It is well over 100 degrees outside and hotter on the bus. Malians generally dislike wind and the doors and windows of the crowded bus are kept closed tight. I feel the sweat roll down my legs and look ahead. Jennifer and I are perched atop 20 liter jugs in the aisles. The back seats are crowded with Nigerians, their distinctive style easily separating them from the Malians. The woman have huge Rihanna-style bouffants and the men have pierced ears. When we stop at the checkpoint outside of Sevare, we are stuck for an hour as the gendarmes try to communicate with the Nigerians, who do not speak Bambara or French. The Nigerian women's faces, crowded with facial scarring, turn to one another and laugh at their inability to understand and the staring eyes of the crowd, feeling out of the place, I suppose, much like we do as toubabs.
In Sevare, the Nigerians get out and Joe and Ashley get on. We take the Nigerians seats in the back. While night has fallen, the busy churning of the motor beneath us keeps the sweat pouring down my legs. A Songhrai boy wears mittens for some inexplicable reason and stares back at us. In Douentza, a man sits down in front of Ashley and takes anxious sips from his non-Alcoholic Malt beer. He takes off his sunglasses, polishes them thoroughly, puts them on, polishes them again, puts them on, and finally moves them to perch atop his head. Every time the back doors open, he cleans his glasses again. The road between Douentza and Hombori, our destination is dusty as we move closer and closer to the Sahara. The bus soon fills with dust and when the lights turn on when we hit potholes, we can see the dust lying everywhere around us. The man in front of Ashley becomes even more anxious with the dust and repeatedly stands up to wildly shake out his clothes. He checks the floor of the bus -- littered with egg shells and plastic bags, orange and banana peals -- and sweeps away the trash surrounding him. He continually rises to check that his baggage is as he left it, sitting back down and frantically running his hands over his prayer beads. Ashley and I, after first supposing the man was perhaps drunk, realize he must have some form of OCD. In a country where you often have to travel to your regional capital to find a doctor, much less a psychiatrist, I cannot begin to imagine the struggles this man must face.
We reach Hombori well past midnight and it is not until morning, waking up to a hot sun, that we see the desolate landscape we have found ourselves in. The land surrounding the town is dry, filled with sparse brush grass and broken by huge rock formations. We can see sand dunes from the roof and there is a shop down the road renting snowboards to tourists to ride down the dunes. but we are here to climb Hombori Tondo, the highest point in Mali.
We pack as much water as we can carry into our bags and head out with little else. There is no water on the trail, the sun is hot, and we won't be back until tomorrow. We climb for three hours until we reach the back of Hombori Tondo, a huge rock formation with a flat top that overlooks Hombori. We are already tired when we reach the cable, where we will clip in and climb to the top. Jennifer goes first, clipping into the cable and using the rocks to leverage her body up the steep rock face. I am at the back, following Ashley, and the ascent is immediately terrifying and hard. Even though we are secured by our harnesses, I'm sure I'll fall and when I look down the descent is steep and the chance of help minimal. But Jennifer keeps moving, Joe clips into the next bolt and instructs Ashley on where to put her feet and all I can do is follow.
It is nightfall before we reach the top and we climb the last bit with our headlamps on and the bright moon shining over us. Exhausted, we roll out our mats and pull out food. I try not to think about the descent. We begin to talk about the life goals we will have crossed off after leaving Peace Corps. Crossing African borders by land, Joe says, and learning an African language. We laugh and Jennifer says it sounds like Joe is writing his goals to fit what life has offered him.
I start to think not so much about my own goals, but about what I've done here that I certainly wouldn't have had the guts to do on my own, without these friends by my side. Without these friends teaching me new words, there would be severe shortages in my Bambara vocabulary. My understanding of Malian culture would be limited only to what I saw and how I interpreted it. I wouldn't have climbed Hombori Tondo. I wouldn't have pushed so hard or asked for so much. Without these friends, I am not sure I would have had it in me to stay here or be so happy doing it.
Joe lights a fire to keep away the bugs and I spread my shirt in front of it to try to dry the sweat. The wind blows up in the night and I haven't been this cold since I left America. I sit up on my mat and put on my glasses. The moon has fallen and the stars are bright and oh-so-close, O'Ryan's Belt within arm's reach.
When I joined the Peace Corps, I did not think of the other volunteers I would meet. I didn't know how much I would depend on them to listen to my stories, pull me out of the dark days and make me laugh at it all. Without them, it would be too much to digest on my own. Combined, we can piece our experiences together to try to understand where we are and how we fit in.
In just months now, we will separate as we choose new adventures beyond Mali. But I have a feeling: coming home will not be easy either. Just as I clipped into the cable to keep me from falling, I will hold onto those Peace Corps friends. Here, they have kept me from losing my identity as Cassie. At home, they will be the few who know me as Samouhan.
*I continue to neglect my camera, but check out photos on Joe and Ashley's blog: http://wollersheimtime.blogspot.com/
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Near and Far
Do you know what it means to have your parents travel across the world, through countless airports and across borders, to see where you have built another life?
Do you know what it means to introduce your mother and your father to those have become your family, yet know you only as Samouhan?
It means a collision of two worlds: of Mali and America; Samouhan and Cassie; a life that I was born into and another that I've created.
I had been telling everyone that my parents would be coming to visit me since I moved to the village. In 2010, I said. In cold season, I said. In three months, two months, one month, I said. In 4 weeks, two weeks, three days. Before I left to pick them up, I came out of my house and looked at Banta. I tried to explain how I felt: nervous, excited, anxious. "I kono guana," she said: your stomach is heating up.
She was right, my stomach was heating up. Not only was the trip important to me in that my parents would be able to see and better understand what I had been doing, but in that the people who I have become close to here in Mali would meet my real family and catch a glimpse of who I was, and am, besides a single girl past marrying age who speaks halting Bambara.
When we step off the bus -- Mom, Dad, Marika and I -- I can feel everyone's eyes on us. As we walk by the women selling dry oranges and peanuts, past the spot where the chief of the village sits, and through the market, I try to see this place as it must look to Mom and Dad and fail. The goats and chickens are normal, the mud mosque just a sign that I'm close to home, and each door and compound wall is the home of a friend or neighbor.
There is something different though, and even I notice it: it's a buzz in the air, a hum that builds and catches. Samouhan's parents have arrived, and the news spreads fast. Banta comes running out, shaking Mom's hand, Dad's hand, Marika's, babbling so fast in Bambara that I tell her, "Remember, Banta! I told you not to be crazy! Greet them slowly." So she starts all over again, testing the Bambara my mother worked so studiously at for months before her arrival.
Neighbors begin to flow in, anxious to see my family who have come from so far just to see me. It takes us hours to leave the compound in the mornings, as a long stream of men and women, old and young, come to say hello. They ask about everyone in America. They ask about Johnny and Becky who have come before them. "Eh, Allah," they say and shower blessings upon us. They bring chickens and guinea fowl, meat and fruit and bread. There is so much food and more meat than I've seen since Tabaski. By the end of their stay, my family is tired of chicken, but I'm not: I know I'll never eat this well again while I'm still in Mali.
Dad has been named for the chief of the village's father, Coby Daou, and everywhere we go, people cry out to him: "Coby! Bi Daou!" By Malian standards -- with grown children and grey hair -- Dad is an elder and much respected man. He is, by far, the most important member of our group and everyone wants to shake his hand. There are offers to give him new wives and a parcel of lamp to build his own mud house. They call him the chief of the village. "Nba," Dad says. It's the only Bambara he knows (literally, "My mother" -- women say "Nse," which means "My power") but it is good enough.
It takes us hours to get anywhere, even in a small village. Every single person calls us over to say hello. One woman I don't know presents Mom with a jar of honey. Mom's name is Korobora, one of the original Coby Daou's wives. She is long dead, but her children are all eager to meet the American reincarnation of their mother and the general opinion among the community is that Mom looks just like her togoma, or namesake. A straight nose is a mark of beauty here and Korobora was well known for her nose, which she would often jokingly put on sale for about $10. Mom quickly gets in the spirit of it and tips her head in the air, pinches her nose, and cries out "Wa kelen kelen!" (Ten dollars!).
One morning, the chief of the village and all his counselors come to greet Coby and Korobora. The chief of the village has never visited my compound before and Banta squeezes chairs under the hangar that provides shade. I perch on the end of one of the long, wooden lounge chairs that Banta and I spend our days gossiping in and think of how the chief of the village would never have come here if not for the visit of my mother and father. It's almost Christmas and we have decorated the compound with Christmas decorations sent from home -- ornaments from Aunt Julie and fake snow from Cindy Nordlof. As the chief and his counselors give blessings and make short speeches, the snow slips from the top of the hangar and begins to gently fall over the chief.
As we go around town, people repeat over and over that I have become a true member of the community. It seems an odd time for them to say it, at the moment when my family have come, marking me as the child of a different world. But it's true -- I have never felt so a part of things and so honored. I will never be Malian but right now it is enough to just be the toubab who belongs in this village.
The chief of the village's mother -- Lahmine and Baamu and Adama's mother -- passes away towards the end of our visit after many years of sickness. We attend the funeral, my mother, Marika and I surrounded by women with heads covered and my father sitting among the men. Here, in this most intimate of moments, we have found a common turf. Despite the differences between these two worlds which are at times impressive and vast, exciting and intimidating, there is unity in this: the death of a mother.
Time passed all too fast as it is wont to do, and before I knew it, the trip that I had been looking forward to for so long was over and I returned to my village alone. Alone, but now with a bit more color with which the community could paint in the picture of Samouhan -- a little bit more of Cassie mixed in.
My friends and neighbors ask about Coby and Korobora and whether they have made it home safe to America. Doumbia laughs over the pictures he took with his cell phone of Coby eating rice and sauce with his hand. Sitan retells the story of taking her daughter for vaccinations with Korobora in tow. The children sing the song we sang on the radio, Banta puts her nose in the air and says "Wa kelen kelen!" and everyone laughs over Coby and his "Nba"s.
When boys refuse to believe that I won't marry them, I simply say, "Do you think Coby Daou would agree?" and everyone breaks into laughter because they know my father would never give away his only daughter for two measly goats. When others ask why I can't stay in Mali forever, I tell them Korobora wouldn't be too pleased and they nod and cluck their tongues because they have seen the way my mother looks at me.
Do you know what it meant to introduce my mother to Aissata? Do you know what it meant to watch my father pull water and my mother pound onions? Do you know what it meant to watch my parents watch me?
It means not just a collision of two worlds but a union. To be truly happy here, to truly feel a member of the community, is to feel like the barriers between my two worlds are breaking down. My family's visit was another fracture in that wall, another brick torn down.
Thank you to Dad, who survived without beer or a fan and made the perfect poster boy for my Bring Back the Boubou Campaign.
Thank you to Mom, who amazed everyone with her Bambara and me with her eagerness to understand it all.
And thanks to Marika, who came twice, made me the best dressed woman in village, and lives up to the definition of a true balaman muso.
Do you know what it means to introduce your mother and your father to those have become your family, yet know you only as Samouhan?
It means a collision of two worlds: of Mali and America; Samouhan and Cassie; a life that I was born into and another that I've created.
I had been telling everyone that my parents would be coming to visit me since I moved to the village. In 2010, I said. In cold season, I said. In three months, two months, one month, I said. In 4 weeks, two weeks, three days. Before I left to pick them up, I came out of my house and looked at Banta. I tried to explain how I felt: nervous, excited, anxious. "I kono guana," she said: your stomach is heating up.
She was right, my stomach was heating up. Not only was the trip important to me in that my parents would be able to see and better understand what I had been doing, but in that the people who I have become close to here in Mali would meet my real family and catch a glimpse of who I was, and am, besides a single girl past marrying age who speaks halting Bambara.
When we step off the bus -- Mom, Dad, Marika and I -- I can feel everyone's eyes on us. As we walk by the women selling dry oranges and peanuts, past the spot where the chief of the village sits, and through the market, I try to see this place as it must look to Mom and Dad and fail. The goats and chickens are normal, the mud mosque just a sign that I'm close to home, and each door and compound wall is the home of a friend or neighbor.
There is something different though, and even I notice it: it's a buzz in the air, a hum that builds and catches. Samouhan's parents have arrived, and the news spreads fast. Banta comes running out, shaking Mom's hand, Dad's hand, Marika's, babbling so fast in Bambara that I tell her, "Remember, Banta! I told you not to be crazy! Greet them slowly." So she starts all over again, testing the Bambara my mother worked so studiously at for months before her arrival.
Neighbors begin to flow in, anxious to see my family who have come from so far just to see me. It takes us hours to leave the compound in the mornings, as a long stream of men and women, old and young, come to say hello. They ask about everyone in America. They ask about Johnny and Becky who have come before them. "Eh, Allah," they say and shower blessings upon us. They bring chickens and guinea fowl, meat and fruit and bread. There is so much food and more meat than I've seen since Tabaski. By the end of their stay, my family is tired of chicken, but I'm not: I know I'll never eat this well again while I'm still in Mali.
Dad has been named for the chief of the village's father, Coby Daou, and everywhere we go, people cry out to him: "Coby! Bi Daou!" By Malian standards -- with grown children and grey hair -- Dad is an elder and much respected man. He is, by far, the most important member of our group and everyone wants to shake his hand. There are offers to give him new wives and a parcel of lamp to build his own mud house. They call him the chief of the village. "Nba," Dad says. It's the only Bambara he knows (literally, "My mother" -- women say "Nse," which means "My power") but it is good enough.
It takes us hours to get anywhere, even in a small village. Every single person calls us over to say hello. One woman I don't know presents Mom with a jar of honey. Mom's name is Korobora, one of the original Coby Daou's wives. She is long dead, but her children are all eager to meet the American reincarnation of their mother and the general opinion among the community is that Mom looks just like her togoma, or namesake. A straight nose is a mark of beauty here and Korobora was well known for her nose, which she would often jokingly put on sale for about $10. Mom quickly gets in the spirit of it and tips her head in the air, pinches her nose, and cries out "Wa kelen kelen!" (Ten dollars!).
One morning, the chief of the village and all his counselors come to greet Coby and Korobora. The chief of the village has never visited my compound before and Banta squeezes chairs under the hangar that provides shade. I perch on the end of one of the long, wooden lounge chairs that Banta and I spend our days gossiping in and think of how the chief of the village would never have come here if not for the visit of my mother and father. It's almost Christmas and we have decorated the compound with Christmas decorations sent from home -- ornaments from Aunt Julie and fake snow from Cindy Nordlof. As the chief and his counselors give blessings and make short speeches, the snow slips from the top of the hangar and begins to gently fall over the chief.
As we go around town, people repeat over and over that I have become a true member of the community. It seems an odd time for them to say it, at the moment when my family have come, marking me as the child of a different world. But it's true -- I have never felt so a part of things and so honored. I will never be Malian but right now it is enough to just be the toubab who belongs in this village.
The chief of the village's mother -- Lahmine and Baamu and Adama's mother -- passes away towards the end of our visit after many years of sickness. We attend the funeral, my mother, Marika and I surrounded by women with heads covered and my father sitting among the men. Here, in this most intimate of moments, we have found a common turf. Despite the differences between these two worlds which are at times impressive and vast, exciting and intimidating, there is unity in this: the death of a mother.
Time passed all too fast as it is wont to do, and before I knew it, the trip that I had been looking forward to for so long was over and I returned to my village alone. Alone, but now with a bit more color with which the community could paint in the picture of Samouhan -- a little bit more of Cassie mixed in.
My friends and neighbors ask about Coby and Korobora and whether they have made it home safe to America. Doumbia laughs over the pictures he took with his cell phone of Coby eating rice and sauce with his hand. Sitan retells the story of taking her daughter for vaccinations with Korobora in tow. The children sing the song we sang on the radio, Banta puts her nose in the air and says "Wa kelen kelen!" and everyone laughs over Coby and his "Nba"s.
When boys refuse to believe that I won't marry them, I simply say, "Do you think Coby Daou would agree?" and everyone breaks into laughter because they know my father would never give away his only daughter for two measly goats. When others ask why I can't stay in Mali forever, I tell them Korobora wouldn't be too pleased and they nod and cluck their tongues because they have seen the way my mother looks at me.
Do you know what it meant to introduce my mother to Aissata? Do you know what it meant to watch my father pull water and my mother pound onions? Do you know what it meant to watch my parents watch me?
It means not just a collision of two worlds but a union. To be truly happy here, to truly feel a member of the community, is to feel like the barriers between my two worlds are breaking down. My family's visit was another fracture in that wall, another brick torn down.
Thank you to Dad, who survived without beer or a fan and made the perfect poster boy for my Bring Back the Boubou Campaign.
Thank you to Mom, who amazed everyone with her Bambara and me with her eagerness to understand it all.
And thanks to Marika, who came twice, made me the best dressed woman in village, and lives up to the definition of a true balaman muso.
Friday, February 5, 2010
SIDA BE
Check out the music video of Marika and I performing our hit single "Sida BE" at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3J2IslRelI
The song is about HIV/AIDS and became an instant in the village! The kids are still singing! Thanks to Mom for the excellent camera work! And our apologies for sideways viewing.
The lyrics (sung to Akon's Right Now Right Now) are below in Bambara and English.
Sida bana bana bana
A kajugu det
Sida bana bana bana
An ka kan ka sida ban
Sida be yoro bee
An k'a ban yan
Mogo ka na siran
An ka sida ban
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An te maloya sida kan
An bee ka farra nogon kan
Sida bana bana bana
A kajugu det
Sida fura be soro
A be di mogo fou
A be i lafiya lafiya lafiya
I ka taa fura miné
Ka na siran
Fura be d'i ma fou
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An te maloya sida kan
An bee ka farra nogon kan
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An te maloya sida kan
An bee ka farra nogon kan
Sida be
Ka na siran
I ka taa depistage ke
Ka na siran
Ce ka capoti don
Ka na siran
I ka i mogo bee fo
Ka na siran
Sida be
Ka na siran
I ka taa depistage ke
Ka na siran
Ce ka capoti don
Ka na siran
I ka i mogo bee fo
Ka na siran
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An te maloya sida kan
An bee ka farra nogon kan
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An te maloya sida kan
An bee ka farra nogon kan
Est-ce que aw y'a faamu?
Est-ce que aw y'a faamu?
Sida ye cinen ye
Sida ye cinen ye
An bena sida ban
An bena sida ban
Wuli ka sida ban
Wuli ka sida ban
Est-ce que aw y'a faamu?
Est-ce que aw y'a faamu?
Sida ye cinen ye
Sida ye cinen ye
An bena sida ban
An bena sida ban
Wuli ka sida ban
Wuli ka sida ban
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An te maloya sida kan
An bee ka farra nogon kan
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An te maloya sida kan
An bee ka farra nogon kan
AIDS sickness sickness sickness
It's really bad
Aids sickness sickness sickness
We must stop AIDS
AIDS is everywhere
We must stop it here
People cannot be scared
We must stop AIDS
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We are not ashamed of AIDS
We will all come together
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We are not ashamed of AIDS
We will all come together
AIDS sickness sickness sickness sickness
It's really bad
AIDS medicine is available
It's given free
The medicine lets you take it easy easy easy
Go to get the medicine
Don't be scared
It is given free
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We are not ashamed of AIDS
We will all come together
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We are not ashamed of AIDS
We will all come together
AIDS exists
Don't be scared
Go get tested
Don't get scared
Men should wear condoms
Don't be scared
Tell everyone
Don't be scared
AIDS exists
Don't be scared
Go get tested
Don't get scared
Men should wear condoms
Don't be scared
Tell everyone
Don't be scared
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We are not ashamed of AIDS
We will all come together
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We are not ashamed of AIDS
We will all come together
Do you understand?
Do you understand?
AIDS is true
AIDS is true
We will stop AIDS
We will stop AIDS
Stand up and stop AIDS
Stand up and stop AIDS
Do you understand?
Do you understand?
AIDS is true
AIDS is true
We will stop AIDS
We will stop AIDS
Stand up and stop AIDS
Stand up and stop AIDS
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We are not ashamed of AIDS
We will all come together
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We are not ashamed of AIDS
We will all come together
The song is about HIV/AIDS and became an instant in the village! The kids are still singing! Thanks to Mom for the excellent camera work! And our apologies for sideways viewing.
The lyrics (sung to Akon's Right Now Right Now) are below in Bambara and English.
Sida bana bana bana
A kajugu det
Sida bana bana bana
An ka kan ka sida ban
Sida be yoro bee
An k'a ban yan
Mogo ka na siran
An ka sida ban
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An te maloya sida kan
An bee ka farra nogon kan
Sida bana bana bana
A kajugu det
Sida fura be soro
A be di mogo fou
A be i lafiya lafiya lafiya
I ka taa fura miné
Ka na siran
Fura be d'i ma fou
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An te maloya sida kan
An bee ka farra nogon kan
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An te maloya sida kan
An bee ka farra nogon kan
Sida be
Ka na siran
I ka taa depistage ke
Ka na siran
Ce ka capoti don
Ka na siran
I ka i mogo bee fo
Ka na siran
Sida be
Ka na siran
I ka taa depistage ke
Ka na siran
Ce ka capoti don
Ka na siran
I ka i mogo bee fo
Ka na siran
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An te maloya sida kan
An bee ka farra nogon kan
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An te maloya sida kan
An bee ka farra nogon kan
Est-ce que aw y'a faamu?
Est-ce que aw y'a faamu?
Sida ye cinen ye
Sida ye cinen ye
An bena sida ban
An bena sida ban
Wuli ka sida ban
Wuli ka sida ban
Est-ce que aw y'a faamu?
Est-ce que aw y'a faamu?
Sida ye cinen ye
Sida ye cinen ye
An bena sida ban
An bena sida ban
Wuli ka sida ban
Wuli ka sida ban
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An te maloya sida kan
An bee ka farra nogon kan
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An b'a fe ka taa joli sege sege sege sege
An te maloya sida kan
An bee ka farra nogon kan
AIDS sickness sickness sickness
It's really bad
Aids sickness sickness sickness
We must stop AIDS
AIDS is everywhere
We must stop it here
People cannot be scared
We must stop AIDS
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We are not ashamed of AIDS
We will all come together
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We are not ashamed of AIDS
We will all come together
AIDS sickness sickness sickness sickness
It's really bad
AIDS medicine is available
It's given free
The medicine lets you take it easy easy easy
Go to get the medicine
Don't be scared
It is given free
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We are not ashamed of AIDS
We will all come together
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We are not ashamed of AIDS
We will all come together
AIDS exists
Don't be scared
Go get tested
Don't get scared
Men should wear condoms
Don't be scared
Tell everyone
Don't be scared
AIDS exists
Don't be scared
Go get tested
Don't get scared
Men should wear condoms
Don't be scared
Tell everyone
Don't be scared
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We are not ashamed of AIDS
We will all come together
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We are not ashamed of AIDS
We will all come together
Do you understand?
Do you understand?
AIDS is true
AIDS is true
We will stop AIDS
We will stop AIDS
Stand up and stop AIDS
Stand up and stop AIDS
Do you understand?
Do you understand?
AIDS is true
AIDS is true
We will stop AIDS
We will stop AIDS
Stand up and stop AIDS
Stand up and stop AIDS
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We are not ashamed of AIDS
We will all come together
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We want to go get our blood tested tested tested tested
We are not ashamed of AIDS
We will all come together
All For One and One For All
A noise woke me. Ever since Banta and I were scared by an intruder in the middle of the night a couple months ago, I haven't slept soundly. I clutched my flashlight and put on my glasses, somehow sure that wearing glasses in the pitch darkness would make it easier for me to hear.
Banta has been gone for a week and despite our higher compound walls and a lockable compound door that has caused friends and neighbors to ask if we've become Wahabiyaw -- members of a conservative sect of Islam that encourages women to stay within the compound walls -- I'm scared. I listen harder, convinced now that someone has managed to climb over the wall. As I lie there, imagining a thousand possibilities, there is another sound, this time coming from outside my compound. It is the sound of women gathering under the twisted Baobob tree and soon there is the solid thumping of women pounding millet. It is 2AM. The pounding reverberates through the ground and I feel it rise up through my pillow. It is 2AM and I know that something is not right. Women's work is a heavy burden, but there is no need for the women of my neighborhood to be pounding millet in the middle of the night. But even though I know something must be wrong, the pounding calms me: the familiarity of it and the security of the women just beyond my wall. I fall asleep, lulled by the thick wooden mortars crushing the millet into powder.
Morning is empty of all the usual sounds: laughter at the well; children's cries; mortar striking pestle. Instead, it is replaced by the signs of death. The sounds of steps never stop as friends and family come to greet the deceased's family. Aside from the hum of motos that stop to pay their condolences, the air carries a weight silence. I turn the BBC down low.
The deceased is Mamy Daou, a middle aged man who had fallen ill several months ago. He had gone to Bamako for treatment and passed away there. His body was put in a car and while the women pounded millet in the middle of the night, Mamy's body travelled up the road towards the village. What I'm embarrassed to admit is that I can't quite place Mamy. If Banta were here, I would question her until I was sure of who he was. But she's not, and I can't admit to anyone else that after a year here I'm still confusing the names of my neighbors. So I don't press Cissé when she tells me who died, because, partly, it is easier this way.
Death here is a constant. And the rituals surrounding death become a comforting pattern. There is a set period of public mourning (7 days). A script for those giving their condolences (Ala ka hiné, Ala ka djafama). A rigid structure of burial and greeting.
But that does not mean that death itself becomes easier. Before coming here, I had attended two funerals. Since arriving, there have been too many to count. It is tempting to begin to think, due to the frequency of death and ritualized mourning, that death is accepted more easily here and passings more fluid.
Look to Hawa for an answer, whom I found sobbing on the side of the road, holding the body of her lifeless baby in her arms. Look to the old women who repeat "She was old. He was tired" to convince us all that it was time. Look to Banta who took sick to her bad when a young man died after being injured in the fields. Look to the men and women who take out loans and do everything in their power to treat their children, their mothers and fathers when they fall ill.
The funeral took place after the midday prayer. The men meet at the chief of the village's compound and walk to Mamy's concession in a long, silent group. Mamou and I step into a shadow and wait for them to pass. We trail after them, saying hello to the other women who follow in the men's wake. The Harmattan wind has been blowing down hard from the Sahara, and it whips our complets out in front of us. The sky is hazy with dust and sand. We wrap our scarves tighter around us and listen to the sobs of a woman who has covered her face with her scarf to hide her wet eyes.
As we approach Mamy's compound, the procession of men turn back to face us, this time carrying Mamy's body on a wooden board, a red blanket covering him. There are so many people -- from our village and all the surrounding villages and it takes a while for all the men to troop out into the fields with the body.
We women stay behind. Plastic woven mats are spread under the shady parts of the large compound and we sit in silence. It is broken now and then by sobs, and the older women hush those who are crying. We are all so close together, I think, how easy it would be for us all to break into tears and never stop. And yet -- all I can think about is the colors of our complets against the dry sand and mud buildings, the wind catching our headscarves. The blue of my fabric and the deep maroon of Mamou's.
We wait. The woman next to me is worried that my legs are cramping with all of us clumped together. She massages my foot. Mamou drifts off, listing against my shoulder.
Finally, they come back, the men, as quietly as they left. The Imam breaks the silence and speaks. A rumbling builds. I look up at the sky, searching the blue for the plane that must be overhead, flying to Gao. But it is not there, and I realize the rumbling comes from the men's voices, raspy and deep, as they grasp each other's hands and mutter blessings.
Now it is our turn and I see Aissa file past us as the women seek out hands and give blessings. A hum of Amina (Amen) rises up from the mat and I too get up to take my place in the line of blessings.
Tonight, I will check the locks twice before ducking under my mosquito net. In the morning, there will be no sound of millet pounding -- the women of Mamy's family will rely on the food villagers bring by until the mourning period is over. When I'm ready, I will greet Mamy's family and repeat the same blessings. I will return everyday to give my blessings for a week. But there will be no more crying. When I go to greet tomorrow, I can count on laughter and jokes about me eating beans.
There is a time and a place for everything, and the Malians in my village do not set much time aside for tears and heartbreak. Whether it exists is not the question -- families are close, loved ones are precious. But when you, as a community, are this together, this intimate, this close in proximity and lifestyle and heart, to break down is not an option. The ritualized customs exist for a reason: All for one and one for all. That is why the women with dry eyes demand that the others wipe their tears away.
Banta has been gone for a week and despite our higher compound walls and a lockable compound door that has caused friends and neighbors to ask if we've become Wahabiyaw -- members of a conservative sect of Islam that encourages women to stay within the compound walls -- I'm scared. I listen harder, convinced now that someone has managed to climb over the wall. As I lie there, imagining a thousand possibilities, there is another sound, this time coming from outside my compound. It is the sound of women gathering under the twisted Baobob tree and soon there is the solid thumping of women pounding millet. It is 2AM. The pounding reverberates through the ground and I feel it rise up through my pillow. It is 2AM and I know that something is not right. Women's work is a heavy burden, but there is no need for the women of my neighborhood to be pounding millet in the middle of the night. But even though I know something must be wrong, the pounding calms me: the familiarity of it and the security of the women just beyond my wall. I fall asleep, lulled by the thick wooden mortars crushing the millet into powder.
Morning is empty of all the usual sounds: laughter at the well; children's cries; mortar striking pestle. Instead, it is replaced by the signs of death. The sounds of steps never stop as friends and family come to greet the deceased's family. Aside from the hum of motos that stop to pay their condolences, the air carries a weight silence. I turn the BBC down low.
The deceased is Mamy Daou, a middle aged man who had fallen ill several months ago. He had gone to Bamako for treatment and passed away there. His body was put in a car and while the women pounded millet in the middle of the night, Mamy's body travelled up the road towards the village. What I'm embarrassed to admit is that I can't quite place Mamy. If Banta were here, I would question her until I was sure of who he was. But she's not, and I can't admit to anyone else that after a year here I'm still confusing the names of my neighbors. So I don't press Cissé when she tells me who died, because, partly, it is easier this way.
Death here is a constant. And the rituals surrounding death become a comforting pattern. There is a set period of public mourning (7 days). A script for those giving their condolences (Ala ka hiné, Ala ka djafama). A rigid structure of burial and greeting.
But that does not mean that death itself becomes easier. Before coming here, I had attended two funerals. Since arriving, there have been too many to count. It is tempting to begin to think, due to the frequency of death and ritualized mourning, that death is accepted more easily here and passings more fluid.
Look to Hawa for an answer, whom I found sobbing on the side of the road, holding the body of her lifeless baby in her arms. Look to the old women who repeat "She was old. He was tired" to convince us all that it was time. Look to Banta who took sick to her bad when a young man died after being injured in the fields. Look to the men and women who take out loans and do everything in their power to treat their children, their mothers and fathers when they fall ill.
The funeral took place after the midday prayer. The men meet at the chief of the village's compound and walk to Mamy's concession in a long, silent group. Mamou and I step into a shadow and wait for them to pass. We trail after them, saying hello to the other women who follow in the men's wake. The Harmattan wind has been blowing down hard from the Sahara, and it whips our complets out in front of us. The sky is hazy with dust and sand. We wrap our scarves tighter around us and listen to the sobs of a woman who has covered her face with her scarf to hide her wet eyes.
As we approach Mamy's compound, the procession of men turn back to face us, this time carrying Mamy's body on a wooden board, a red blanket covering him. There are so many people -- from our village and all the surrounding villages and it takes a while for all the men to troop out into the fields with the body.
We women stay behind. Plastic woven mats are spread under the shady parts of the large compound and we sit in silence. It is broken now and then by sobs, and the older women hush those who are crying. We are all so close together, I think, how easy it would be for us all to break into tears and never stop. And yet -- all I can think about is the colors of our complets against the dry sand and mud buildings, the wind catching our headscarves. The blue of my fabric and the deep maroon of Mamou's.
We wait. The woman next to me is worried that my legs are cramping with all of us clumped together. She massages my foot. Mamou drifts off, listing against my shoulder.
Finally, they come back, the men, as quietly as they left. The Imam breaks the silence and speaks. A rumbling builds. I look up at the sky, searching the blue for the plane that must be overhead, flying to Gao. But it is not there, and I realize the rumbling comes from the men's voices, raspy and deep, as they grasp each other's hands and mutter blessings.
Now it is our turn and I see Aissa file past us as the women seek out hands and give blessings. A hum of Amina (Amen) rises up from the mat and I too get up to take my place in the line of blessings.
Tonight, I will check the locks twice before ducking under my mosquito net. In the morning, there will be no sound of millet pounding -- the women of Mamy's family will rely on the food villagers bring by until the mourning period is over. When I'm ready, I will greet Mamy's family and repeat the same blessings. I will return everyday to give my blessings for a week. But there will be no more crying. When I go to greet tomorrow, I can count on laughter and jokes about me eating beans.
There is a time and a place for everything, and the Malians in my village do not set much time aside for tears and heartbreak. Whether it exists is not the question -- families are close, loved ones are precious. But when you, as a community, are this together, this intimate, this close in proximity and lifestyle and heart, to break down is not an option. The ritualized customs exist for a reason: All for one and one for all. That is why the women with dry eyes demand that the others wipe their tears away.
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