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."