Precious Stones- One Year Later

Happy 4th of July!

While I’m looking forward to the delicious food and loud fireworks that are here to help us Americans celebrate Independence Day, today actually marks 1 year since I returned home from Chad, so this long weekend has been a natural time to reflect on the past two years, my year spent there and the year since I left it. Now it’s hitting me that for one whole year I haven’t seen a single person who was with me during that time. No one who met even one of the individuals I called a friend, student, or “Maman.” No one who looked out on the same sometimes harsh and sometimes breathtaking landscapes, who heard the same sounds, who experienced the same heat, who juggled the same feelings of joy, isolation, independence, claustrophobia, love, gratitude, blah blah blah. I have no reason to feel shocked by this, as it’s exactly what was to be expected when I embarked on a year of life in a small city in Chad, and yet I feel it earns me the right to take to my soapbox today and share some reflections with you.

I don’t talk very much about my year in Chad. It’s not to say that friends don’t ask from time to time. But part of the problem is that I hate the sounds of myself talking about it. I hate how flat my descriptions fall and how, in trying to be honest and pragmatic, I say chipped, negative things about the challenges and lessons I learned. I detest saying hackneyed, unimaginative stuff about all the “beautiful, generous people I met” and the children I taught who ended up being some of my best friends and most patient teachers. I fear that by saying anything wonderful and romantic about my time, I lump my experience in with those of everyone who’s ever done a one-week service trip abroad, but by dwelling on anything else does a disservice to my community there.

This is something that might get easier as the experience drifts further and further behind me. I will feel more comfortable saying broad, happy things because I won’t feel the palpable presence of my relationships and emotions. I can speak about them from a distance, which is terrifying to understand. But that’s what happens. Experiences become memories if we’re lucky, and they are forgotten otherwise. I really had to come to terms with this last year whenever I wanted to hold onto something that was really important to me but knew I’d have no one to reminisce with about it. For example, last June, after school had finished for the year, I was biking home from choir practice when I heard someone shout, “Madeleine!” I turned and saw a little boy from my school selling hard boiled eggs along the road. I skidded to a stop and went over to say hello. I bought and egg and we smiled and I asked him how he was doing. As I finished my bike ride I could not stop smiling and my heart felt so full. I sat down a little later and included that snippet in my journal. There was nothing profound about that moment but I was so happy to see him again and to know that he lived right there, and that we were still friends and that I might even see him again before I left.

That month, I passed him several times selling eggs on the street. Each time I cheered internally. “Last time wasn’t the last time I’ll ever see him! But maybe this will be the last time. I’ll have to remember this.” I had these thoughts with all of my students and friends. I tried to maintain mental snapshots of the last times I would see them. I went back into my journal sometimes and documented the last memories I had of people, often when I didn’t realize it would be the last time. I started collecting interactions like precious stones.

Why was this such an important practice for me? Looking over my journal this weekend, I think the reason lies in a journal entry I wrote during our one-week retreat in Ethiopia. I had been struggling to understand my role for the year. I was working with an international development organization, but I felt like every day I was just playing it by ear. I didn't know if I was doing my job well. I felt like everybody else was doing a better job of building up their organizations, working to improve infrastructure and systems. They had a critical eye towards our partner organizations and wanted to leave these organizations in a better place than they found them. I, on the other hand, was this Rando who did not train to be a teacher, did not intend to go into the teaching field, failed to maintain any semblance of control in the classroom, and spent hours a day coloring and doing “Auto-Rap” with students on my iPad. I didn’t know if my job as a teacher and my broader position as an American volunteer in Africa was fundamentally positive, negative, or plain selfish.

During retreat, I had a revelation. It was during a time of discussion and reflection about our roles and responsibilities, while we were discussing how to convey to people why we wanted or needed to be halfway around the world to do our jobs when there was plenty to be done in our own backyards. Suddenly I thought of the hymn “Here in the place” that I sang so much growing up. Basically the hymn says that Heaven can be “here in this space” rather than somewhere “lightyears away.” I’d sung this a thousand times, including with my singing group “Les Semeurs” in Chad. But suddenly on a personal level I understood that I had experienced snippets of Heaven countless times with my friends and family in Moundou. Heaven came in the form of a familiar, happy flutter in my soul, like the one I felt when I saw my student selling eggs and waving to me. It came every single time one of my students raised their hand and answered a question in English. It was there each time Maman Kiri or a caretaker at my school raised her eyebrows at me and started to dance, imploring me to join in. I felt it every time I heard the laughter of a child outside the door of my house and I knew exactly who it was and how their eyes probably looked in that moment. Those moments were little snapshots of Heaven. 

I'm not saying I needed to travel around the world to experience these happy moments. And I definitely don't think anybody in Chad needed me to come smile at them or dance with them, or lay out a mat on my porch and play BINGO with them. I don't mean to suggest I was feeling aggressively happy or playful for much of the time I was away.

What I want to say is that everyone should understand the role they play every day in making life better or worse for others. We are so prone to plan for the future, and the best of us focus so much energy on cultivating ourselves, our families, our organizations, and our communities to be better, healthier, bigger, and stronger down the road. We want to have a lasting impact. We want to strategize and learn. That's all amazing and necessary.

The thing is we cannot know what lasting impact we will have on our communities, if any. We don’t know if our long-term efforts will succeed or crash. We don’t even know who will be around to share in our joys and triumphs. That’s not to say we shouldn’t try each and every day to build up our communities and be smart. But let’s also keep in mind what we do know. What we know is that we are all on this planet for a finite amount of time. And wherever we are, we can make that place Heaven, if only for a moment.

A year after I’ve returned from Chad, I see something pretty clearly. Last year was a time when I had very little control over my life and I relied so much on the kindness and grace of other people. I could so easily fall into slumps of feeling isolated and disconnected. Being so vulnerable, I did a much better job of treating people well, of working tirelessly to make other people feel happy and appreciated and respected. I was acutely aware of the moments when life was just plain beautiful and I appreciated people in a way that is much harder for me to do when I’m comfortable on my own continent. I went to bed at night replaying the smallest smiles and handshakes that people gave me. I understood that someone patting a space next to them on a mat was as important to me as a good meal. I soaked up touch and music like a dry, thirsty sponge. I am thankful to everyone I met in Chad who shared spectacular, small moments with me… some that I have sadly already forgotten and others that I will always remember. Who knows if we will see each other again, but I hold the snapshots close to me like precious stones.

Rude Awakenings

Sometimes life does not hand you exactly what you'd expected when you woke up that morning. And often the little surprises that present themselves are fun to share. So here, I present you with some "rude awakenings" from this week in Chad: On Tuesday, I had the responsibility of surveying final exams for an English class. Now, one of the benefits of living on campus is, of course, that I can leave my house a minute before class and still be one of the first teachers to arrive. So that's what I did. I stepped out onto my porch and while I wasn't feeling the need to rush, I definitely was planning to move with purpose across campus to the classroom. Instead, what I quickly discovered was that the screen door separating my porch from the rest of the world was padlocked shut from the outside! 

Typicalll, I thought. You see, this wasn't the first time I'd been locked in. Among other things, my house has become a hub for everyone who's anyone to charge their phones and electronics, as most of the time it is the only location with a working outlet. Too often I think people, especially the guards, forget it is also my house, so I arrive or exit to find them guarding their phones with a padlock. Twice before a guard has come by my house while I've been inside and locked me in with his phone.

 In the past I hadn't been in a particular hurry, but this situation very quickly became a desperate one because not only had the children mostly all passed on their way to class, but as I stepped out I heard the familiar ping of rain on my roof. Have I mentioned that the rains have returned to Moundou? It has been one of the joys of my year to listen to the showers and thunder from the comforts of my house or porch. However, with the rains today I saw some of the last students make a sprint to class, leaving me totally alone! I called to some boys in the distance to get the guard, and they stopped and looked at me, so I thought the message had been received, but five minutes later when he was nowhere in sight I called the only faculty in my contacts, the coordinator of campus events, and explained to him that the guard had locked me in. It was now raining very hard and I could hardly hear him, but he said ok. Ten minutes later I called him back. "Did you reach the guard? I'm very late to survey exams!" He laughed and said yes yes, the guard was coming. Finally the guard approached and I tried to figure out how I was going to be polite and forgiving, yet firm that three times of this was really enough, but when he arrived he called angrily, "who did this??" Turns out, it wasn't him, and he didn't have a key. So he spent the next several minutes looking for something to break open the lock. This wooden stake? Nope. This metal construction thing? Perfect. The lock broken, I ran to class and was able to do my job, but with a story that amused my colleagues, prompting them to believe that some student just really didn't want to take his English final!

 The next day, Wednesday, I got out of my house pretty successfully. I had spent the night with my host family in town, so the first thing on my to-do list for the morning was to bike back to school at Altonodji. I attached my bag of things and some clean clothes for the week to my bike rack and started down the street. Immediately I was greeted by little children on their way to school screaming, “Nassara! Bonjour!” I passed a house where a young woman and her family stood. She called out to me in a sing-songy voice, “Sister! Pedal pedal! Carefully!” I waved, laughed, and continued down my street, where I had to navigate around some small puddles. It was just such a beautiful morning. The weather was cool, the air was dry, and people were out and about.

It was when I turned off of our small little street that I saw what huge puddles had been deposited on the road by the last big rain. Many roads in Moundou are made of dirt and full of bumps and crevices that warmly invite water to gather and stay awhile. The particular puddle that I was faced with as I turned the corner was something more accurately described as a pool, extending across practically the entire width of the road and maybe fifteen feet before me. I started doing some problem-solving in my head. In the middle of the pool, if I swerved left, there was a path a few centimeters wide that seemed to be the way other people decided to approach this from the look of the tire tracks. However, I could hear a motorcyclist quickly approaching behind me and I had a feeling that he had the same thing in mind. Wanting to avoid a collision, I turned my attention to the right of the road, where there was actually a good foot of dry area lining the side. The problem with this was that there was a very steep hump over which I would have to navigate my bike. Forgetting that I had the option of breaks to give me a little extra time to go over the pros and cons, I gave myself the old “move with purpose,” talk and took the path less travelled. Within three seconds I was already at the top of the hump, regretting my decision as the earth tilted, my bike tottered, and I tumbled theatrically into the pond.

When I emerged from the depths, of course my first thought was how to make it look to the surrounding audience that I had NOT just launched my bike into the water, but upon deciding that was impossible I instead took inventory of my soaking clothes and electronics. Once everything was arranged as best as possible, I walked in as dignified a manner as possible to the end of the puddle, smiled at a group of men sitting outside a boutique, and said, “It’s a beautiful day, no?” Then I mounted and made my way to school. The remainder of my free morning was spent washing clothes, putting things in rice in the sun to dry them out, and explaining to people, “I had a little accident.”

I also thought these two would be notable enough for a blog, but ever since I first thought, “That was an amusing way to start a day,” I’ve been realizing a pattern. The next morning, while I thought I still had nearly an hour until I had to survey final exams, I was alerted by a frantic boy at my door that the whole class was waiting for me and they were going to leave if I didn’t come soon and no there was no time to get ready I needed to come now now now! Turns out I was not in the wrong, but simply no teachers had come to school and I was the only one available. Then today, while I was writing this and sipping my Nescafe at 7:30, the coordinator of events knocked on my door and told me that they needed all of my couches and chairs for the nursery school’s end of the year ceremony, so I allowed several male students to come clear out my living room, then ended up attending the ceremony and even offering the closing prayer.

These events have all brought me back to what I said in my last entry, about how sometimes the “bad” unexpected things that happen to us can be better than whatever we had planned. Somehow, I think this is true for all of my “rude awakenings” this week. If I had the option to go back and have everything go perfectly smoothly and comfortably, would I? I certainly would not. It’s the rude awakenings that add spice to my life, and I think it would be a sad day to wake up and be assured I’ll have no surprises!

The Choir is Powerless!

Three days ago, I performed with my church choir- “Chorale Revelation de Christ”- as an opening act for a visiting church choir from a nearby village. I believe I first knew about Sunday’s concert on Saturday evening at our regular choir practice. This is such a typical experience for me that I hardly considered that it would be of interest to mention, but that is just the nature of my participation in this choir. I simply never know what is in store, and it is difficult to gage how much others are equally flexible or if I’m just constantly missing messages. However, even at the end of practice on Saturday night I heard our director say he didn’t know what time the concert was going to start, but that was ok.

On Sunday, I heard the concert would be at 3:00 so we should arrive at 2:30. Obediently, we got to church sometime shortly after 2:40 and hung around outside, as hardly anybody had yet entered the sanctuary. At 3:00ish we donned our brown graduation robes and caps- typical concert attire- and made our way to the side pews. I believe our intention was to sing two opening songs for the visiting choir, and also maybe the offertory. I can’t say for sure because was we buttoned up our robes and adjusted our tassels, we were still deliberating among ourselves which songs to perform, and whatever was planned was so far from what actually transpired that it hardly seems important now.

We sang our opening numbers for a tiny audience. After all, it was only about 3:30 and who comes to a concert within the first half-hour of its announced starting time? I’ll tell you, about 30 misinformed people. So we sang our opening numbers and then returned to our places to watch the visiting choir.

In Chad, attending a concert, even a church concert, does not mean sitting placidly in your seat and letting the music wash over you. It doesn’t even mean tapping your foot with a smile on your face. Attending a concert in Chad means being on your feet, singing along whenever possible, ululating if able (or, in my case, unable but willing), and being visual evidence that it is a positive experience. As a result, as the visiting choir launched in to their program and the crowd began to grow, I hardly even noticed the people performing at the front. From my vantage point looking out at the audience, I was having too much fun watching the party unfolding before me. I filmed the crowd. I filmed some of the more flashy dancers in my own choir who were cracking me up with their colorful moves. It was as if the choir was providing background music for the audience’s show.

This next event was, in a less than ideal way, a perfect demonstration of just how true this observation could be. Three young women from the choir, wearing matching t-shirts and wrap skirts, made their way to the front of the church and positioned themselves on one knee in a prayer stance. This looked familiar. It reminded me of the way the choreography started when I danced in a Christmas program with one of my students. Sure enough, the familiar music began to spill out of the speakers: “Louez l’Eternellll. Car… Il est bonnnn.” Excitement stirred the crowd. This was a definite favorite, a sure crowd pleaser. Our own choir had performed this song not long before and it is a truly epic one. It starts off slow with this sort of 70s ballad feel, then abruptly switches into an upbeat dance piece, followed by a section of dialogue that people love to rattle off along with the recording, Finally there’s a part where a leader belts, “I will not die!” and everyone screams “NO!” “I will not die!” “NO!” “I will live!” “YES!” “I will live!” “YES!” “He saved me!” “YES!” “I WILL NOT DIE!” “NOOOOOOOOOOO!” etc. We were in for a treat.

Well, the 70s ballad started. The dancers rose from their knees and did some synchronized swaying.  A hundred voices had already joined in to at least match if not practically drown out the canned music. Then the mood switched. We’d reached the second part of the song. People threw their heads back and sang louder and with more energy. Everyone was out of their seats dancing along, most of them more animated and bouncy than the performers. Smiles abounded.

Then, the music cut out.

No power.

…Well, whoever let that rattle anyone in Moundou, Chad? We just kept singing! We didn’t miss a beat. Except for one thing. The dancers had stopped. They were looking anxiously at one another. (For those of you who are Mean Girls fans, it was the moment when the CD started skipping at the school winter pageant, before Lindsay Lohan saved the day by singing and rallying the whole high school to join in performing “Jingle Bell Rock” to carry the dancers through.) Except that this time everyone was already singing! And harmonizing! And percussing! And doing a better rendition of the song than could be found on a recording. But dejected, the dancers sank back down to their knees, staring gloomily at the ground and waiting for the “music” to start back up. The crowd did not give up. They sang louder and louder, more and more joyfully, carrying themselves confidently through the many complicated transitions, and willing the dancers to get back up and give us a show! It went on and on, with the audience performing earnestly and the performers sitting silently and self-consciously. A textbook picture of angst. After at least a full minute, someone circled around shushing the crowd into submission.

I wonder how many times we haven’t realized that we were better off when things WEREN’T going as planned… that whatever we had planned was not as special as the things that actually happened…

The dance number was followed by several minutes of unstructured downtime for everyone in the church. Eventually, someone beckoned our choir to stand up and announced that the choir CRC would do something now (..anything!). What followed was a real testament to how much of the Evangelical Church of Tchad repertoire I have integrated into my own this year, as we stood and sang a medley of about ten different songs. We would sing one song for a minute or two¸ and then the leader would point to someone in the choir and mouth a few words, and they would belt out the solo part of a new song that we would then launch into. As unplanned as it was, this was fine by me. Being a product of the Mennonite singing school means I have zero qualms with singing unaccompanied, and really enjoyed the break from electric keyboard and guitars. For once I could hear myself and all the harmonies. And, as always, the crowd provided moral support by singing along and dancing like pros.

We never did get power back. The concert ended with all of us, members from both the home and visiting choirs, standing together and singing a song we had learned the previous day that says, “We are one in a line of love.” We held hands and raised them high. It did not go unappreciated by me that I was singing this song amidst hundreds of people whom I so easily could have gone through life never knowing. We prayed, handed in our graduation outfits, and went out into the evening.

Until the next concert. As far as I know, we could have one tomorrow.

Day of Excellence

Saturday, March 20 was no typical school day at Village Altonodji. Students exited their classrooms and business-as-usual was postponed a few hours while the students, faculty, and administration took time to recognize some of their hardest workers.

This “Day of Excellence,” sponsored by MCC, occurred in the wake of International Women’s Day, a day to celebrate the contributions of women in society. In Chad, women have a valued role in the home and in commerce, but women’s education remains an uphill battle considering that 1 out of 3 girls are married before they turn 15. I recently read that women are more likely to die in childbirth than graduate from high school, or something horrendous like that!  It was then timely that this Day of Excellence was designed to promote and celebrate the academic achievements of female students in all levels at Village Altonodji. Not only this, but the school chose to recognize the work of the orphaned children who live on campus. Out of the 323 students studying at Altonodji, 120 are “internal” students, meaning that one or both of their parents have died and thus they spend their weeks on campus. Due to the additional challenges that these children face, the organizers of the event wanted to recognize those who have excelled in their studies.

Students crammed into the benches and around the windows of the school chapel, in all of the places that were not reserved for the numerous special guests, including parents of the winners, the city mayor, and a radio reporter. Awards were given on the basis of grades from the first trimester. First, for the primary school, the two internal students from each grade level with the highest marks were presented with their prizes: brand new colorful backpacks! For those of you who are following my year more closely, you may remember my mention of two little boys who insisted on fetching me water even when I didn’t need it and it meant getting soaked by the buckets on their heads. These are the same boys that I recently posted a video of on Facebook, doing a silly, wordless dance in the middle of the gardens. The littlest one, Semplice, is the one into whose hand I had to force a marker back in the days he was still too shy to talk to me, while now he will run after me on campus begging me to color or performing “summersaults” or putting things over his head and growling at me like a wild animal. Considering how tenderly I now feel for my little friends Semplice and Calis, imagine just how proud I was when the first two names were read, the two strongest internal students at the level of CP1: Semplice and Calis!!! I could hardly stay in my seat watching them march up to stage, a mixture of pride and shyness in their steps, to the cheers and tender smiles of their peers to receive their congratulations. It occurred to me shortly thereafter that they might have been the only eligible students, being the youngest at the orphanage, but that did not lessen my excitement! Then this happened several times over as each following name belonged to a child that I know and appreciate for their smiles and curiosity and generosity.

Semplice receiving his backpack to the smiles of onlookers

For the older students at the lycee and college level, the three top internal students from each class level were awarded a French dictionary, a bilingual French-English dictionary, and a stack of new pens. For the older students, prizes were also awarded to the female students with the highest marks. The parents in attendance took turns meeting their daughters at the front of the stage to cheer and give them a hug. A secondary goal of the project according to its coordinator Fitikissou Daissou Emile was “bring parents to understand the importance of education for girls.” This opportunity to see their daughters recognized for their efforts was one step towards achieving that aim.

Then came the moment for the grand prizes. Two new bicycles were poised at the front of the chapel, awaiting the students who received the highest honor. The first bicycle went to the female student with the highest grade-point average in all of the college and lycee, my student from 4e, Mekoulnodji Djerambete. Lastly came the award for the internal student with the highest grade-point average. The winner was 6e’s Djimboundade Caleb. The coordinator of activities for the internal students announced that not only did Caleb earn the highest marks out of all of the orphaned students, but he surpassed all students studying at Village Altonodji. For this, he received a handshake and speech of congratulations from the city of Moundou’s mayor. To the appreciation of all, he also received a big, mama-like hug from the very Mama-y French teacher, Agathe.

Dounia Samuel, the school’s director and my host father, implored all students to take this day as encouragement to work even harder in the future and watch their own averages increase so that this event next year might be an even greater cause for celebration. The day was a hit, and I was pleased to see that brand new bike being ridden around all morning by dozens of students who were not the owner. It was really neat to see the attention and recognition going to kids who were not necessarily the usual suspects, that is, the ones with resources.

I’ll admit something. When I heard some of my students who were being rewarded for their work in the “top 3 internal students from each grade” category, I was quite surprised. These were not all my cream-of-the-crop students.  But it made me think differently about how it might be different being a student in school without parents, and what kinds of extra challenges that might present. Also, in a setting of 50 students per class, it’s been a big question for me of how to provide POSITIVE reinforcement when kids do something good, rather than focusing merely on stomping out problem behavior. It was a breath of fresh air to see kids patted on the back and being given something special for what they have done, with the message that they are capable of doing great work and they can do it even BETTER! All in all, this Day of Excellence was indeed an excellent opportunity to celebrate education, family, hard work, and one another in a way that was far from typical. I am so pleased with MCC’s willingness to play a huge role in bringing it to fruition.

Grand prize winners Caleb and Djerambete

The First Rule of Peace Club

At 7:00 sharp on Wednesday nights, fellow SALTer Ruth and I lead about 18 Altonodji students in animated song while sitting in a circle in my living room. This is how we call the members of Peace Club to order. Peace Club is an initiative that has been slowly taking shape ever since we first introduced it on campus about four months ago. It is a time to discuss how to address our daily conflicts, play games that promote cooperation, and learn about some of the ways people are working for peace on a large scale in the greater world. Early on, by accident, Ruth and I learned that my living room was a much more convenient and reliable place to hold the club than the large chapel, so it was here that the club formally came to be.

One thing that was important to us was that the group be reasonably small and committed to the goals of the club. We decided to draw up a Peace Club contract, for which students brainstormed rules, agreed on them, and finally signed their names, affirming that they planned to be regular members. The rules included: arrive on time, do not mock one another, participate in activities and discussion, and my personal favorite -a tricky one to enforce even in Peace Club- do not hit other people.

I have enjoyed Peace Club because it has given me an opportunity to get to know some different students and because I have enjoyed the task of lighting a spark of peacemaking in the members. Sometimes it feels a little like the students will come away saying, “Today I played this game where we couldn’t talk, and I did a skit about this really mean kid that was pretty funny,” and they don’t realize the messages we are trying to teach. However, as the weeks unfold Ruth and I have been noticing a more respectful and serious group of young peace advocates in my living room, and this gives us great encouragement. I’ve also noticed positive things happening with our “peace wall,” a wall of my living room reserved for activities that we have done in the club. Most recently, we have posted the pictures and quotes of “Peace Heroes,” famous peacemakers in history that we have studied. For each Peace Hero, Ruth printed a biography and a page with their picture and a short quote. Ever since mounting our contract and adding other posters, I have been pleased by the number of visitors to my house who go right up to the wall and begin to read the texts and ask me questions about the contract, the club, and the Peace Heroes. I feel that this wall alone is perhaps helping to contribute to a needed conversation about peace.

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” –Martin Luther King Jr.

“Let us always meet one another with a smile, for a smile is the beginning of love.”  –Mother Theresa

“ If you want to make peace with your enemy, you must work with him. Then you become partners.”  -Nelson Mandela

The biggest thumbs up that I have received since the launching of Peace Club came last Monday morning in a place I did not expect it. On the way to school, I rather begrudgingly remembered that I needed to make a detour to stop at the photocopy shop to make some copies of our Peace Hero profiles. Ever since posting the photos and quotes on my wall, I had numerous requests for copies of the stories and pictures, so I had taken down the pages to purchase a few.

At the shop I found my trusty photocopy guy, and gave him instructions to make three copies of each page. As he copied, he admired the pictures and quotes. “Mandelaaa,” he breathed admiringly. I prompted him about the other two, Mother Theresa and Martin Luther King Jr. but he did not know about them, but he silently read their quotes and asked me questions about Peace Club as he handed me copy after copy. Finally, I was pretty sure I had all of the new copies in my hands when I saw him putting Mother Theresa face-down on the screen again. I fished out my copies and waved them under his nose, saying “no, no, you already made copies of her.” He just smiled and nodded, as it occurred to me that these copies were not for me at all! I just stood there smiling stupidly as he copied each quote, collected them in a neat pile in his own hands, and then handed me my originals. On the rest of my bike ride to Altonodji, I was filled with the hope that maybe the messages we share in our short hour with Peace Club don’t end with the students in that room. Maybe from time to time they hit a cord and they will be shared with others.

Now, I don’t necessarily think that a poster on a wall is going to change the world, or even a community. But what struck me about that little exchange was that this man wanted those words, and wanted those faces, close to him… somewhere he could see and read them again. I consider what these role models have done for me and my community, and it occurs to me that it took a lot to bring their stories, contexts, video footage, and lessons to me. I never before would have considered that amazing role models, especially people hailing from halfway around the world and or dead before my time, are a privilege to know. And this privilege is something people anywhere would be hungry for.

I was reminded of something a visitor to our house had said only days before. “People say that we Chadians love war; we are never at peace; there is never stability. Now they are surprised because it is all of the surrounding countries that are at war, and here we have some stability. Chad, who everyone thinks loves war...” True, in the little I heard about Chad before receiving this position, which was very little, it was mostly in reference to intense poverty and crippling violence. Now, during this time of relative stability but with the looming threat of Boko Haram in our midst, I am sensing a real terror of losing this comfortable sense of peace. I would never say that any country “loves war,” especially of countries that are ravaged by it frequently, on their own terrain. I believe that the large majority of people want to escape war at all costs, and I wonder if, in some small way, by providing my students with stories of people who combatted violence with love and with creative, non-violent action, we can help bring up a generation of people who not only fear war, but have the knowledge and tools to find alternative outcomes. And maybe, in some small way, being part of a club where they are given the novel instruction to “not hit one another,” our students already on their way. 

Inch by Inch, Row by Row

When I first rode onto the Village Altonodji campus in September, it was an obstacle course for my host father’s vehicle. The rainy season deposited enormous puddles on the roads and side streets that were a fixture for the first month of my stay. In our drive from the front gate to the chapel in the middle of campus, Samuel navigated effortfully, making sharp angles, though it was a relatively straight driveway, to avoid the deep pools of rainwater. I remember looking out at the campus, which was half hidden by tall green grasses. To walk from building to building, I was almost lost. I would search for an opening in the grass and follow the carved paths to see if they would deposit me where I needed to be, or if they would just lead me to water blockades.

I thought campus was beautiful. It was an adventure to navigate, and I remember it even smelled fresh and exciting! I eventually learned to walk slightly to the sides of the path, which were grassy and protected my feet from mud. I got used to rinsing my feet off before stepping inside. And I loved sitting around and watching the showers.

Then, rainy season ended. As a fellow MCC-ers described it, it was as if someone above us had just turned off the tap. The puddles dried up once and for all, and things slowly became less and less green. One Saturday in December I stepped out of my guesthouse, prepared to teach classes, when I was informed that it was “cleaning day” and there would be no classes. Following the groups of students to the academic side of campus, I found everyone taking turns with machetes and shovels, clearing the grasses from the yard and carrying them to be burned elsewhere. By the end of the day, the ground practically bare, though matted with a carpet of fallen grass.

In the months after that, the majority of the large campus became brown and mostly lifeless. The only stuff flying through the air were heavy clouds of dust… no more sweet droplets of refreshing water. As this happened little by little, I hardly noticed the transition. I became accustomed to this new landscape, and for most of my relationship with Village Altonodji, this is what I saw and what I grew to love.

Then, things started changing. I first saw it on my way back from the pump, bucket in hand. Two little boys, 6 and 8, were splashing a small plot of dirt with water from their buckets. I wandered over and asked what they were doing. They said it was a garden. Charming! I thought. I splashed some water with them and was on my way again.

A couple of days later, out my window, I saw boys and girls, some in their teens but many yet in primary school, scattered about with shovels, doing something with the land. They were digging furiously, lugging bucket after bucket of water to dump over the churned-up land, and shaping beautiful, rectangular mounds of earth. Within days, these mounds of earth were fertile beds, sowed with the seeds of beans and greens. I would stand there, practically with my mouth hanging open watching these tiny children creating life in the corners of campus. There were zero adults supervising, beckoning orders, helping with the shoveling, anything. The ten Mamans who live on campus were simply going about their business over yonder. This was entirely kid-initiated and kid-executed. I loved the combination of determined work-ethic and a child’s gift for having fun in all situations as I watched them at work, digging, screaming, and laughing. I would go out and watch, feeling awed and embarrassed that they were so self-sufficient and had no need for my presence.

However, being sweet and inviting little kids, they saw my interest and quickly prompted, “Why don’t you make a garden?” They pointed me to an empty plot right next to my house that they had arranged, they brought me seeds that they had acquired, and half a dozen hands helped me to sow the seeds. I was thrilled to have my own opportunity to cultivate life on campus, and also to have a reason to be out with the children in the gardens. I had just revisited the story of The Secret Garden in an audiobook version, and had been thinking about the magic that comes with tending to a project. Along with the kids, I lugged my bucket to the pump, but was always intercepted by a child or two who would pump for me and carry it back with me and splash my garden. Each morning when I woke up, I saw them already at work, my garden sitting there shiny with water.

Despite all their help, I have had the pleasure of tending to my garden from time to time. I water it each evening, I’ve set up beds of dried grasses to protect it from the harsh sun. And I admire it while I am out marveling even more at the other workers. There is so much to admire. Now, the gardens are rich with green leaves. They expand all over campus. The children are so innovative. The cans of MCC canned chicken that have been sent to feed the children at the orphanage have been put to great use. They poke holes in the bottoms and use them as watering cans. The older boys, in a single day, dug three great wells on campus for more easy access to water. They give consistent attention to the gardens and use them as an enterprise. I’ve learned that when they yield food, the Mamans actually purchase the goods in order to make the school’s meals.

There is nothing about the garden project that I don’t love. They have made the campus an oasis of life nearly half a year after the last rains have fallen in Moundou. The magnificent bright green colors, standing out against the dry sand and the dusty air is a beauty so poignant I can’t help but stare. And then, there’s this feeling of being part of a project that will yield results even after my departure. It reminds me to consider the seeds that I’m planting elsewhere on campus, in the minds and the lives of my students and my hundreds of little friends/helpers on campus. As the end of the school year looms oh-so-close, I am hopeful that any impact I have been able to make here does not stop when I leave, but will continue to grow and produce fruits long after.

Mamans of Altonodji

Meet: Deoulemgoto Marie
Marie is one of the ten "Mamans" who live here and take care of the 120 orphans at Altonodji. She was born here in Moundou and was raised in a family of 8 children, though one sibling died while she was still young. Marie attended school for a full ten years in Moundou and in another town called Bangor. I'm amazed by the amount of English Marie has retained since she studied back in the 70s.. She often tells me she wants to learn and the first time that I tried to teach her some basic phrases such as, "I am preparing the boule for dinner," I was impressed that she could do it with little instruction. Marie was married in 1976 and the couple had one daughter, but today both her husband and her daughter have died. In 2007, when Marie heard that there was a school being designed for orphans and widows, she applied to come live with the orphans. She likes living here. "At our homes," she says, "we have many difficulties. But here, it is calm. Despite all the work that we have to do, there are not the same difficulties." Marie values her role here at the school. Her responsibilities include preparing food, giving advice, and educating the children on subjects of how to be obedient, to work hard, and to be respectful to others. I asked Marie if she had a message she would like to send to America and she said,"A number of years ago Americans came here to the school with gifts for the orphans and the widows, but they haven't come for a while..." I asked if she was saying they should come bring gifts again and she just nodded!

Meet: Mandebeye Marthe
What a sweet woman! The first thing I want to say about Marthe is that I love her smile, and it feels like such a shame to me that when I pull out the camera she quickly wipes it off her face. (I feel bad but I'm  using a picture where she turned away to laugh.) I will remember Marthe as one of the Mamans that came into my living room my first night here at Altonodji and immediately hugged me and started dancing with me.
Growing up, Marthe had 8 brothers and sisters. Unlike Marie, she stopped school after only a few years. Instead, she decided to take up a trade. According to Marthe, she ordered a dress to be made, and upon seeing the quality she lamented that the
tailor had done such an awful job, saying, "You know what, I can do this myself!" She began apprenticing at the tailor's shop and by the age of 18 she was working herself. Marthe has been working here at Altonodji since 2012, but she has a full life off campus as well. She has 8 children in school, 2 of which attend here, she continues to sew dresses, and she teaches Sunday school at her church.i also just learned that Marthe is the official "chief" of the Mamans. I love that title. Marthe loves children and has a particular love for orphans and feels called to help take care of them.

Meet: Toualeyo Debora
Debora is a maman I was happy to get to know a little better because, like many of them, she doesn't share a language with me unless you count a handful of Ngambaye phrases. However, after my first two interviews, I was told that she was excited to participate too.
Debora was born in the town of Koutoutou (my spelling) in 1953. This means that she spent her first decade living under the French colonists, but she was too young to remember how things were different due to that. Debora had a very large family, with 10 brothers and sisters. Her parents were farmers, and instead of attending school she learned from a young age how to help them in the fields. The fields were far from their village, but each day she walked with her family and worked cultivating sorghum, millet, and other grains. She loved working in the fields, and during our interview she spotted a gardening tool and promptly grabbed it to start demonstrating. When it was time to get a picture of her, she marched straight out of the kitchen and into the garden where she bent down and started breaking apart the soil.
Eventually Debora stopped working in the fields to get married and move here to Moundou. She had 11 children of her own and worked to raise them. Now, she is here at Altonodji where she is very happy. When asked why, she listed the things that make her happy in the same way someone might rave about their recent Caribbean cruise. With a big smile she said she is at peace here... She eats BOULE, she drinks BOUILLE (water, sugar, flour, rice) she SLEEPS, she has a good HOUSE... she is happy. She made grand gestures as she listed each of these things and had everyone around us smiling and laughing with her.
When Debora found out the meeting was over, she seemed like she wasn't finished. I asked what else she would like to say and she said she didn't go to school, but she went to church and there she learned to read and write in Ngambaye. She is thankful to God for her education through the church. I'm thankful for Debora!