honestly beautiful. (I guess the weak of mind should stop reading here)

I have never felt such intimacy in sheep anatomy.

It was Tabaski (Eid). I nervously watched the slaughter, for once I use that word completely free of tongue-in-cheek. Alone at home, I listened all morning to the last bleatings of my neighbor’s black and white patched sheep. Sooner or later, its soft staccato cries were mingled with the slow, smooth sharpening of a knife. And low voices in Wolof tongues, intuitively respectful, as if timid in face of the imminent act. As if expressing the bare minimum, necessary to the task at hand. My heart was racing. Cathi came home at that point and we walked around the corner just as a couple youthful strong men were holding down the animal that was at this point no longer struggling (as cliché as that always sounds, he did seem at rest). His neck was positioned above a hole dug in the sand to contain the pool of blood that would come flowing out immediately and heavily. Impeccably dressed as ever, Old Man Papa took the knife to its furry, elongated throat, as I think I might have been holding my own. Against my expectations, it was silent, except for my rather misplaced, if murmured, “godDAMN,” forcing myself to watch because I somehow sensed it was only right to do so. In some unmarked fraction of a minute, I think, he gave up life, at which time the deed that started as a ritual commemoration turned into a mundane step in putting food on the table. What was a living animal quickly turned into flanks, haunches, loins, hinds, sides, and whatever other warm, wet organs it offered mankind.

I spent the holiday with my friend Sidate and his family. It was a day where the shade is cold but the sun is hot. While my friend slept in (in his defense, after an all-night marathon of putting final touches on Tabaski garments, a trip to the mosque, and a double slaying), I sat shivering in the shadow of a mango tree chatting with his brother Cheikh who, machete in one hand and cigarette in the other, was unhurriedly chopping the horns off a disembodied head. By the time we got into his late father’s lay-off from the national police force, he was crouched and skillfully maneuvering a smaller knife, removing the skin and then the choicest parts from the skull. It seemed a little like undressing. (He doesn’t like the job, doesn’t even like killing chickens).

I don’t know why, but what surprised me was the dispersal of the job over time and space. While the actually killing took a matter of minutes, the separation of the body, the cleansing and drying of certain parts, and the cooking of others took the remainder of the day. And spacially, what started as two contained bodies, with time, spread all over the backyard. A hole of blood here, a hole of refuse parts elsewhere, long stringy tubes salted and drying on various clotheslines, Mama cutting up legs on the porch, Combé stirring up who-can-say-what over a fire, and me watching Cheikh flaying heads in the cool, leafy shade against a blood-spattered wall. I spent the entire early afternoon in the midst of dismembered parts of all colors, but looking more or less unsurprisingly like what one would expect to come out of two sheep, and felt ok.

The reason it’s been so long since I last wrote is that, in short, the last week and a half of my life has just been a marathon. So explains the chaotic pace that follows:

I’m writing this from Thiès, home sweet home, a little chilly, but familiar Thiès. Familiar beds, familiar rooster morning wake up calls, familiar tasting water, familiar patterns, familiar companionship. Familiar quiet. I have the windows open to let the sun pour in with all the familiar sounds from the neighborhood (though there doesn’t seem to be much variation in neighborhood sounds from one region to another, give or take a few cars and mosques). I have this feeling as though I’ve returned from a periphery so great a distance from - well I don’t know what, because I can’t really say what’s at the center of this great sphere, on whose outermost edge I've been living the last two months. But I’m back now! A little drained and readjusting.

So we had the declaration this weekend!! The long-awaited, long-prepared-for Declaration for the Abandonment of Female Genital Cutting and Child/Forced Marriage in the village of Niassène. It was so big and hectic and long and profoundly moving. Well, let me start further back than that.

Last weekend - which is actually two weekends ago for those of you who respect Time in a linear, unambiguous fashion - I went to Cap Skirring. Which is supposed to have some of the most beautiful beaches in West Africa, and certainly some of the most extraordinary I’ve ever found. A friend of a friend named Jonah was in Ziguinchor bogged down with rather too much work condensed into too short a time period, and needless to say down for a journey to the coast. We walked miles on the beach, which was just really quiet and clean and peaceful, that’s all. Big, long, sandy stretches between water and coastal forests, like neutral no-man’s lands. Not a high rise in sight, just empty horizons in either direction, and traces of vacancy-boasting hotels and campements barely visible through the green thicket. And amongst this lovely backdrop, dozens of cows! Who are just the most docile, or lazy, creatures and kind of an absurd addition to beach-going. Them and a harmless dread-headed lunatic wearing nothing but pink swim trunks on his head. We were only a kilometer or two from Guinea Bissau, which the lull of our cow-dotted paradise kept us from reaching.

So back to reality, or at least back to Ziguinchor. A couple of volunteers came down from the north in the week before the declaration, and it was just really nice having them around. It had been some long time since I last hung out with girls my own age or even people speaking a language I didn't have to think about. The office last week was buzzing like a beehive! Dozens of people coming and going, painting signs, all these preparations culminating in this high strung excitement, and I didn’t really know what to expect from the declaration. We hosted a press conference on Saturday in a neighboring village (see the video in the post below - yes, my attempts to dance like that has earned me something of a reputation in Casamance land!!!) And the next 20 hours or so were stuffed with rounds of dancing, sleeping, and plate loads of meat. Saturday night we walked down to the sight that was naturally drawing a crowd and watched dozens of women using what looked like canoe paddles fussing over mammoth vats of rice and stews. 

The declaration was big, and not going to be pinned down manageably in the following words. Lots of dancing, although this time by organized dance troupes and masked dancers. But because the earth is so dry now, their movements created overhanging clouds of dark dust which was just gross and harsh to breathe in. Still feeling this dry layer of dirt coating my lungs (or else its in my head) ...  A lot of singers and speakers, village notables as well as government representatives. But the part that I can’t stop thinking about is the appearance of the former cutters from 15 or so villages (though there were over 100 villages in attendance). Many very old, and at the same time sad and proud … I mean it IS this bittersweet sort of moment. Can you imagine how huge this is? These people coming together to publicly renounce something as old as marriage itself. Whose pain it entailed was simply as common and necessary as the pain of childbirth. Something that was as natural in their society as, frankly, male circumcision is in our own. (Can you imagine what it would take to eradicate male circumcision in the US? A practice which, in 1999 the American Academy of Pediatrics released a statement affirming has insufficient health benefits to warrant its recommendation as a routine procedure … but this isn’t the right arena to get into double standards … a later post maybe) But God, these women. Who at such a late age had to find and transition to some other source of income (It is kind of counter-intuitive, losing jobs in the name of development). They were just dignified; but that doesn’t even explain it. So … it was a very big moment. That’s the only word that really does it - big! Grand.

It was really sad leaving my friends in Niassène and my coworkers in Ziguinchor. Goodbyes are so hard, when there's unspoken doubt about la prochaine fois ... but I think the overall exhaustion took the edge off of it …. I hitched a ride early, early Monday morning in a car with some other volunteers, enduring the long and bumpy journey back north, over land that two months ago had been spectacularly green, and is now so brittle and yellow. Through the Gambia, waiting forever for the ferry - only to see it arrive and unload some cars and a couple Fulani herding 50 or 60 sheep. Poor animals!!! with Tabaski (officially, Eid ah-Adha) around the corner - the holiday that entails the slaughter of millions of sheep in the commemoration of Ibrahim sacrificing only one instead of his son. Our (ok, my) nervous laughter at all the sheep strapped to the roofs of cars turned into outrage when our chauffeurs decided to buy themselves a few and tie them down right there to the suitcases. It's only the transport that bothers me. But I don't know if I can watch.

Up to date, enough.

declaratin

African films, alhamdulilay!! part quatre (or something like an alternative to Blood Diamond)

Film about child soldiers in Sierra Leone created by Newton Aduaka, recognized film director and former child soldier himself (in Nigeria). trailer, in all it's chaotic, bloody, and drug-fogged reality: Ezra
Might write a little more about this later, for now I'm dashing off to a conference in Bignona. What follows is an interview with Aduaka. (I think Plan is a organization protecting children's rights, emergency aid for children, etc ... Aduaka won Plan's Special Child Right's Award as well as the United Nations Peace Promotion Prize for his film)

What prompted you into making this movie?
It was twenty years of accumulation, exploded into the screen. The film was in a major part inspired by the situation in Sierra Leone and conflicts in Ivory Coast, Chad, Mozambique Angola, and Rwanda. Children are told they are fighting one thing but they don't actually know what they are dying for. This, for me, is very tragic: people dragging children into situations they should never see or even think of.

The Plan prize to you was decided by four young people and two adults. How do you feel receiving the UN peace promotion and Plan's Prize?
I feel overwhelmed and I hope "Ezra" will help Plan and the UN institutions that awarded the film in what they are doing.
It was a difficult film for me to make because of myself being a child of war. I did not realize how much a child keeps in his subconscious when he goes through war. You live with it, it forms you. I was afraid that I would not be able to communicate.
Coming back to the film, the reaction to it is beyond my expectations. I saw that the Plan jury was young people; it means the film is really connected to people and I hope then, that people do not just see it as a film, but that they spent some time meditating on what they understand from it, because it is a film about the future of African children.

What does the grand prize, the Yennenga Stallion, mean to you?
This is a symbol to me to keep doing what I am doing. My cinema is really engaged, direct, and clear. Things are too desperate. It is time for clear speaking and not ambiguous cinema. I think that we have crossed a barrier which made us so inhuman. War brings nothing but destruction. While the background of all this is the exploitation of minerals and oil, the children who fight don't even know about it. There is nothing in war but profit for some people while the rest see their lives destroyed. To take a life, to premeditate it, is crossing the line. We have to go back to what I believe is human. It is not human to kill or make any act that causes you or anybody to kill. Either by proxy, by signing up for troops to go and kill, by signing up to ship arms into a country for children to kill are terrible things. We have to move away from that.

What is Plan doing to help children in Sierra Leone?
Children are among the most vulnerable groups in the aftermath of war. Providing support to children amputees and former child soldiers is a moral and social imperative in the recovery and rebuilding processes.
At the end of the conflict in Sierra Leone in 2001, thousands of children were released by the fighting forces. One of the major challenges these children face is successfully reintegrating into society and building a hopeful future.
Post-traumatic counseling and support
Plan's psychosocial trauma and peace education project in Sierra Leone consists of activities that include workshops, counseling sessions, peace clubs and expression activities including drama, games and sports.
Since 1999 Plan has also supported a "RapidEd" project in camps for internally displaced people in Sierra Leone, which combines therapeutic emotional healing activities and self-expression with basic literacy and numeracy education. The methodology, developed by Plan in cooperation with UNESCO, is based on experiences in other war zones and is also being used to help children in neighboring Liberia.

I intended to limit the scope of this blog to all things Africa, you'd think it were a wide enough playing field! Having said that, the following link has nothing to do with the old cradle of humanity; it nevertheless touches on a lot of topics that are gaining importance on a truly global level, some issues I've addressed in previous posts. It is a NYtimes multimedia piece - interviews with four Palestinians in Gaza. They talk about their struggles due to international sanctions, which are due, but not entirely due to Hamas's politics. One of the segments recounts the problematic mingling of religions in a place and time of increasing religious orthodoxy and fundamentalism. One talks about the schism between Gaza and West Bank Palestinians. More than one talks about looking to the west as a long-shot hope for a better future.

If anything, it testifies to the increasing universality of these issues. And like I mentioned before, this issue of boundaries between countries and people is getting more and more convoluted. Ten years ago, people in Sudan identified themselves by ethnic group (the Dinka, the Hasania ... there are hundreds ...) today many will call themselves simply "Arab." Enough said for now. The link:
http://www.nytimes.com/packages/html/weekinreview/20071118_GAZA_FEATURE/index.html

ho ho ho

How does one properly celebrate the first night of Hanukkah in a Djola-hearted city on the periphery of a 95% Muslim country? One of the volunteers back in Thiès got a package containing a menorah and some cheap colorful candles (the Crayola crayon type, which will have to do. What can I say? I’ve got a weakness for beautiful Hanukkah candles.) So we video-conferenced. Inbal gave all the participating goyel a brief run down on the Macabees, the destroyed temple of Jerusalem, the oil that burned for eight days and eight nights, and the commemoration of that miracle through our wintery Festival of Lights. All relatively well and fine on their end of the webcam, mine was a little less conventional. We’ve had all of the regional supervisors in town for a conference - it’s fun when they’re all here - and the night before Moussa (the guard) was telling them all about my webcam. (Moussa gets a kick out of seeing my family in the computer). Looking at me and my webcam like we were something right out of the Jettsons, if they knew the Jettsons, the 5 or 6 of them fall somewhere between misunderstanding and total disbelief with the whole thing. So last night, they huddled around my laptop - Arona, Moussa, the other Moussa, Tamba, Insa, Mamadou - mesmerized as much by the camera as by Inbal’s simple ritual, her lovely prayer, the the two flickering lights. (Forget the choppy image and cheap candles and tears of laughter, it was perfect.) Arona decided to contribute a little Djola ditty of his own to the delight of the girls in Thiès.

The significance of this, to me, goes something like this. This is where technology’s carried us, you see? Cyberspace technology like this has certainly nudged a lot of things into antiquity, regrettably. It hasn’t yet eradicated a 2000-some-odd-year-old Jewish ceremony or Djola folk songs. Instead, where the two have spent millennia running down separate roads, last night, they crossed paths. Maybe it wasn’t the first time, but it was an intersection, and a Hanukkah, that won't soon be forgotten.

I can't believe, frankly, it's been six weeks I've been down here. It aggravates me to look back on that much time and not really be able to recall where I put it. I suppose technically I’m not traveling, I couldn’t truthfully say that. Technically I’ve been installed here in this region (for 2 months), but I can’t say I feel settled, on the contrary, I feel like I’m on the move. I still experience those hallmarks of traveling solo: exhilaration and lonesomeness. Exhilaration of discovery - of people, food, sounds, groovy little postcolonial corners, and splendid riverscape views - and the slightly less sexy joy of bumming around new markets - discretely dipping my fingers in barrels of dried beans (if it's ever possible for me to do anything discreetly ...) and hopping over rivulets of rotten vegetables and avoiding eye contact with the more aggressive vendors. And feeling also something like a ravenousness to take it all in. And lonesomeness, well, speaks for itself. When those things fade into habituation - I suppose that signals the end of one’s traveling.

Describing the process of adjustment into a foreign place, a very wise professor told me this: people don’t see you for who you are, but for who they perceive or want you to be. A lot of times - and I assume this is especially true in instances where there is a language barrier - you can find yourself more or less knowingly conforming to THAT person, at the loss of a bit of your own personality. Per Petterson brushes up against this idea in Out Stealing Horses, (and his Nordic protagonist has only moved a couple hours north): People like it when you tell them things, in suitable portions, in a modest, intimate tone, and they think they know you, but they do not, they know about you, for what they are let in on are facts, not feelings, not what your opinion is about anything at all, not how what has happened to you and how all the decisions you have made have turned you into who you are. What they do is they fill in with their own feelings and opinions and assumptions, and they compose a new life which has precious little to do with yours […] it is inevitable, and you would do the same thing yourself.
(OK a little hardened, a little valid nonetheless. When it gets problematic is when their own feelings, opinions, and assumptions are shaped by a very different life experience and understanding of the world; then they really miss the boat.)

really lovely

immigration, qu'est-que ce?

A couple days ago I posted a link to a trailer for a new independent film by Idrissa Guiro, Barcelona ou la Mort (Barcelona or Death, http://docbarcelone.canalblog.com). It’s in French, but I think worth watching because the images alone are visually arresting (for me, their beauty comes from their realism - that’s so Senegal!) Although if you’ve ever been to Gorée Island, the last image hits you like a slow-motion punch to the stomach. It’s like peering out of the “door of no return” at the Maison d’Esclavage, and seeing the tides washing over the glossy black rocks below your feet. (Always a bleak reminder that few things survive the ocean the way rocks do). The trailer starts with a man recounting this visit to a jardin d’enfants, a preschool, in Senegal where he asks the kids, “Who among you wants to go to Europe?” The kids look at each other quizzically. Rephrasing the question, “Who wants to go to Spain,” all hands shoot in the air. “Why?” He asks the gathered 2 and 3 year olds before him. Finally a little one says, “pour manger.” (To eat.)

Pirogues are the long heavy boats that have made possible the livelihood of Senegalese fishermen for centuries. They are carved out of the wood of the colossal fromager trees, and they have colorful images painted on their sides, sometimes words like Baraka, Serign Touba, and Alxamduilay, which aren’t really so much magical lingo on their own so much as plain old vernacular blessings. These are the boats that fathers, sons, cousins - a handful, maybe 10 - push out on the waters in the morning and steer back into port at night, hopefully heaped with the daily catch.

On October 16, about 130 men from Senegal, Mali, Guinea-Bissau, and Gambia piled into a pirogue and quietly sped away from Ziguinchor, the sunny fishing village that took a swing at being a city and landed a little left of field, that I temporarily call home. Their destination was the Spanish Canary Islands (and ultimately, I believe Spain). First they had to reach international waters, 220 km off-coast, where travelers are immune to the menacing threat of helicopters and coastal patrols (Senegal and Morocco partner with Frontex, the border security branch of the EU). Somewhere outside of Mauritania their engine broke, and after a week of drifting, the surviving 90 or so were pulled from the sea and hospitalized in Morocco. 42 bodies are missing. To give you a sense of the numbers, since January of 2006, roughly 25,000 Africans have made similar journeys, and 3,000 have died (according to one estimate). No small number have college and post-collegiate degrees.

Immigrants from Senegal send home $630 million every year, which is 6.85 % of the GDP. And though it's a little off track, I think it's worth considering the family structure, or the idea of the family, as it exists in Africa. Families are loosely but extensively conjoined, and when these young men get in a pirouge, it’s got little to do with job satisfaction, wanderlust, or the lure of the West. It’s not their own future they’re ready to die for, but ultimately, their family’s.

How much do Americans know about the problem of clandestine immigration? My sense is that many Americans have an awareness that this goes on, shelved someplace neatly in the back of waking thought. The truth is, as I see it, it doesn’t touch us immediately enough to spark any sort of inquietude beyond a passing sympathy. In our defense, it’s not exactly all over the American news; in fact judging by the NYTimes archives, the subject barely makes it out of editorials. I think in not so many words, we tell ourselves, “that’s Europe’s problem.” How much truth is there to that idea? Many young Senegalese, particularly in the cities, say they’d rather drown en route to Europe than spend their lives looking for jobs that don’t exist. Worse yet, this is one of those things you hear so many times, it’s lost impact. How much is this America’s problem too?

This article could go in a dozen different directions. I could start highlighting the blame on the US, for its hand in keeping these economies at such a low-achieving level. I could talk about globalization and the exchange of culture (or the importation of western culture, but not entirely) that occurs as markets open across the globe, specifically in developing countries. That gives birth to a consumer culture, which ordinarily drives a work force. But then there’s massive unemployment. And then on the bigger level there’s substantial trade barriers against African goods. Outside of Senegal, Africans migrate for different reasons, persecution and war. I could talk about America’s responsibility in regards to those conflicts. But I’m neither an economist nor a historian - maybe an art historian - so I’m going to stay out of those murky waters! Obviously the answer is, a lot.

But instead of plunging into answers, I’m going to go ahead and take the other route, that is to say, put a few more of my own questions out there.

Starting with a less-than-rhetorical question: What is this notion of borders today - borders between people - at a time when they’re falling down everywhere? Economically speaking, culturally, speaking. Diplomatically, too, in some ways. While in theory, non-interventionist ideas sound nice, (America’s meddled in one too many cookie jars for its own good and everyone else's). That being said, there is no such thing as as political isolationism anymore, at least not in the way just about every American president before Wilson espoused. So where do you draw this line, between non-intervention and isolation? Where do you draw the line between economic and political intervention? (Quickest way to a government’s heart is through its pocketbook). Where should we intervene? Given that interventions are unfortunately just non-altruistic.

Ok, so, we’ve got these borders evaporating into thin air, at the same time as country borders are being reinforced and “controlled.” What’s our aversion to immigrants, us, a country founded by them? I think part of it has to do with the fear of a growing permanent underclass (We've watched France struggle with the repercussions of this). But if we’re not going to open our borders, then we could in the very least provide economic incentives for would-be immigrants to stay home. In the very most, we could pull their countries out of impoverishment.

I’m going to finish with a quote from Bono’s Foreword to Jeffrey Sach’s The End of Poverty (I know, I know, it seems almost unfairly easy, adding a little extra gravitas, a little ummph, to your speech by adding 9/11, we learned that from Rudy Guiliani. Nonetheless, point taken):

The destinies of the "haves" are intrinsically linked to the fates of the "have-nothing-at-alls." If we didn’t know this already, it became too clear on September 11, 2001. The perpetrators of 9/11 might have been wealthy Saudis, but it was in the collapsed, poverty-stricken state of Afghanistan that they found succor and sanctuary. Africa is not the front line in the war against terror, but it soon could be.

"The war against terror is bound up in the war against poverty." Who said that? Not me. Not some beatnik peace group. Secretary of State Colin Powell. And when a military man starts talking like that perhaps we should listen. In tense, nervous times isn’t it cheaper - and smarter - to make friends out of potential enemies than to defend yourself against them?

last weekend

I considered composing this in iambic pentameter but ended up opting for something a little more stream of consciousness, I'm tired and it is the 21st century, I apologize for run-ons

Where rugged could be a gross understatement, we’re zipping down sandy paths à la moto, (as romantic as it sounds for 20 minutes tops) I’m thinking about the most evocative landscapes I’ve come across in print. Thinking about Willa Cather’s Nebraska, thinking about what she might have to say about the edens I’ve found myself in lately. The Land That Photos Don’t Do Justice To and somehow seem like cheating anyways. I’d paint you a picture through words, but such is the problem, I’m at a loss for them. I’ve rummaged through my arsenal of diction and come up short. The words I want to use - like “pungency” and “frequency” - aren’t even in the right sensory ballpark. (Although I don’t know how to apply it, “spirulina” isn’t entirely far off.) I’m lead to conclude - and why not? - that the people who describe it best are the people who’ve made it their home, at one point even their religion. And in their tongue it’s simply: Sacred Bush. The greens of vegetation and rusty hue of the earth are of a saturation that only becomes slightly more believable when dusk starts to sap its vibrancy, when oncoming night threatens to make all things monochrome. (In that vein, I don’t need a mirror to know mine is the last face to disappear into the deep blackness of night). And all over is this smell, something almost metallic; it’s something that grows in Florida, and closing my eyes (barely catching my breath) I’m back in Treetops Park, in my mud-spattered uniform running the woodsy three mile path that only a hundred thousand footsteps and wrong turns taught me. This is the hour that I arrive in the village of Niassène, greeted by a human warmth and spirit on par with their surroundings. Later I’m watching a skit put on by the villagers, and in the stretches between whispered translations, I’m only vaguely paying attention to the drama unfolding on-stage and instead my sleepy, wandering mind is enjoying the rollicking audience and wondering if it couldn’t be too different from the candle-lit milieus in which the bests of Shakespeare made their 16th century debuts. If one were to substitute the Globe Theatre for a modestly square dance hall. I don’t doubt for a minute that had they not been gripped in the riotous throws of laughter they’d be hurling rotten vegetables. And during this time, three plucky little kids who couldn’t believe their stroke of luck or overcome that last trace of childhood gall stole touches at my feet. If they were surprised or disappointed by the feel of boring old flesh, they wouldn’t meet my eyes to show it. I spend the entire night in that space between the strata of asleep and awake. There's ants in the bed and I can here something scurrying all over the room, near my head, at one point I can hear it breathing. In almost delirium (I must have been leaning more towards asleep … or feverish) I was upset I couldn’t remember if mice eat people, running over and over the lines, "if you give a mouse a cookie" and couldn't remember anything further to quell my worries. (For what its worth, I spent the night in this same village once before in a clean and cozy room - guess I picked the wrong straw this time). I think I forgot to mention that all of this occurred under the most unimaginable sky. The type of sky that restores credibility to those constellation maps you see (almost mitigating the fact that its very existence relies on a sad want for electricity in these parts). The longer you stare into the dark, your eyes process more and more white stars until you can’t tell star from sky, even thought they’re virtually opposite in color. Like an ashtray spilled on dark ebony wood. That's the way it is, hey? rodents and sublimity. Two sides of a coin.