I wrote this over the course of my last few days in Senegal. When you're preparing for such a big change, your mood can radically change from day to day. I feel like if I wrote this whole post at once, I wouldn't be able to capture all of the things going through my head. It also wouldn't be a true representation of how I feel if I wrote a long, organized post. My mood is changing. Thoughts are popping into my head and leaving. The only way to capture this, I think, is to just come back to this over the course of several days and post some thoughts. Some thoughts may be related and there's no particular order to them. I'm sure there will be some overarching themes among them, though.
-The process of saying good-bye to Senegal is surprisingly similar to saying good-bye to the US. Uncertainty, mild regret, hope? Maybe hope.
-I don't think I regret anything I did during my service. I only wish I could have done more. More travel in Senegal. More visiting other volunteers. Less wasting time.
-I believe that I am, always have been. and always will be alone. Obviously, I don't mean alone in the physical sense, but in the emotional or spiritual. This is a very complicated concept to explain. I don't mean it in a depressing way either, although there is a part of it that's sad. What I mean is that no one and no thing is coming to save me from my problems. I have to face this world and face my inner demons on my own.
-Despite the previous thought, a human life has no meaning in a vacuum. It only has meaning in relation to other lives.
-I am terrible at good-byes. I become overly callous to avoid being overly emotive. I love more than I let on which is a big fault of mine.
-There's a part of me that's just tired. I need something new. I wanted to live somewhere more rural for a while, so I joined Peace Corps. They sent me to Dakar. I think that part of me that wants to live in a rural area for a while is still there.
-I have a lot of work to do if I want to be an informed citizen. This goes for culture as well as politics. Being ignorant of the latest issues and ways of thought will be a new experience for me.
-Dakar isn't as different as you might think. There are supermarkets and restaurants and things that Americans would recognize. The biggest difference between Dakar and other cities in the US or Europe is not what is available, it's how often things go wrong. Things like power, water, and internet go out frequently. Traffic accidents are common. The police are only useful for particular things. Inefficiencies in city planning as well as simple overpopulation puts a strain on other infrastructure. At the end of the day, though, it's not THAT different.
-This administrative process should be much easier than this. I have to repay some money and was told one thing and then another about how I need to repay it. The money isn't even a problem if they would just make up their mind. Peace Corps Senegal has definitely taught me to NEVER put full trust in anybody to do their job. Always confirm that it's been done and done the way you thought it would be.
-I'm happier when I'm active, but more contented when I'm lethargic. The problem with contentedness, though, is that it implies there's no ambition. In the long term, staying static is bad.
-My go-to answer when I'm asked 'Is Peace Corps effective?' is that yes, it is effective as a way of cross-cultural communication. People learn about America through us and we (and our loved ones) learn about the world through the countries and families we're placed in. As an agent of international development and behavior change, it's not quite as effective. It does, however, provide unlimited potential. A volunteer put in the right position with the right skills can make significant, lasting impact. It's just that there are so many volunteers and so many variables that that perfect set of circumstances doesn't happen very often.
-Would I do Peace Corps again either as Response or the full two years? Not right now. I've learned not to assume I know what I will want 5 years from now. Each major life decision I've made over the last few years has been designed to give me new skills and provide me a greater variety of opportunities in the future.
-Unlike many volunteers, I went through most of my service alone. I wouldn't see volunteers even on a weekly basis (excluding the last couple months) nor did I have some central place we could all congregate in. I had no local supervisor or community counterpart assigned to help me learn the culture. Having to do it all myself was empowering and tiring. In a different world, I might not be so ready to not be living abroad anymore. I might be looking for more.
-Living abroad is so important to developing a healthy worldview. I wouldn't make it mandatory during high school or between high school and university since there are legitimate reasons why it wouldn't benefit somebody, but I would at least make it tough to get out of.
-The times where I haven't had constant access to Internet and TV have
given me a lot of time to explore my interests. I now know a lot more
about philosophy which is something that I'm very happy about. It's also allowed me to get back into reading which is something that has given me some great ideas to think about.
-I've also been exposed to other things that I wouldn't have normally done in the States like fasting. While I won't necessarily be continuing each of these experiments in the States each of them taught me something.
-Coming to Peace Corps provided me with an opportunity to make some changes in terms of my dress, behavior and habits Some of the changes were good, some didn't stick. Leaving Peace Corps provides me with a similar opportunity.
-At the end of the day, Peace Corps is an experience not like any other. I don't know exactly how it prepares me for my future, but I can't regret having done it. It's allowed me to see and do things that I couldn't have any other way. For that, I am thankful.
As one final message to the people I've served in Senegal with, I'd like to take a page out of Senegalese culture and ask for your forgiveness. I'm sorry for the times I've hurt you or done wrong by you. I know my faults are many and I'm doing my best on them. I hope we meet again somewhere, someday.
Friday, April 29, 2016
Sunday, March 6, 2016
The Straight Story
This post isn't about me.
To this point, this blog has been all about me. What I'm feeling, where I've been, what I've been working on. My service has been all about me, too, for that matter. The work I've done for Senegal has just been a happy consequence in a search for answers that was (and is) ultimately selfish. I'm able to admit that to myself.
For this one post, though, I'd like to take a step back and tell a story. This is a story that I've only recently become a part of and that I will soon cease to be a part of. It's about the people who work at the artisanal village that I've been studying for the past year and a half although one man, inevitably, steps to the forefront. I've gotten the chance to get to know this group of artists and artisans over that time and I feel like that the birth and growth of this village is a story worth telling. Why? Because it's a story that promotes so many values that we think of as distinctly "American". Raising yourself up by your bootstraps. Fighting in the face of adversity. Having a healthy admiration for cowboys and Wrangler jeans. Turns out these values are less about America and more about people trying to survive in a sometimes unforgiving world. The name of the village is the Cheikh Ibra Fall Cultural Center and the story starts in 1999.
At the time, Ndiaye Diagne, the man who would become the leader of the village, was working security in Point E, one of the neighborhoods of Dakar. He belongs to a sect of Islam particular to Senegal called the Baay Falls which, to this day, is the subject of a lot of misunderstanding and ridicule in Senegal. They are seen as lazy, rude beggars by many for a variety of reasons. First of all, their appearance is different from how other Senegalese present themselves. If you can't google "Baay Fall", picture a Rastafarian. Dreads, a bunch of ebony beaded necklaces, and large, baggy African-style clothes. Contrast this with your typical devout Senegalese Muslim where long hair and lots of jewelry are frowned upon. Second, they often roam the streets with big wooden bowls and beg for change as a "symbolic gesture of good faith" or "to help the village children". Most people don't have a problem with the begging itself, but rather with the loud, flamboyant way in which they beg. That second stereotype is something that Ndiaye takes particular offense to. It's not that Baay Falls don't do it. It's that he thinks those individuals are misguided, not representing the true philosophy of the faith. That's the opposite, in fact, of how Ndiaye interprets the teachings of Cheikh Ibra Fall, the founder of the Baay Fall faith. He calls the Baay Fall tradition "Le culte de travail", translated as the cult of working. He thinks that the last thing young Baay Falls should be doing is begging for money. They should be learning how to live off the sweat of their brow, making work their priority in order to live a truly peaceful life. Whether or not you agree with that philosophy yourself, he at least holds himself to the same standard. Before beginning his security work in Point E, he attended a Koranic school out in the African bush where, in addition to studying, he worked in the fields. To this day, he'll often go out into the African bush and work as a farmhand for months at a time because of the peace he says it brings him. There is no more restful sleep, he says, than after a day of hard work. With the lack of economic opportunity in Senegal, though, he didn't know how he could teach these young Baay Falls to stop relying on handouts and to earn a living for themselves. That's the original problem that the creation of this village was intended to solve. How do we provide an opportunity for these youth to work for their bread instead of begging for it? In 1999, Ndiaye went to the mayor of his neighborhood to pitch the idea of creating a center to train youth in trade skills and the arts that they could then use to earn their living.
It took until 2002, but Ndiaye eventually got his land, a field of trash, weeds, and debris overlooking the ocean. Before he could even begin turning his vision into reality, Ndiaye had to round up a team to do some good old manual labor. It took months and, in fact, some of the cleaning and renovation continues to this day, but the space was eventually cleared and Ndiaye started inviting his friends, both artists and tradesmen, to come set up shop at his place. Instead of paying rent and always having to worry about your landlord, he said, come to my cultural center and I'll give you a space rent-free. It was never about the money for Ndiaye. To this day, he hasn't charged rent to a single one of the artists. He just wants his center to help support families and teach youth valuable skills. Now, over 100 artists, artisans, and apprentices work in the village rent-free and support their families through the money that they earn. Some of these artists were just kids when the village began. Kids who Ndiaye happened to convince to come help him clean up a trash-ridden field one day. Ndiaye and his philosophy can be that contagious.
Jumping ahead nearly a decade and a half, the village has grown and Ndiaye has started getting older. Even as he's started to show signs of aging, Ndiaye is always doing some kind of labor in the village. Whether that's weeding, installing new shops, or building a wall so people stop dumping trash on his land, that's where he seems to be most at peace. Whenever we talk about America, he always mentions the movies that he watches, generally westerns. He says Americans are so much better than people who just want to put on a suit and grab an easy paycheck. The America he sees is the America of open ranges, cowboys, and blue jeans. He says he loves America because we're not afraid to get our hands dirty. We're not interested in bureaucracy or just skating by. Americans work. I think he likes America so much because he sees a lot of the values that he cherishes represented in these Wrangler-wearing cowboys. While the America that I know and the America that Ndiaye knows are far from similar, it says a lot about his philosophy on life that he loves the wild west not for the sense of adventure or the shootouts or the chances at striking it rich, but because cowboys are rugged, tough, and resilient workers.
Hard work ranks right up at the top of Ndiaye's list of priorities with God and family. If he's not working to provide for his own family, he's helping the sick family member of someone from his congregation or attending a funeral to pay respect to a friend and offer support to the family. If he's not doing any of those things, he's probably got his hands in the dirt. If there's one thing I've learned from Ndiaye, it's that there's peace in living simply and honestly. He's never forced another artist to pay rent or kicked him out because he wasn't making enough money. He has, however, kicked people out because they refused to work. He's rejected offers from large companies to buy the land which has turned into a very attractive piece of oceanfront real estate; a transaction which would undoubtedly make him a very rich man. He lives by his morals; the stalwarts of God, family, and work, and has found peace in what is, by American standards, a very simple life. I haven't quite figured out how to do that yet, but I know now that it's possible.
Out of his original idea and Ndiaye's philosophy, the village was born and it has produced a number of inspiring stories over the years. Two of the artists were just children when the field of trash was granted to Ndiaye. Their only work was begging in the streets and studying the Koran. Their parents had sent them away years before to live as talibe, which I've mentioned on this blog before. Opportunities for talibe, outside of religious studies, are few and far between. This artisanal village was a lifeline to these two kids who could have ended up unemployed without any prospects or skills like so many other youth do in Senegal. There are others who overcome disabilities to work at the village. One artist in particular has a severe speech impediment to the point where I could barely understand him when I interviewed him. A man like that might not be able to get a job anywhere else, but, he was able to learn how to carve stone at the village and now makes animal sculptures as lifelike as any you will see in fancier stores and catalogs. This is not to mention all of the families who rely on the income generated by the professions now housed at the village. 100 artists, artisans, and apprentices are now employed in a space that was filled with trash 14 years ago.
Because of this, I think the village has so much potential as both a creator of jobs and a provider of opportunity. There aren't many places in the Senegalese education system where students are taught about the arts or allowed to express their creativity. There are even fewer where the mentally and physically handicapped are given an equal chance to succeed. The village, or other projects like it, can be one of the ways in which we revive students' creativity and provide opportunity for students who might not have many others. For adults, it's a center of training.. Painting, carving, sewing, and dyeing have artistic applications, but also practical ones. Art isn't always about cultural heritage, social commentary, or even beauty; sometimes, it's just about making a living.
Ndiaye and his love of cowboys are going to be among the things I remember fondly about Senegal. America exports a lot of things around the world; money, clothes, food, media, even ideology, and it's not always received positively. Sometimes, it seems like part of our job as volunteers is to undo the damage and misconceptions done by this mass exportation of goods and ideas. With Ndiaye, however, when he looked at Clint Eastwood's character in the eyes and saw a part of himself in them, I was able to smile and nod and simply say, "Yup. That's exactly what America is like."
To this point, this blog has been all about me. What I'm feeling, where I've been, what I've been working on. My service has been all about me, too, for that matter. The work I've done for Senegal has just been a happy consequence in a search for answers that was (and is) ultimately selfish. I'm able to admit that to myself.
For this one post, though, I'd like to take a step back and tell a story. This is a story that I've only recently become a part of and that I will soon cease to be a part of. It's about the people who work at the artisanal village that I've been studying for the past year and a half although one man, inevitably, steps to the forefront. I've gotten the chance to get to know this group of artists and artisans over that time and I feel like that the birth and growth of this village is a story worth telling. Why? Because it's a story that promotes so many values that we think of as distinctly "American". Raising yourself up by your bootstraps. Fighting in the face of adversity. Having a healthy admiration for cowboys and Wrangler jeans. Turns out these values are less about America and more about people trying to survive in a sometimes unforgiving world. The name of the village is the Cheikh Ibra Fall Cultural Center and the story starts in 1999.
At the time, Ndiaye Diagne, the man who would become the leader of the village, was working security in Point E, one of the neighborhoods of Dakar. He belongs to a sect of Islam particular to Senegal called the Baay Falls which, to this day, is the subject of a lot of misunderstanding and ridicule in Senegal. They are seen as lazy, rude beggars by many for a variety of reasons. First of all, their appearance is different from how other Senegalese present themselves. If you can't google "Baay Fall", picture a Rastafarian. Dreads, a bunch of ebony beaded necklaces, and large, baggy African-style clothes. Contrast this with your typical devout Senegalese Muslim where long hair and lots of jewelry are frowned upon. Second, they often roam the streets with big wooden bowls and beg for change as a "symbolic gesture of good faith" or "to help the village children". Most people don't have a problem with the begging itself, but rather with the loud, flamboyant way in which they beg. That second stereotype is something that Ndiaye takes particular offense to. It's not that Baay Falls don't do it. It's that he thinks those individuals are misguided, not representing the true philosophy of the faith. That's the opposite, in fact, of how Ndiaye interprets the teachings of Cheikh Ibra Fall, the founder of the Baay Fall faith. He calls the Baay Fall tradition "Le culte de travail", translated as the cult of working. He thinks that the last thing young Baay Falls should be doing is begging for money. They should be learning how to live off the sweat of their brow, making work their priority in order to live a truly peaceful life. Whether or not you agree with that philosophy yourself, he at least holds himself to the same standard. Before beginning his security work in Point E, he attended a Koranic school out in the African bush where, in addition to studying, he worked in the fields. To this day, he'll often go out into the African bush and work as a farmhand for months at a time because of the peace he says it brings him. There is no more restful sleep, he says, than after a day of hard work. With the lack of economic opportunity in Senegal, though, he didn't know how he could teach these young Baay Falls to stop relying on handouts and to earn a living for themselves. That's the original problem that the creation of this village was intended to solve. How do we provide an opportunity for these youth to work for their bread instead of begging for it? In 1999, Ndiaye went to the mayor of his neighborhood to pitch the idea of creating a center to train youth in trade skills and the arts that they could then use to earn their living.
It took until 2002, but Ndiaye eventually got his land, a field of trash, weeds, and debris overlooking the ocean. Before he could even begin turning his vision into reality, Ndiaye had to round up a team to do some good old manual labor. It took months and, in fact, some of the cleaning and renovation continues to this day, but the space was eventually cleared and Ndiaye started inviting his friends, both artists and tradesmen, to come set up shop at his place. Instead of paying rent and always having to worry about your landlord, he said, come to my cultural center and I'll give you a space rent-free. It was never about the money for Ndiaye. To this day, he hasn't charged rent to a single one of the artists. He just wants his center to help support families and teach youth valuable skills. Now, over 100 artists, artisans, and apprentices work in the village rent-free and support their families through the money that they earn. Some of these artists were just kids when the village began. Kids who Ndiaye happened to convince to come help him clean up a trash-ridden field one day. Ndiaye and his philosophy can be that contagious.
Jumping ahead nearly a decade and a half, the village has grown and Ndiaye has started getting older. Even as he's started to show signs of aging, Ndiaye is always doing some kind of labor in the village. Whether that's weeding, installing new shops, or building a wall so people stop dumping trash on his land, that's where he seems to be most at peace. Whenever we talk about America, he always mentions the movies that he watches, generally westerns. He says Americans are so much better than people who just want to put on a suit and grab an easy paycheck. The America he sees is the America of open ranges, cowboys, and blue jeans. He says he loves America because we're not afraid to get our hands dirty. We're not interested in bureaucracy or just skating by. Americans work. I think he likes America so much because he sees a lot of the values that he cherishes represented in these Wrangler-wearing cowboys. While the America that I know and the America that Ndiaye knows are far from similar, it says a lot about his philosophy on life that he loves the wild west not for the sense of adventure or the shootouts or the chances at striking it rich, but because cowboys are rugged, tough, and resilient workers.
Hard work ranks right up at the top of Ndiaye's list of priorities with God and family. If he's not working to provide for his own family, he's helping the sick family member of someone from his congregation or attending a funeral to pay respect to a friend and offer support to the family. If he's not doing any of those things, he's probably got his hands in the dirt. If there's one thing I've learned from Ndiaye, it's that there's peace in living simply and honestly. He's never forced another artist to pay rent or kicked him out because he wasn't making enough money. He has, however, kicked people out because they refused to work. He's rejected offers from large companies to buy the land which has turned into a very attractive piece of oceanfront real estate; a transaction which would undoubtedly make him a very rich man. He lives by his morals; the stalwarts of God, family, and work, and has found peace in what is, by American standards, a very simple life. I haven't quite figured out how to do that yet, but I know now that it's possible.
Out of his original idea and Ndiaye's philosophy, the village was born and it has produced a number of inspiring stories over the years. Two of the artists were just children when the field of trash was granted to Ndiaye. Their only work was begging in the streets and studying the Koran. Their parents had sent them away years before to live as talibe, which I've mentioned on this blog before. Opportunities for talibe, outside of religious studies, are few and far between. This artisanal village was a lifeline to these two kids who could have ended up unemployed without any prospects or skills like so many other youth do in Senegal. There are others who overcome disabilities to work at the village. One artist in particular has a severe speech impediment to the point where I could barely understand him when I interviewed him. A man like that might not be able to get a job anywhere else, but, he was able to learn how to carve stone at the village and now makes animal sculptures as lifelike as any you will see in fancier stores and catalogs. This is not to mention all of the families who rely on the income generated by the professions now housed at the village. 100 artists, artisans, and apprentices are now employed in a space that was filled with trash 14 years ago.
Because of this, I think the village has so much potential as both a creator of jobs and a provider of opportunity. There aren't many places in the Senegalese education system where students are taught about the arts or allowed to express their creativity. There are even fewer where the mentally and physically handicapped are given an equal chance to succeed. The village, or other projects like it, can be one of the ways in which we revive students' creativity and provide opportunity for students who might not have many others. For adults, it's a center of training.. Painting, carving, sewing, and dyeing have artistic applications, but also practical ones. Art isn't always about cultural heritage, social commentary, or even beauty; sometimes, it's just about making a living.
Ndiaye and his love of cowboys are going to be among the things I remember fondly about Senegal. America exports a lot of things around the world; money, clothes, food, media, even ideology, and it's not always received positively. Sometimes, it seems like part of our job as volunteers is to undo the damage and misconceptions done by this mass exportation of goods and ideas. With Ndiaye, however, when he looked at Clint Eastwood's character in the eyes and saw a part of himself in them, I was able to smile and nod and simply say, "Yup. That's exactly what America is like."
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