Right now I am reeling from the news of the Virginia shootings and trying to find a safe place to settle and collect my thoughts. It is strange; I have no American compatriots here and never really cared to find them until things started happening at home that I felt the need to discuss. Its not easy when every European I talk to seems to think "serves your bastard country right" and every Malian I speak to has no idea what the hells happening. I rattle along, everything looks good on the outside, but I know that inside the straight backed exterior there is a piece of me mourning for the people of my country, mourning the state of my nation; the one that is so keen on directing the rest of the world that it seems to have troubles facing itself.
I realize that right now I am living in one of the poorest nations of the world; here the people work hard under hot sun for the amount of money Americans spend on Starbucks each day. I see so many physical manifestations of poverty here, yet when I think of the states, of the place I am still proud to call home, I sense poverty of the spirit, that manifests itself in ignorance, preoccupation with pettiness, and occasional explosive displays of violence such as the one that just happened. In one way, this knowledge brings me closer to this new home of mine, helps me appreciate the simplicity of physical human need, and the human warmth that shines through it on a daily basis. In another way I feel paralyzed and suffocated by sorrow and hopelessness at the state of this world.
I have chosen one tiny path, and am trying my hardest to follow it but every day I come across more things I could fight, the constant question of 'why: "Why the discrimination? Why the inequality? Why the poverty? Why do I have the right to food and education and health when this right is denied to so many? Living here brings me face to face with these questions every day and I am trying hard not to lay all the answers on my own back. If I do I will surely drown in them and lose the thread of the tiny path I am trying so desperately to tread gently and consciously.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Gifts
3.30.07- Village
I write by the light of a ¾ moon. Light that makes my paper glow and my words melt together. I am listening to the voices of men who tell stories around the glowing coals of the teapot. I bathed under the stars this evening, watched the first star rise from the gentle violet haze of sunset. Venus glows. The voices rise and fall. My breast matches the roundness of the moon.
Here I drink tea till the sun goes down then lay my mat under the tree, crawl under my mosquito net and let the rolling voices of the storytellers lull me to an easy sleep. I awake at four in the morning to watch the women trickle towards the well. Through the early grayness and sleep fogged eyes, I watch the women gather. One bends, lets out the long rope, then stands tall and pulls her left hand high into the air, while making a loop with the rope in her right. like an African sun salutation, this action is repeated until the black rubber water holder emerges dripping fresh clear water and is dumped into the bright plastic bucket, and lifted to the head. The chickens begin clucking. The days work has begun but I drift back to sleep for another 2 hours, until the young girl comes to summon me for my morning shower. The luxury of the bucket of hot water is intensified by the knowledge of hoe much has gone into creating this one steaming bucket of water. I thank gracefully and effusively, though still faltering and at a loss for words. How could I possibly explain the poetry of hot water patiently lathered over my skin as the sun rises in Bambara?
4.9.07 - NIger Pirogues
The pirogues are long, smooth, elegant, like ancient swords slicing through fine colorless silk. Their reflections are just as real as the boats themselves, easing from a skinny point, shuddered by ripples to a wider shadow that melts somewhere into the smooth dark underwood of the boats. The effect is of one entity, gracefully connected forever to its shadow. Men stand wide legged on the bow or the stern, guiding with a long pole. The body bends at the waist, the pole lengthens, becoming horizontal as it pushes against the river bottom and glides forward. The body straightens, the arms raise, the pole grows tall. This vertical diagonal movement leading to the smooth horizontal glide looks to me like a slow graceful dance.
4.15.07
These gifts are all I can part with right now. the reality of my life here is far more complex, and goes far beyond the sensual pleasures of what I observe. So much of me is deep and getting deeper, trying to figure out who I am, where I am, establishing a sense of self in this brand new place. I am treading water, watching the ease with which the boatmen navigate the shallow river, and trying to find solid ground on which to pose my own two feet.
Something about the depth of what I am experiencing makes it hard to write the whole truth of it. I think that is because the whole truth includes race and economics and gender and education and ultimately, identity. It is not easy to write about these while living them as well. Nonetheless, I find these everyday observations are not only the salve to ease the entry, but also portholes through which I may perhaps enter a stronger sense of who I am here.
I write by the light of a ¾ moon. Light that makes my paper glow and my words melt together. I am listening to the voices of men who tell stories around the glowing coals of the teapot. I bathed under the stars this evening, watched the first star rise from the gentle violet haze of sunset. Venus glows. The voices rise and fall. My breast matches the roundness of the moon.
Here I drink tea till the sun goes down then lay my mat under the tree, crawl under my mosquito net and let the rolling voices of the storytellers lull me to an easy sleep. I awake at four in the morning to watch the women trickle towards the well. Through the early grayness and sleep fogged eyes, I watch the women gather. One bends, lets out the long rope, then stands tall and pulls her left hand high into the air, while making a loop with the rope in her right. like an African sun salutation, this action is repeated until the black rubber water holder emerges dripping fresh clear water and is dumped into the bright plastic bucket, and lifted to the head. The chickens begin clucking. The days work has begun but I drift back to sleep for another 2 hours, until the young girl comes to summon me for my morning shower. The luxury of the bucket of hot water is intensified by the knowledge of hoe much has gone into creating this one steaming bucket of water. I thank gracefully and effusively, though still faltering and at a loss for words. How could I possibly explain the poetry of hot water patiently lathered over my skin as the sun rises in Bambara?
4.9.07 - NIger Pirogues
The pirogues are long, smooth, elegant, like ancient swords slicing through fine colorless silk. Their reflections are just as real as the boats themselves, easing from a skinny point, shuddered by ripples to a wider shadow that melts somewhere into the smooth dark underwood of the boats. The effect is of one entity, gracefully connected forever to its shadow. Men stand wide legged on the bow or the stern, guiding with a long pole. The body bends at the waist, the pole lengthens, becoming horizontal as it pushes against the river bottom and glides forward. The body straightens, the arms raise, the pole grows tall. This vertical diagonal movement leading to the smooth horizontal glide looks to me like a slow graceful dance.
4.15.07
These gifts are all I can part with right now. the reality of my life here is far more complex, and goes far beyond the sensual pleasures of what I observe. So much of me is deep and getting deeper, trying to figure out who I am, where I am, establishing a sense of self in this brand new place. I am treading water, watching the ease with which the boatmen navigate the shallow river, and trying to find solid ground on which to pose my own two feet.
Something about the depth of what I am experiencing makes it hard to write the whole truth of it. I think that is because the whole truth includes race and economics and gender and education and ultimately, identity. It is not easy to write about these while living them as well. Nonetheless, I find these everyday observations are not only the salve to ease the entry, but also portholes through which I may perhaps enter a stronger sense of who I am here.
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