest ability, and try to develop side projects to get the creative juices flowing. I’m going to run into walls with my kids, and I’m going to get lost in the maze – but it’s good to know education is a universal struggle, that I have solidarity over seas. Plus, as a bonus, I just picked up a box of colored chalk at the market and it comes with the color green.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
boom snap clap
As the daylight faded and the heat began to sizzle out of the Mauritanian air, I sat on the ground with my new friend Abdughai. He tends to come around our courtyard at dinner time to eat with us – and to make us laugh. At 13-years-old he has an explosive personality. He always has something to say, and though our conversations are stunted by our broken French, we have no problem finding something to giggle about. This particular night I was showing Abdughai a hand clap called “Boom, Snap, Clap” (shout out to OTR summer day-camp pre-teen girls for instilling those skillz). I would show him a section and have him repeat it; smack the chest, snap the fingers, clap the hands in a rhythmic beat. He sat facing me with determination in his eyes, stretching out a dirty yellow polo three sizes to big over his knees. “Un, deux, trois…” Again and again we beat out the rhythm, laughing at his mistakes and cheering at success. My host mom was stretched out beside us, lazily lying on her side observing my crazy antics once again. She laughed at our game and would occasionally call my name, trying to imitate the hand clap, but failing miserably. Eventually Abdughai succeeded and we celebrated with a victory dance (above all Abdughai loves to dance) and washed our hands to eat.
I still can’t figure out the complex structures of support here, but I have discovered a whole village does indeed raise a child. There always seem to be children here and there, brothers and sisters in and out, and visitors that end up staying for days. My host mom Hadij takes it all in stride, accepting visitors with ease – Bismillah means welcome, and in Mauritania it is the unquestionable way of life. This type of acceptance and sharing splits off into a rather odd direction, a behavior which I encounter every day. That is, the complexities surrounding “donne-moi”. Give me. Give me this and that and – oh – that too. It is something I know I will have to get used to here, as it slightly grinds my pride and extends just beyond my realm of cultural normalcy. It happens as I walk down the street and a woman shouts “give me your skirt!”, or in my home when Hadij sees my crazy American things “I loooooooove this! Give it to me!”. It’s everywhere. Even my language facilitator Jiddou, who teaches me French 6 hours a day isn’t withheld from asking me and my classmates for medicine for his awful toothache. The persistent “donne-moi” makes one feel slightly objectified. Yet – this begging doesn’t come without reason. My mirror, shoes and Peace Corps issued medical kit are mesmerizing to someone who lives in a society where everyone has the same things. Variety isn’t really a common word around here. The local market sells one laundry soap, one bucket (for bathing, laundry and kitchen use), one type of tea class… etc. The colors may vary, but the items are lackluster. This combined with a lifestyle that seems to draw from socialism creates a pardon when it comes to asking for others property. Looking closely, I see that this doesn’t solely apply to me, but to everyone in their culture. I heard Hadij ask a visitor of ours once for money. She later debriefed me that he had “beaucoup de l’argent” and could probably spare some.
This asking doesn’t go without giving. I sat with my host mom one afternoon as we ate her delicious fried fish, rice and veggie plate called Chebugen and talked about families. After a long, slightly hilarious conversation where I explained where Missouri was and why I had family in Belize, she told me about her family that live in the capital, Nouakchott. She explained to me that she had an older sister and brother and a mother. Her dad passed away in 2005 and because she has no children as her siblings do, her income goes straight to her mother, who is unemployed. Her Peace Corps issued money falls into many hands. This combined with the many visitors and children that make their way into our courtyard doesn’t make living easy. After many conversations about money and the complexities of the American dream, Hadij still believes she can become an exquisite chef in the USA, but has slightly eased up on asking me for my things. She shook her stirring spoon at Abdughai the other night when he asked me for 200 UM (equivalent to 90 cents) telling him to stop because I have no money. Hearing her yell at Abdughai was a great moment, not only because it sent Abdughai into a ‘you-can’t-catch-me-with-that-spoon’ dance, but also because I think we are beginning to understand eachother.
Last night I lay underneath the stars as Saalem made his rounds of tea and the whirring background of Hassaniya filled my head. I wrote in my journal and shooed the family goat away from my paper. Hadij asked what I was doing and I explained to her the best I could that it was for writing stories and letters. She took my journal from my and gazed at my scribbled English. With a click of her tongue she disapproved of my language preference and asked to write in my journal the “right way”. I laughed and passed over my book, opening to a fresh page. Hadij proceeded to write me a letter in Arabic showing me each word and explaining what it meant. Basically, it was a blessing on my name. The journal page then turned into an Arabic lesson as she drew different animals found in Mauritania and had me write the French name next to the Hassaniya name. We laughed, our heads crowded over the journal, when she tried to sketch a lizard, which turned into more of a snake.
My host mom and I are coming to a balance. Like every situation we have our good and bad days, but most bad days indicate a lack of cultural understanding between us. Each day, a small step, I begin to delve into the complexities – and when things do get rough, you should know that Mauritania has some really delicious mangos.
I still can’t figure out the complex structures of support here, but I have discovered a whole village does indeed raise a child. There always seem to be children here and there, brothers and sisters in and out, and visitors that end up staying for days. My host mom Hadij takes it all in stride, accepting visitors with ease – Bismillah means welcome, and in Mauritania it is the unquestionable way of life. This type of acceptance and sharing splits off into a rather odd direction, a behavior which I encounter every day. That is, the complexities surrounding “donne-moi”. Give me. Give me this and that and – oh – that too. It is something I know I will have to get used to here, as it slightly grinds my pride and extends just beyond my realm of cultural normalcy. It happens as I walk down the street and a woman shouts “give me your skirt!”, or in my home when Hadij sees my crazy American things “I loooooooove this! Give it to me!”. It’s everywhere. Even my language facilitator Jiddou, who teaches me French 6 hours a day isn’t withheld from asking me and my classmates for medicine for his awful toothache. The persistent “donne-moi” makes one feel slightly objectified. Yet – this begging doesn’t come without reason. My mirror, shoes and Peace Corps issued medical kit are mesmerizing to someone who lives in a society where everyone has the same things. Variety isn’t really a common word around here. The local market sells one laundry soap, one bucket (for bathing, laundry and kitchen use), one type of tea class… etc. The colors may vary, but the items are lackluster. This combined with a lifestyle that seems to draw from socialism creates a pardon when it comes to asking for others property. Looking closely, I see that this doesn’t solely apply to me, but to everyone in their culture. I heard Hadij ask a visitor of ours once for money. She later debriefed me that he had “beaucoup de l’argent” and could probably spare some.
This asking doesn’t go without giving. I sat with my host mom one afternoon as we ate her delicious fried fish, rice and veggie plate called Chebugen and talked about families. After a long, slightly hilarious conversation where I explained where Missouri was and why I had family in Belize, she told me about her family that live in the capital, Nouakchott. She explained to me that she had an older sister and brother and a mother. Her dad passed away in 2005 and because she has no children as her siblings do, her income goes straight to her mother, who is unemployed. Her Peace Corps issued money falls into many hands. This combined with the many visitors and children that make their way into our courtyard doesn’t make living easy. After many conversations about money and the complexities of the American dream, Hadij still believes she can become an exquisite chef in the USA, but has slightly eased up on asking me for my things. She shook her stirring spoon at Abdughai the other night when he asked me for 200 UM (equivalent to 90 cents) telling him to stop because I have no money. Hearing her yell at Abdughai was a great moment, not only because it sent Abdughai into a ‘you-can’t-catch-me-with-that-spoon’ dance, but also because I think we are beginning to understand eachother.
Last night I lay underneath the stars as Saalem made his rounds of tea and the whirring background of Hassaniya filled my head. I wrote in my journal and shooed the family goat away from my paper. Hadij asked what I was doing and I explained to her the best I could that it was for writing stories and letters. She took my journal from my and gazed at my scribbled English. With a click of her tongue she disapproved of my language preference and asked to write in my journal the “right way”. I laughed and passed over my book, opening to a fresh page. Hadij proceeded to write me a letter in Arabic showing me each word and explaining what it meant. Basically, it was a blessing on my name. The journal page then turned into an Arabic lesson as she drew different animals found in Mauritania and had me write the French name next to the Hassaniya name. We laughed, our heads crowded over the journal, when she tried to sketch a lizard, which turned into more of a snake.
My host mom and I are coming to a balance. Like every situation we have our good and bad days, but most bad days indicate a lack of cultural understanding between us. Each day, a small step, I begin to delve into the complexities – and when things do get rough, you should know that Mauritania has some really delicious mangos.
Friday, July 4, 2008
The more things seem to change, the more they stay the same
In Africa, people still laugh when you trip over yourself. I found this to be true during a Mauritanian dust/rainstorm the other night as my host family frantically ran around the rooms of my house. They quickly put buckets under the leaks, closed up the broken, splinter-wooden windows and pulled the blankets off the laundry line in the courtyard. While my host mom – Hadij – and her friend folded up the dirty carpet in one of the rooms I tried to jump over some buckets into the wet room and slid across the muddy floor, lanky arms flailing, and caught my balance before I tumbled onto the ground. I looked over at Hadij with wide eyes fixing my long skirt and adjusting my head wrap. The thunder of the storm couldn’t compete with the thunderous laughter that came from those two ladies. For a while the rain that clanged and poured through the tin roof onto the muddy concrete floor was forgotten as repeated impressions of my stumble ensued. I came to the conclusion long ago that when I trip in a new country, it’s a good sign. And good sign indeed. Mauritania is growing on me.
Mauritania isn’t a place that awes and amazes an onlooker – rather it’s a place that can very easily shock and disgust. But you have to look past the dusty, garbage covered ground and beyond the dilapidated concrete houses. You must understand that burping and spitting are expected and eating with your hands is necessary. You have to expect that the kid in the torn t-shirt dragging the goat by the leg across the street is probably on a dinner mission. (probably). When glanced at, it’s hard at first to see that tires and cassette tape guts are great toys, and difficult to tell the difference from a designated garbage dump site and someone’s courtyard. I’m slowly figuring things out.
My name in Mauritania is Noura. Noura Fall. My host mom Hadij promptly assigned it to me within the first two minutes of meeting me. When I first arrived the moment was almost overwhelming. I pulled up in a car to what seemed to be a house on a dusty road and my car was immediately surrounded by a large group of children. “Bonjour Madame! Ca va, ca va ca va?” The screamed as they fought to shake my hand. After a sternly barked order from a woman who was obviously the authority, the children scattered like ants and I was escorted out of the car. I was then pushed into a room where I encountered smiling faces of some plump looking women wearing thin cloths that covered their hair and extended to wrap around their body like a dress (called a Mulaffa). They chattered to each other and laughed at the sight of the new Toubabs (American’s or foreigners). I was handed over to my mother who, short, stout and smiling with melted chocolate skin and mischievous eyes, named me Noura.
Hadij grabbed my bag and we walked along the dirt-sand road through a maze of a neighborhood, stopping periodically to chat with neighbors; when I say ‘chat with neighbors’ I mostly mean to show me off - her Toubab and the latest fashion accessory. We arrived at my new house and stepped over a large pile of sand and pushed open a rusty door – held closed by a stretched string of rubber attached to the ground. I was greeted by my new friends – a fat goat, a scruffy dog and a mangy cat. I soon met my nephew Jacob, who is 15 and a soccer playing feign, and my cousin Salem, a tea-making expert. They showed me to my room, which is a extreme sun-faded yellow, has four walls, two windows, lots of ants and a foam mat on the floor. I stood in my room and smiled as the afternoon sun shone a dusty strip in the air. Having my own place in this large foreign place was comforting.
I’ve been stripped off most of my American ‘comforts’ and I have already gone through extreme change. The lack of: toilet paper, English language, showers and air conditioning are just the beginning. I live among stark poverty. I see people stricken with Malaria and children with tomato cans beg for money and food. I see goats lay down to sleep with people and small girls with babies tied to their backs. There are so many things different from what I was used to. But, there are also card games and tea, family meals and morning coffee (instant Nescafe still counts!). There are jokes and laughter, there’s complaining and praising and dancing to music and drums. There are friendships and family ties. I look forward to figuring out more as I become a part of my community and share culture with culture. So many things different, and so many things the same. I think I tripped into the right place.
Mauritania isn’t a place that awes and amazes an onlooker – rather it’s a place that can very easily shock and disgust. But you have to look past the dusty, garbage covered ground and beyond the dilapidated concrete houses. You must understand that burping and spitting are expected and eating with your hands is necessary. You have to expect that the kid in the torn t-shirt dragging the goat by the leg across the street is probably on a dinner mission. (probably). When glanced at, it’s hard at first to see that tires and cassette tape guts are great toys, and difficult to tell the difference from a designated garbage dump site and someone’s courtyard. I’m slowly figuring things out.
My name in Mauritania is Noura. Noura Fall. My host mom Hadij promptly assigned it to me within the first two minutes of meeting me. When I first arrived the moment was almost overwhelming. I pulled up in a car to what seemed to be a house on a dusty road and my car was immediately surrounded by a large group of children. “Bonjour Madame! Ca va, ca va ca va?” The screamed as they fought to shake my hand. After a sternly barked order from a woman who was obviously the authority, the children scattered like ants and I was escorted out of the car. I was then pushed into a room where I encountered smiling faces of some plump looking women wearing thin cloths that covered their hair and extended to wrap around their body like a dress (called a Mulaffa). They chattered to each other and laughed at the sight of the new Toubabs (American’s or foreigners). I was handed over to my mother who, short, stout and smiling with melted chocolate skin and mischievous eyes, named me Noura.
Hadij grabbed my bag and we walked along the dirt-sand road through a maze of a neighborhood, stopping periodically to chat with neighbors; when I say ‘chat with neighbors’ I mostly mean to show me off - her Toubab and the latest fashion accessory. We arrived at my new house and stepped over a large pile of sand and pushed open a rusty door – held closed by a stretched string of rubber attached to the ground. I was greeted by my new friends – a fat goat, a scruffy dog and a mangy cat. I soon met my nephew Jacob, who is 15 and a soccer playing feign, and my cousin Salem, a tea-making expert. They showed me to my room, which is a extreme sun-faded yellow, has four walls, two windows, lots of ants and a foam mat on the floor. I stood in my room and smiled as the afternoon sun shone a dusty strip in the air. Having my own place in this large foreign place was comforting.
I’ve been stripped off most of my American ‘comforts’ and I have already gone through extreme change. The lack of: toilet paper, English language, showers and air conditioning are just the beginning. I live among stark poverty. I see people stricken with Malaria and children with tomato cans beg for money and food. I see goats lay down to sleep with people and small girls with babies tied to their backs. There are so many things different from what I was used to. But, there are also card games and tea, family meals and morning coffee (instant Nescafe still counts!). There are jokes and laughter, there’s complaining and praising and dancing to music and drums. There are friendships and family ties. I look forward to figuring out more as I become a part of my community and share culture with culture. So many things different, and so many things the same. I think I tripped into the right place.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
Preservation of Culture
There is a major question many countries all over the world have tried to answer – that is “How do we preserve our culture?” Our world is continuously changing and we continue to gain closer access to other nations through our ever-improving technology. While modern ideas and developments can improve a country’s wellbeing, at times they can threaten the very things that make that country unique. This destruction of culture has fallen under many labels - one of the more familiar descriptions is McDonaldization. That is a society becoming more uniform, ration and predictable – based on American values of efficiency. The symbolism of yellow arches shine with modernization and promise of a better life, as well as the guarantee of greasy hamburgers and french fries 24 hours a day. Yet, while McDonaldization is based on improvement of society, it disrupts the very things that make a society distinctive. Yet, some people aren’t willing to hand over their cultural identity to Roland McDonald, and protests and demonstrations have surrounded attempts at integrating restaurants and ideas into a society. In Belize KFC suffered at the hands of Belizeans who preferred their chicken fried in coconut oil, and failed to thrive as a business.
Culture is a representative word that covers a great number of areas and subjects. In the book Taking Stock of Belize at 25 Years of Independence Michael Stone, in my opinion, effectively describes culture. Stone said that culture refers to an entire way of life, a people’s shared perception of what is essential to the human condition, a dynamic set of ideas expressing a common sense of place, history, and social belonging, framed in terms of language, values, norms, customs, traditions, spiritual orientation, and the like. Taking this into consideration Belize faces many things that threaten culture. Belize must not only be careful of modern, specifically American, ideas and technology, but also the lack of the means to preserve and promote culture. In a recent documentary about Belize musicians titled Three Kings of Belize, there were undertones of the difficulties of preserving culture. In the documentary producer Katia Paradis filmed the lives of Garifuna guitarist Paul Nabor, Mayan harp player Florencio Mess, and Creole accordionist Wilfred Peters. Though they still continue to express their culture passionately through music, they are not living the lives of national celebrities. This documentary may be the most solid way their lives and careers will be commemorated. You can find Florencio Mess in a dirt floor house, living off the land and carving instruments out of the wood from his backyard. Paul Nabor, who has become re-popular because of his collaborations with Andy Palacio, still makes appearances on stage at 79 – his small fragile frame clad in a sharp suit and hat. But, take a bus to Punta Gorda in Belize and you can easily find him sitting on a bench, smoking and strumming in the sun, his paranda music the background of daily routines. After living here and being immersed in the music, it’s hard to imagine such powerful expression of culture lost – but, because of the lack of documentation, outside of these borders not many know about these three kings.
Andy Palacio was one of the first Belizean musicians to gain international acclaim. He was an advocate for the preservation of Garifuna culture and produced the album Watina, which immediately became a hit in the Caribbean and is still spreading to the rest of the world. But Palacio, such a great expression of culture for Belize, recently died after suffering a massive stroke and heart attack. His death is a tragedy – passing at such a breakthrough in his career. I realized what Palacio truly meant to Belizeans one night when standing in line at a grocery store. The T.V. at the front of the store was showing local news on mute and the store bustled with people gathering things for the night’s dinner. When a story about Palacio’s condition came on the whole store stopped what they were doing and looked at the T.V. - everyone became quiet as the volume was turned up. As I glanced around at the people standing still in the store, absorbing every word of the report I could feel the collective holding of breath. Time was stopped for a second. The report, at that time, said Palacio’s condition was still critical, and when it was over the T.V. was muted and the bustle continued in slow motion as people processed the news.
The sad news of Palacio’s death brought thoughts about culture into the front of Belizean minds. I recently attended a discussion about culture held at the Image Factory, a business that produces and sells art. The focus was how to promote cultural awareness and preservation in the next 5 years. Many ideas and proposals were put forward, including an Art Fund to support new artistic talent by supplying loans and grants, as well as a project called “One child, One laptop” which will provide computers to children. The event was held next to the sea and attended by some of the most popular Belizean artists. In such a sad time, there was audible and tangible hope and perhaps a new passion to enhance and document culture.
It is promising that Belizeans realize the importance culture plays in a country. Artistic expression has historical implications and at times, reflects the true feelings and interpretation of events. For example, in Mexico, the art surrounding the Revolution played a major role in not only remembering the Revolution, but in forming ideas and opinions during the Revolution. So cultural expression not only acts as a history book, but can even be used as a tool for social mobilization.
So whether sung by Paul Nabor, written in poetry by Kalilah Enriquez, illustrated in cartoons by Charles Chavannes, painted by Michael Gordon, photographed by Noris Hall, or sculpted by Luke Palacio – Belizean culture will thrive. It stays alive through Carnival, through kite season, through bramming, through rice n’ beans and Maria Sharps hot sauce. Culture lives in the brightly colored homes, in the mahogany wood cut games, in the meat shops and in steel drums. Culture is preserved by Creole Project, which puts the Creole language in print, documenting a language that is prominently oral and given a promising future through the support of Yassar Musa and the Image Factory’s “Culture is Cool” program.
I’ve met Belize’s culture face-to-face and proud to claim roots in this small Central American country. Though there are things that threaten Belizean traditions, the pulse is strong and the vein runs deep from Belize City and through San Ignacio, Corozal, Dangriga, Orange Walk, and Punta Gorda. I look forward to keeping an eye and an ear on the developments. Watina will remain a powerful song to me – meaning “I called out”. Palacio’s passionate singing has found a place in the hearts of all Belizeans, and won’t be forgotten; therefore, because of him, the Garifuna culture has a found place in history.
Culture is a representative word that covers a great number of areas and subjects. In the book Taking Stock of Belize at 25 Years of Independence Michael Stone, in my opinion, effectively describes culture. Stone said that culture refers to an entire way of life, a people’s shared perception of what is essential to the human condition, a dynamic set of ideas expressing a common sense of place, history, and social belonging, framed in terms of language, values, norms, customs, traditions, spiritual orientation, and the like. Taking this into consideration Belize faces many things that threaten culture. Belize must not only be careful of modern, specifically American, ideas and technology, but also the lack of the means to preserve and promote culture. In a recent documentary about Belize musicians titled Three Kings of Belize, there were undertones of the difficulties of preserving culture. In the documentary producer Katia Paradis filmed the lives of Garifuna guitarist Paul Nabor, Mayan harp player Florencio Mess, and Creole accordionist Wilfred Peters. Though they still continue to express their culture passionately through music, they are not living the lives of national celebrities. This documentary may be the most solid way their lives and careers will be commemorated. You can find Florencio Mess in a dirt floor house, living off the land and carving instruments out of the wood from his backyard. Paul Nabor, who has become re-popular because of his collaborations with Andy Palacio, still makes appearances on stage at 79 – his small fragile frame clad in a sharp suit and hat. But, take a bus to Punta Gorda in Belize and you can easily find him sitting on a bench, smoking and strumming in the sun, his paranda music the background of daily routines. After living here and being immersed in the music, it’s hard to imagine such powerful expression of culture lost – but, because of the lack of documentation, outside of these borders not many know about these three kings.
Andy Palacio was one of the first Belizean musicians to gain international acclaim. He was an advocate for the preservation of Garifuna culture and produced the album Watina, which immediately became a hit in the Caribbean and is still spreading to the rest of the world. But Palacio, such a great expression of culture for Belize, recently died after suffering a massive stroke and heart attack. His death is a tragedy – passing at such a breakthrough in his career. I realized what Palacio truly meant to Belizeans one night when standing in line at a grocery store. The T.V. at the front of the store was showing local news on mute and the store bustled with people gathering things for the night’s dinner. When a story about Palacio’s condition came on the whole store stopped what they were doing and looked at the T.V. - everyone became quiet as the volume was turned up. As I glanced around at the people standing still in the store, absorbing every word of the report I could feel the collective holding of breath. Time was stopped for a second. The report, at that time, said Palacio’s condition was still critical, and when it was over the T.V. was muted and the bustle continued in slow motion as people processed the news.
The sad news of Palacio’s death brought thoughts about culture into the front of Belizean minds. I recently attended a discussion about culture held at the Image Factory, a business that produces and sells art. The focus was how to promote cultural awareness and preservation in the next 5 years. Many ideas and proposals were put forward, including an Art Fund to support new artistic talent by supplying loans and grants, as well as a project called “One child, One laptop” which will provide computers to children. The event was held next to the sea and attended by some of the most popular Belizean artists. In such a sad time, there was audible and tangible hope and perhaps a new passion to enhance and document culture.
It is promising that Belizeans realize the importance culture plays in a country. Artistic expression has historical implications and at times, reflects the true feelings and interpretation of events. For example, in Mexico, the art surrounding the Revolution played a major role in not only remembering the Revolution, but in forming ideas and opinions during the Revolution. So cultural expression not only acts as a history book, but can even be used as a tool for social mobilization.
So whether sung by Paul Nabor, written in poetry by Kalilah Enriquez, illustrated in cartoons by Charles Chavannes, painted by Michael Gordon, photographed by Noris Hall, or sculpted by Luke Palacio – Belizean culture will thrive. It stays alive through Carnival, through kite season, through bramming, through rice n’ beans and Maria Sharps hot sauce. Culture lives in the brightly colored homes, in the mahogany wood cut games, in the meat shops and in steel drums. Culture is preserved by Creole Project, which puts the Creole language in print, documenting a language that is prominently oral and given a promising future through the support of Yassar Musa and the Image Factory’s “Culture is Cool” program.
I’ve met Belize’s culture face-to-face and proud to claim roots in this small Central American country. Though there are things that threaten Belizean traditions, the pulse is strong and the vein runs deep from Belize City and through San Ignacio, Corozal, Dangriga, Orange Walk, and Punta Gorda. I look forward to keeping an eye and an ear on the developments. Watina will remain a powerful song to me – meaning “I called out”. Palacio’s passionate singing has found a place in the hearts of all Belizeans, and won’t be forgotten; therefore, because of him, the Garifuna culture has a found place in history.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
UNICEF Belize
The quiet shuffle of papers is interrupted by the deep bluesy voice of Roy Bowen as his song trails through the office halls with a round of Lola. My office-mates who sit with me in the conference room late one Friday evening smile and chuckle at our current situation. UNICEF set up a meeting entitled “Boys and Education: The Unspoken Gender Dimension” and it was currently in full swing. But, as events go, preparation crunch time had brought us to this curious moment. We had just returned from the opening reception and dinner ceremony, which kick-started the weekend conference and we still had last minute work to prepare for the next days’ discussions.
Eyes glazed and minds slowly ticking, we prepared folders for the participants of the conference glancing out at the darkened Belizean sky. The assembly line was in steady swing. Papers were rhythmically punched, three ring binders clicked, stacks lined and put into place. As we moved, serenaded by round two of Roy’s disembodied voice, quiet Creole conversation ensued. Here were dedicated workers.
But, sometimes I think that they forget what they do – my UNICEF friends. I remember Rana Flowers, the director, once asking me as she bustled by my desk one day “Why am I doing this, Ashley, remind me?” I smiled and quickly responded, half-jokingly, “It’s for the children…” She laughed, sighed and then headed back to her office.
It’s easy to forget though. The connection of ends and means gets lost in the stress and the rush. Working with UNICEF has shown me more than I expected. Not only how a UN agency works in a developing country, but how much a struggle it can be to prove your country needs help. UNICEF Belize is teetering on the edge of existence. When a country reaches a certain status, UNICEF isn’t needed anymore.
Belize statistically has decent national indicators, but socially – on a ground level – it’s obvious Belize needs as much help as they can get. So for UNICEF it comes down to proving the situation is dire in order to survive as an organization. That is where the disconnection settles in. At a UN government level the proof must not come in sad gripping stories and pictures of barefoot round bellied children, but in graphs and numbers.
Liquefying funds. Something I’ve become familiar with sitting in the conference room with the programme staff as they discuss the various state of UNICEF’s money; Where it’s going, where it came from, but most of all, how to get rid of it. Yes, Rid of It. That surprised me when I heard it tossed into a conversation about getting potable water and improved sanitation to the villages of Belize. There is a need to use up all available funds in order to PROVE you need them – or else the next year you will see less, and maybe be out of a job.
Compared to other counties that have UNICEF, the Belize situation seems peachy – small and peaceful, without war or extreme famine. So the staff at UNICEF must struggle daily to prove the children in Belize need assistance. They must speak louder than the statistics. It is difficult to do so with information like infant mortality rates, which per 1,000 births in Belize is 24, and in a country like Guyana is 48. Taking this into consideration it isn’t surprising that a country like Belize gets pushed into the background.
This is one of the reasons the staff gets caught up in money and management. But seeing is believing, and field visits seem to knock the sense back into their heads. Visiting a village in the Cayo District and observing children getting drinking and washing water out of rusty broken sinks is an image that can stick with you for a while – hopefully all the way back to the office. It is easy to sit and tick off “yes” or “no” on a chart asking what UNICEF Belize accomplished that year. But look deeper into the questions and the humanity creeps back into the room.
During the “Boys and Education: The Unspoken Gender Dimension” conference I saw people coming together on behalf of humanity. The bottom line of this successful conference was that there is an infringement upon the rights of children to education. The denying of rights is revealed in insufficient access, poor treatment in schools, high rates of violence, dilapidated condition of schools, and lack of trained teachers. The holes are wide, gaping and often obvious. Below the surface, the boys struggle. It has been proven that boys struggle in the system a little more than girls. There are many reasons for this, written in countless books and articles and is a trend that has been discussed for years. Yet, the problems for both genders to obtain an education that is complete and useful are intertwined, so the main point is that the school systems are lacking. Both boys and girls need better education, and that means multiple things. It means improved after school programs, more parent involvement, more opportunities to continue education, and less encounters with drugs and violence on the walk to and from school, to name a few.
Hearing people speak passionately about this issue was refreshing. I got to meet the people I had only researched. I also got to see the development of new innovative ideas to address the problem from all angles. Meeting such as these are the types of things that bring purpose back into the job. There is an undeniable power to watching a video of a young boy in Belize talking about how he dropped out because it was impossible for him to afford education at age 14 or listening to an 11 year old speak about how he was expelled for bad behaviour and now thinks it’s too late to continue his education. These are the things that put fuel back into the minds of UNICEF and other attendees of the conference. It is a great scene to witness. Those moments are to be treasured – because it won’t be long till we are back in the conference room liquefying funds and ticking off questions with simple answers.
With realization, complications grow – there is suddenly yet another identified problem, waiting to be fixed. UNICEF continues to teeter on the edge of existence and more issues continue to pile on, adding to the imbalance. But that is what is beautiful about an organization like UNICEF. There is a constant discovery. A new catalyst hit each week. A constant refreshing remembrance of why you choose the path. As deep as a person can get buried in papers and deadlines, any accomplishment changes a child’s life for the better. And that is something to be proud of.
Eyes glazed and minds slowly ticking, we prepared folders for the participants of the conference glancing out at the darkened Belizean sky. The assembly line was in steady swing. Papers were rhythmically punched, three ring binders clicked, stacks lined and put into place. As we moved, serenaded by round two of Roy’s disembodied voice, quiet Creole conversation ensued. Here were dedicated workers.
But, sometimes I think that they forget what they do – my UNICEF friends. I remember Rana Flowers, the director, once asking me as she bustled by my desk one day “Why am I doing this, Ashley, remind me?” I smiled and quickly responded, half-jokingly, “It’s for the children…” She laughed, sighed and then headed back to her office.
It’s easy to forget though. The connection of ends and means gets lost in the stress and the rush. Working with UNICEF has shown me more than I expected. Not only how a UN agency works in a developing country, but how much a struggle it can be to prove your country needs help. UNICEF Belize is teetering on the edge of existence. When a country reaches a certain status, UNICEF isn’t needed anymore.
Belize statistically has decent national indicators, but socially – on a ground level – it’s obvious Belize needs as much help as they can get. So for UNICEF it comes down to proving the situation is dire in order to survive as an organization. That is where the disconnection settles in. At a UN government level the proof must not come in sad gripping stories and pictures of barefoot round bellied children, but in graphs and numbers.
Liquefying funds. Something I’ve become familiar with sitting in the conference room with the programme staff as they discuss the various state of UNICEF’s money; Where it’s going, where it came from, but most of all, how to get rid of it. Yes, Rid of It. That surprised me when I heard it tossed into a conversation about getting potable water and improved sanitation to the villages of Belize. There is a need to use up all available funds in order to PROVE you need them – or else the next year you will see less, and maybe be out of a job.
Compared to other counties that have UNICEF, the Belize situation seems peachy – small and peaceful, without war or extreme famine. So the staff at UNICEF must struggle daily to prove the children in Belize need assistance. They must speak louder than the statistics. It is difficult to do so with information like infant mortality rates, which per 1,000 births in Belize is 24, and in a country like Guyana is 48. Taking this into consideration it isn’t surprising that a country like Belize gets pushed into the background.
This is one of the reasons the staff gets caught up in money and management. But seeing is believing, and field visits seem to knock the sense back into their heads. Visiting a village in the Cayo District and observing children getting drinking and washing water out of rusty broken sinks is an image that can stick with you for a while – hopefully all the way back to the office. It is easy to sit and tick off “yes” or “no” on a chart asking what UNICEF Belize accomplished that year. But look deeper into the questions and the humanity creeps back into the room.
During the “Boys and Education: The Unspoken Gender Dimension” conference I saw people coming together on behalf of humanity. The bottom line of this successful conference was that there is an infringement upon the rights of children to education. The denying of rights is revealed in insufficient access, poor treatment in schools, high rates of violence, dilapidated condition of schools, and lack of trained teachers. The holes are wide, gaping and often obvious. Below the surface, the boys struggle. It has been proven that boys struggle in the system a little more than girls. There are many reasons for this, written in countless books and articles and is a trend that has been discussed for years. Yet, the problems for both genders to obtain an education that is complete and useful are intertwined, so the main point is that the school systems are lacking. Both boys and girls need better education, and that means multiple things. It means improved after school programs, more parent involvement, more opportunities to continue education, and less encounters with drugs and violence on the walk to and from school, to name a few.
Hearing people speak passionately about this issue was refreshing. I got to meet the people I had only researched. I also got to see the development of new innovative ideas to address the problem from all angles. Meeting such as these are the types of things that bring purpose back into the job. There is an undeniable power to watching a video of a young boy in Belize talking about how he dropped out because it was impossible for him to afford education at age 14 or listening to an 11 year old speak about how he was expelled for bad behaviour and now thinks it’s too late to continue his education. These are the things that put fuel back into the minds of UNICEF and other attendees of the conference. It is a great scene to witness. Those moments are to be treasured – because it won’t be long till we are back in the conference room liquefying funds and ticking off questions with simple answers.
With realization, complications grow – there is suddenly yet another identified problem, waiting to be fixed. UNICEF continues to teeter on the edge of existence and more issues continue to pile on, adding to the imbalance. But that is what is beautiful about an organization like UNICEF. There is a constant discovery. A new catalyst hit each week. A constant refreshing remembrance of why you choose the path. As deep as a person can get buried in papers and deadlines, any accomplishment changes a child’s life for the better. And that is something to be proud of.
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