Elias in Senegal

Reflecting on the Year

2009-07-08T08:39:00.013Z

Yet again, sensory inundation. In the quest to see, smell, breathe, and taste life, I find myself short on words and overflowing with wonder. Not even 10 days prior I was exploring the verdant region of the Casamance; Senegal's closest version of tropical Africa: the endless beaches, the countless palm and mango trees, the laid-back worry-free air, and the welcoming smiles. There I met a smile and beauty thus far elusive in Senegal; her name is Armanda DaSilva. Born in Guinea-Bissau and having grown up in Casamance, she embodies so many of the reasons why people who come here often never leave. Our encounter, as so many good things in life, came on the eve of my departure. Helas, life is full of beautiful fleeting experiences.
Presently I sit in a travertine arched space waiting on my wood-fired pizza in La Scaletta in Trastevere, Rome. Sipping on a cool Peroni I marveled at the sites of this past week: Ancient Ostia with 2,000 year old streets, shops, and outdoor mosaics; the grandeur of the major basilicas here in the Holy City--Santa Maria Maggiore, San Giovanni, San Paolo, San Croce, and of course San Piedro. The odd and eccentric sites like the cemetary that houses John Keats with an Egyptian style pyramid in the background. The fountains in the Piazzas Repubblica and Barberini--sites I last saw and reveled over 18 years ago. Adding to that, the fun from living with a couple of young Romans in their apartment over a piazza, hanging out with their friends, and eating heavenly banquets in the homes of their families and friends.
Seven days ago I had a farewell open house in Dakar. Saying goodbye was surreal yet undeniably painful. To have been touched by so many in such meaningful, authentic ways. To be humbled by their humility, simplicity, and generosity. I believe my two closest friends there--Zacheria and Abdoulaye--are on much more optimistic life paths than where they were last year; for that I am grateful. With the generosity of all my wonderful friends, family and acquaintances back home, we were able to fulfill Zach's dream of buying cattle to raise as supplemental income and possibly a new way to make a living.

Zach and I on the boat heading to the Casamance in Southern Senegal

Abdoulaye landed a job in a bank and now is a commercial loan officer, leaving behind the horribly exploitative work as a warehouse hand in a supermarket. With the money raised we bought him an appropriate business wardrobe, put him through driving school--as we also did with Zacheria--bought him a motorbike for transportation, and were able to help create a new source of income for his brother Alioune back in the home village of Palmarin by buying him a horse and cart. They will serve as a sort of village taxi/transport. But above and beyond what we gave them, they gave me so much more: unconditional friendship, a perpetually attentive ear, a patient and forgiving spirit during some of my outbursts of impatience and anger, and a genuine concern for my piece of mind. Qualities that are rare to begin with, and even more so when they endure. I'm starting to understand the meaning of friendship through them. It is not about dependence, but independence through interdependence. Like Gibran said, the pillars of the temple must stand alone, yet the temple cannot stand unless they work together. Friendship is about bringing out the best in the other. Not imitating him, not fashioning him in your image, but opening yourself up to receive his giving and to inspire in him a quest to fulfill his own potential. In this process are good times and bad, laughter and tears, fear and courage, and through this friendship comfort is found.

So many subjects to broach. The social scientific yet deeply personal reality of material poverty, poor physical health, and lack of upward economic mobility. The issues of economic exploitation, injustice, pay and gender equity, respect for law and order. Anecdotes that tell so much yet are only a drop in the ocean. Lives of people, lives of my friends, helped or destroyed by the maladies found in society. There are others like Sambe and Sara, both security guards married with children, constantly trying to secure and stabilize their housing and food situations with monthly salaries that barely reach 150 USD. There's my beloved friend Ismaila from Mali who works as gardener, cook, housecleaner, and security guard 14 hours a day, 7 days a week, for a mere 100 USD a month. He is a stranger in a strange land, and has no foreseeable time off from his ridiculously wealthy Christian Lebanese bosses, to go visit his mother, father, sisters or brothers back home.

There is so much to share. There is so much upon which to reflect. I have changed beyond my own recognition, yet I am still me. I don't ever want to forget the lessons of life that Senegal has taught me. I want to internalize them and find a new inner peace upon my return to the States. I know life and realities there are different, but now so too am I. I look forward to reconnecting with you all, deepening our friendships, and continuing with you this beautiful journey of learning we call life.

Putting It In Context

2009-02-27T09:48:00.001Z

The imposing and powerful presence of the Renaissance Center stares at me as my current desktop image. Millions of thoughts rush to mind: the pride it brings as a world corporation from Detroit, seeings its products on the streets of Senegal, China, and Australia; the angst it brings that it hasn’t been able to change quickly enough to stay on top and continue to provide a good living for thousands in Michigan and all over the U.S.; both the creative and stubborn nature of man that it reflects in its glass and steel as it tries to defy nature and the changing times; the oh so important role it gives us as individuals and societies to express our intellectual, creative, and professional potential as its employees, giving our working life a clear mission in the world of work and commerce; the futility of it all when other, more imposing and powerful forces like economic recessions, global warming, family illnesses and stresses, faith, and self-realization dominate in influencing our daily and longterm peace of mind and survival.

Going to sleep troubled, tossing and turning because of disturbing thoughts, trying to suppress the forces that rob us of restful hours. And then, all of a sudden, opening your eyes to the morning sunshine. A clear, blue sky, a cleansing breeze, a feeling of new found energy and optimism. Everything comes into clearer view and makes more sense. Yes, we establish routines to give life stability. We follow social norms and respect traditions to be a member of that circle of people in the world in which we live. Routines, traditions, established cycles of life--childhood, adolescence, coming of age through education, jobs, relationships often through marriage, children, financial independence and planning, self-actualization, concern for the greater good when the self is secured, grandchildren perhaps, retirement, rediscovery of life through newfound time for travel and friends, perhaps wisdom and serenity sometimes amidst physical ailments, and maybe faith that the end of this road is not the definitive end. It all seems to be reasonable. As I travel the world, the routines resemble each other yet vary in order and flavor. The commonality of humanity is indisputable. And behind it all, is the craving to belong, to love, and to be loved.

In many ways our traditions and routines cultivate those ambitions; in other ways they impede them. In fact, today’s environment seems to make it difficult for us to concentrate on those values which we honor, and which upon death’s approach, matter so much more than all the others.

What this all means for me as I sit here in the morning beauty is that everything MUST count. The greetings, the work, the freetime, the education, the application of our acquired experience, it all has to be focused on making the most of that moment. Tomorrow may or may not come with more hopes or worries. What matters is today, how I will interact with others. Every action provokes a reaction. Can I put it all in context and just find within me the dormant inner peace and spread the love? Living in a place where all the other worries are present in greater degrees than at home, and seeing, despite all of it, a sincere smile spread across the face of the person with whom I am interacting, I find that all my questions have been answered.

Updates on Abdoulaye and Zacheria

2009-02-24T11:26:00.001Z

It’s been quite a while since I gave an update on Abdoulaye and Zacheria, my two closest Senegalese friends, and the two men that I am trying to help. So, let’s get started.

Abdoulaye quit his job in the supermarket warehouse after having been offered an internship at a bank as a teller. Certainly I encouraged him to go after it, as did others, and fortunately he landed the position. With a 70% unemployment rate in the country, landing any job is a feat, so we are very excited that he went from one official job to another. Of those employed in this country (the 30%), the majority work as peddlars or maids and are not in officially recognized positions. The internship is two months long, and Ablaye began in February; so he will finish at the beginning of April. Unfortunately, he had to move to the north of the country to a small town about 6 hours away from Dakar. He knew no one when he moved, but has since met some other young, educated contemporaries. We text or call about twice a week, and he is thinking about coming to Dakar this weekend. The internship, however, does NOT guarantee a position afterwards; his fate will be determined by the bank’s demand. Moreover, he could be placed anywhere in the country. We are crossing our fingers he lands a position after the internship, and if the stars align, it’ll be here in Dakar. He gets paid about half of what he made at the supermarket warehouse for the internship, and will not receive any money until the end of February. As one can imagine, relocating to an unknown city, finding lodging and furnishing, and forced to buy new clothes (he only owned jeans and sneakers previously), was an impossible task for him; and that was just to have the opportunity! Needless to say, some of the money collected went to help him with those costs. After all, it’s all designed to help him become self sufficient, and is an investment in his future. Meanwhile, he is trying to continue to offer moral if not financial support to his siblings and parents, as he is the eldest child.

His brother Ousmane and their childhood village friend Malick still live in the bedroom here in Dakar that they were renting. Malick contributes about a third to the rent and fees, and Abdoulaye was and continues to contribute the remainder, as Ousmane does not have a job and is a full-time student at the university. Ousmane has been hanging out with me since his brother left, and when possible, I make him dinner or give him bus fare--things Ablaye would normally do. Finally, they are being forced out of the room they rent because the landlord will use it for her family. Ousmane has been looking for three weeks now and has been unsuccessful at finding a room with electricity (but of course without water or their own bathroom) within their budget of 30,000CFA ($60/month). Yesterday I saw an ad for a room in a decent area for 55,000CFA ($110) and that is just for one room, no private bathroom. Yet the extra 25,000CFA ($50/month) is well beyond their reach. And landlords here are exploiting the overcrowded market which forces people to go hungry in order to pay rent or drives them into the outlying slums, which makes it all the more difficult for them to commute back to the city daily for job or school opportunities. I must note though, that not once, has either brother asked for anything; they accept their situation yet are grateful when aid is extended.

Our original goal was to raise money for transport--a taxi or minivan. If Abdoulaye lands a permanent bank position, the transport idea can still function as a second income since he supports around 10 people in the family. The first step is for him to get a driver’s license, which with driving school, fees, and necessary bribes to government officials to actually procure the documents, is about $300. A permit to be a chauffeur/taxi driver is another $100, but that comes about 6 months after having the driver’s license. We have decided to wait until he returns after the internship or settles in a new city with a permanent position before he starts driving school. So far, we have collected about $1800 for Abdoulaye, with about $200 spent on the above mentioned relocation/job costs. That leaves us with about $1600, with an original goal of $6300. If you can help at any level, please send a check payable to me with Ablaye’s name in the memo space, and send the check to: Elias J. Khalil, Fulbright Teacher / 2130 Dakar Place / Dulles, VA 20189-2130. If you can, email me at eliasjkhalil@yahoo.com to let me know you put something in the mail so I can look for it at the Embassy.

As for Zacheria, he is still diligently working here at the building as a security guard, still making only $150/month, or about $.65/hour. He is doing well, and we are hanging out alot as well.

Today he and I put a deposit down for driving school for him. He will start this week and it will take about a month to get his license. His goal was either a taxi or cattle. Unfortunately, we have not raised much for him; about $400. The bulk of that will go towards his license. I believe having your driver’s and chauffeur’s license opens up otherwise closed doors here in Senegal, so the money is well spent. Nonetheless, a taxi for him will be difficult to procure at the current rate of money collection. He would be very content though retruning to the village to raise cattle and live off the land. That again, would cost around $1500, a sum that seems realistic.
As an alternative, I have thought about trying to take the money raised, use it as a down payment on a vehicle, and have the two guys go into business together. I have mentioned the idea to Ablaye; he is open to it. I have yet to say anything to Zacheria. I want to see how the fundraising turns out by May/June. As with Abalye, if you can help Zacheria at any level, please send a check payable to me with Zach’s name in the memo space, and send the check to: Elias J. Khalil, Fulbright Teacher / 2130 Dakar Place / Dulles, VA 20189-2130. If you can, email me at eliasjkhalil@yahoo.com to let me know you put something in the mail so I can look for it at the Embassy.

Thanks again for your attention and generosity.

Life is Good

2009-02-22T12:12:00.002Z

So maybe I was wrong. The chilly, windy air returned immediately following my last blog entry. It’s been here since, though moderating ever so slightly with each passing day.

Last weekend was surreal. In ways it was just like a summer weekend back home, people getting together to play some baseball. In other ways, the scene was stupefying, with the setting of West Africa. Eight hundred participants descended upon Dakar, the majority of whom are Peace Corps Volunteers from Senegal and surrounding countries. The private American swim club adjacent to the International High School opened their doors to the participants. With a bar, pool, palm trees, second story terrace with an ocean view, and hundreds of Americans in their twenties who haven’t seen their own people nor indulged in alcohol in months, it was Spring Break in Senegal. For three days we played a lot of softball, some teams making valiant efforts (like ours), others too drunk to even care. Out of twenty teams in the social league, we reached the semifinals and ended fourth. Ironically, the garderner of the American baseball field introduced the sport to the local Senegalese three years ago, and ever since, they have made it to the finals. This year one of their teams beat us and finished second in the social league, while one of their competitive league counterparts won the championship. During the finals, by that time I was no longer a competitor but a simple spectator, I joined some of my teammates, who are in the military on assignment to the Embassy, atop a shipping container in deep center field. We watched the game with the ocean as a backdrop and imbibed in the game’s most popular adult drink. What can I say, this year has proven to be nothing short of amazing...

And then there was the Saturday night bash at the Marine House, Ousmane’s-- (Abdoulaye’s brother)--fascination with the scene all weekend, and the old man aches and pains that followed me the whole next week.

This week was a great one at school. The students are now taking class and me more seriously. They are paying attention, taking notes, and seeming to want to really learn English. I have proposed the idea of an English club, and many seem interested. It’s a good feeling leaving work knowing that something you’re doing is working. Yes, the holidays and teacher strikes continue, but I have to focus on the time I do have--the cup is half full.

I had a visit from a former student from North, Ilana Kresch, this past week. She came in to visit a friend who is doing a study abroad program, and we had the pleasure of dining together at my favorite Ethiopian restaurant. She amazed me in her growth and worldly view. She maintains a humble and sincere concern in making the difference she can, while not trying to impose her views or judge others for theirs...extraordinary. She spent time studying in Chile, Ecuador, and most recently Spain. If every young American could have a similar experience in their education, we would have an amazing future in front of us.

Today is Sunday and I am coming back from a run. I’m trying to resume the routine of jogging regularly, yet like in the States, nothing works as planned. However, there is no doubt that the physical activity renews my energy and reanchors me into the optimistic spirit I so love. Last night, Carolyn, an Embassy employee and dear friend, threw a bash. I helped her put together the music mix, and oh what a night! We had about 35 people--Americans, Senegalese, Cap Verdians---throwin down. We had three African drummers do two sets that launched everyone out of their seats and into hynoptic, primordial rythyms. The otherwise sleepy bourgeois neighborhood was rockin.

Aissatou and the beat!

So, among the hardship here is a joie de vivre that is unknown back home. If you can swing it, come visit; Senegal is food for the soul.

Warming Up

2009-02-11T16:43:00.001Z

There’s a welcome crispness to the air when the temperature and humidity drop after heavy heat. That freshness though, can be a prelude to cooler, cold air. A cold breeze that penetrates your clothes and renders you perpetually chilly. The winter of Dakar is nothing like that of Detroit, but January was a windy, chilly month. At night I felt like the thin bed sheet and bedspread were not enough. The wind would howl through the balconies and doorwalls on this top floor, obliging you wear a sweater and to lift your feet off the cold tile. Down below at ground level, the hallways are perfect wind tunnels, bringing in the cold air of the ocean that literally slaps you in the face with its chilling power. Three days ago though, something funny happened. The cold disappeared. Sunday was less windy and chilly, yet still a Dakar winter day. Monday morning came and winter was nowhere to be found. Today, Wednesday, the novelty of the heat after cold is already gone, and the intensity of the African sun has returned. Last night, the balcony was comfortably warm. This afternoon, I had to cut my walk home short, because the heat was threatening to rob me of my remaining daily allowance of energy. It’s funny how it’s happened. I wrote on my calendar on Monday “Spring has sprung,” but now I’m more apt to write, “The heat is on.”

Just as a footnote: Since my return in January, at least one day a week of school has been cancelled because of random teacher strikes. We had one day off for the Muslim holiday of Ashura, and the next two days of classes have been cancelled because of the annual pilgrimmage of the Mouride brotherhood to their holy city of Touba. (I wrote of Touba in an earlier entry). Everything shuts down here in Dakar, because all the busses and taxis are booked for trips to Touba, as 2 million pilgrims are expected to attend the holiday--Magal--this weekend. Without transport, people cannot get to school or work, so they just shut down the capital city for a few days. This weekend, however, is the big West Africa International Softball Tournament that the U.S. Embassy hosts here in Dakar. We’ll have Peace Corps Volunteers’ Teams from other countries come in for a 3 day sportsfest. Right now I am scheduled to be playing in three games, maybe more. So, summer’s return, unexpected days off, and the emptying of the city, have coincided nicely with the pursuit of America’s national pasttime on the shores of the African Atlantic. Our team is called the Sand Sharks. Play ball!

Inner peace

2009-02-02T22:15:00.000Z

Upon entering the church, all existing guards went down. I felt so fragile. On the threshold of tears. The church was laid out like Gesu back in Detroit, but on a much simpler level. A few flourescent lights strategically placed in the ceiling and on the sanctuary walls, which incidentally, were covered with an earthtone mural of Christ. When I found my space in a pew about half way up, stage left center section, the church was sparsely populated. I took advantage of that fact to soak in the scene and quickly was feeling connected. It’s funny how primordial values play on the heart and soul. Despite my distance from the church and my openness to other faiths and practices, the intensity of spirituality that I feel in a Catholic church has no equal.

At the moment the music began, the tears began to form. Feeling the levy breaking, I could not contain my emotion. Being the only white in a sea of black Catholics was one emotion. The faith and hope from and for so many, in a country--to this outside observer at least--that feels inundated with pain and challenges, was another emotion. Hearing the strength and tight nature of the choir eloquently sing a classical piece in French--powerful. Then ten eucharistic ministers, all pious looking men in white robes, followed by an equal number of alter servers. Their presence alone was testament to their free will of faith. Hearing prayers and readings in heavily accented French, and then some of them read again in Wolof. I don’t know, but the universality of faith, with all its breadth, and yet with all its depth which can only be defined by INDIVIDUAL faith; it’s remarkable. Then the choir singing in Latin, followed by spirited hymns in Wolof or Serrer with drum and flute accompaniment. After communion, watching the whole congregation turn their bodies and eyes toward the chalice as it was being moved from the altar back to the tabernacle. Finally, the crowd after mass, gathering at the side altar near a statue of Mary and the tabernacle, each silently submitting his/her prayer of petition. I mentioned Gesu at the onset, not only because of its physical beauty but also because of its spiritual power, emanating from the music of those voices. There is so much in lyricism, prose or poetry; when put to music, it becomes the window to the soul.

Life is so full of experiences--comfortable or not, yet some we choose not to process. We can be robots when we train ourselves, yet in the end, there will always seem to be some primordial tug that gets to our heart. I can’t help tearing up right now remembering my dad tearing up every once and awhile while watching something on t.v. Behind his fortress of a temper, he was so full of kindness and sensibility. That better side within me calls out so often, yet refining it so that I live it with inner peace is the elusive ingredient. I can be nice to friends, I can fight for justice through advocacy, I can give money; and I may be making someone’s life a little better, but am I bringing about peace--within me or among others. I guess that’s what spirituality helps me discern. How I can fight for all that is good with genuine kindness and without revenge. Gosh, to be known as an anchor of peace, that would be life’s accomplishment.

And, the beauty I see in the eyes of a husband and wife as they dance and embrace. The joy of a parent reveling in the presence and growth of their child. The innonence of children in general, really, seeing the core of another and not getting hung up on any of our adult prejudices. Sharing the passion for life. Opposites may attract, but a soulmate is what I’ll need. I guess this is a bit of an enlightenment. It’s not just the intellect, the cultural openness, the spontaneity, the physical beauty, the physical health and wellness; it’s having something tug at your soul and being comfortable with its power and expression. After all, why else are we here if not to be kind in our heart and in our actions. That inner peace truly can be our guiding light. Without the lighthouse that I see when I look out the window, the sailor would not know where the sea stops and the land begins. Perhaps force of will and luck will lead to a safe landing, but not without a troubled heart or mind. I need that inner peace. I may find it in spirtuality and church. I may find it and cultivate it in a soulmate. If the two came together, life would be even closer to perfect than I’ve previously thought. Inshallah kheyr.

Nirvana...well, not yet

2009-02-02T22:13:00.000Z

The light bulb goes on. Enlightenment. Comprehension. Assimilation. But then, as if it never flickered, you’re in the dark again. Where it went you can’t know, but you put yourself to the task of understanding, again. The process of constant rediscovery is at the core of what makes us resilient. The humility of the reality reminds us that we can relearn. Much is possible if we find the will. Nothing is really gone, it just needs to be dusted off and refreshed. Ultimately, we accept that we are not perfect, no superhuman, no god. We are in a perpetual cycle of learning and relearning.

Such a truth could not be more applicable to my reality here. Everyday I live a little more and read a little more, and then understand a little more...about Senegalese perspectives, life for the poor, African politics, Islam, postcolonial challenges in education, the search for identity and self-confidence, and economic growth. Yet for every truism, the next day brings an experience that can distort or completely contradict that accumulated understanding. I start over. Yet just like the ebb and flow of the tide, is not understanding meant to be fleeting and not permanent? How else would we find the motivation to learn?

A couple examples...
I have bought little household items for my closest friends, things that were absent and would be put to immediate use: mattresses, sheets, end tables and chairs. These friends cannot feed themselves daily, so the only possibility of procuring these items would be through giving by others. I have read, many times now, how African culture is strongly rooted in communalism and solidarity. What little you have, you share. Especially if family is in need. I have seen it among the guards and the Senegalese residents of the building. For if it weren’t for the latter, the former would not eat lunch or dinner daily. Most days one or a handful of residents will bring down a bowl of fish and rice for the guards to eat. The guards graciously accept, and if others are around, they insist that they share the bowl with them, often resulting in each guard having only four or five spoonfuls of food. No premeditation nor afterthought, just communalism. It’s beautiful. It’s humbling. Recently upon visiting my friends in their one-room homes, I found that the sheets and even the mattress seem to be gone. Then, almost embarassed, I realize that the older sister or brother with a family live in the next room, and something so relatively nice was given up for those older or in greater need.

So much to remember Elias, and most importantly, you will not change Africa. Africa will change you.

In anticipation of teaching Arabic next year at North Farmington High School, I have decided to take a refresher course in the language. How exciting the feeling of discovery associated with being a student, and the reawakening of a long dormant passion! After the first class I was giddy. Oh, how being a student is more exciting than being the teacher! When I sat down at my dining room table a couple days later, to review the content of the book just finished by my colleagues, I was stupefied. Ooooh, it’s been a long time. What did that word mean? And that word? And when do you write the “wasla?” What about accusative versus genitive case, and how that affects writing accent marks and their commensurate pronunciation? Wait, I learned this already. The bulb already had gone on: enlightenment, comprehension, even assimilation. Yet now, today, the relearning begins...

Will you dream?

2009-01-18T19:40:00.003Z

What do you believe in? The possible? The impossible?

To achieve what is possible, we must attempt the impossible.
To be as much as we can be, we must dream of being more.

Such simple sentences with so much insight.

In Barack Obama I see a man with tremendous vision. A man who will try to do things differently to achieve different results. Someone willing to take a risk, someone willing to attempt the impossible. Someone, too, who refuses to believe that the current reality is the forever reality.

This type of mindset is revolutionary, and truly is not common in our world today. So many of us like to diagnose problems, but so few are willing to try something new. Cynicism, resignation, low self-esteem characterize most of us in worlds and situations where we are not happy. Is it really just the way it is? Is it really just like that because that’s how God ordained it? Do we really believe we have some power over our own lives? Do we believe through our words and actions we can influence others? Of course we do! Those are character traits of Americans. We are the “can do” people. The world over admires us because we never let an obstacle stop us. We refuse to say no or just okay. We demand action, we invent our way out of deadends.

The same sense and sentiments of crisis, hard times, depression, helplessness, useless and corrupt politics that pervade the U.S. at this time, are prevalent here in Senegal. A big difference is that they have few identified, public leaders who speak differently, who are presenting a different reality. I believe we were in a similar situation in the U.S. until Obama’s ascent. I pronounce these words not as a blind supporter, but someone who has read his political philosophy and now is reading his autobiography written about ten years ago. The man is willing to do, and has done, extensive academic and real-life street research to get into the minds of people to understand both their frustrations and their ambitions, their limitations and their potential. In Senegal, I have the good fortune of sharing with you that I believe my Wolof teacher, Nene Gueye from Thies, is cut from the same cloth. Yesterday, I made my first trip to her home, about two hours outside of Dakar, and was struck by her sincerity in wanting to change Senegal for the better. Realistic, not naive, she wants to form a new political movement where truth, transperency, and accountability reign. She believes it will take the whole population to affect such change, so she’s on a mission to change fixed, outdated, unproductive mindsets in Thies. It is a mammoth mission. I applaud her for her dedication. Nene is running for the equivalent of County Commissioner and City Council President.

In true Senegalese hospitable form, she welcomed me and the other two Fulbright teachers into her home and made us a phenomenal meal, before having to leave for Dakar for a meeting with the president of her political party. We, people in her life, came first. Sincerity and hospitality, no strings attached, define her. She may even have been late to the meeting which may not have bode well, but in the end, as she said, it’s not how high you go, it’s how you treat your fellow human being. Nene is on the eve of elections, Obama is preparing to take over the reigns in the U.S., I am reading his life and philosophy.
The convergence of powerful ideas and people.
The timing of timing.
It's our turn, move outside the box!

Charles Schulz's PigPen

2009-01-18T19:39:00.002Z

Coal Miner’s Son, that’s who I am. Yesterday I went on an excursion to Thies and Tivavouane. It was the first trip thus far in my time in Senegal where the elements got the best of me. It was like cleaning out my basement right after I bought my house. Or washing the windows that first time after 25 years of neglect. The Harmaton is the name of the wind that blows the desert sands south to our wonderful home of Senegal. That with the local dirt and sand that are not held down by trees or other vegetation, it’s a recipe for disaster. I showered and left my house with a beautifully bright, light blue linen shirt with cotton beige pants. After just two hours on the road, my fingernails were black with soot that I could not sratch off. After lunch and another hour drive to the next destination, my hands were soiled and my shirt took on a dark blue hue. There was no electricity in the hotel where we arrived, the sun had set, so finding a sink was an impossibility, let alone any soap. After about an 11 hour day, I returned home and rushed to the kitchen sink. I literally scrubbed my hands 5 separate times. I took off my clothes and went to the shower. I stuck my brushcut head under the shower nozzle and watched the black water rush down for 45 seconds nonstop. What is amazing is that you will never hear a local person complain about it. They will shower for the day, put on their best clothes, and go about their business. Senegal: Adapt and March On!

Touba and Tivavouane

2009-01-18T16:24:00.007Z

The last two weekends I visited two holy cities here in Senegal: Touba and Tivavouane. The first is home to the Mourides, a sect/fraternity of Senegalese Islam, which is defined by their allegiance to the Mouride Marabout (Spiritual Guide/Leader). Many Senegalese Muslims adhere to a fraternity, so such membership plays a large role in self-identification. In Touba the Marabout heralds from a lineage of the Mbake family. The family solicits funds which they have used to build up the city and the mammoth Mosque and religious shrine. Tivavouane, a smaller city and mosque, is home to the Tijanes, the second largest fraternity.

While in Tivavouane for an English Language Teacher conference, I thought for a minute I was in the Middle East. We were taken to a home to relax before the start of the conference. The home belonged to the Imam (Muslim cleric), and in the courtyard, Quranic school was being held for about 40 youngsters who ranged from 6 to 12 years old. The boys were being led by two other teenage boys in reading, reciting, and committing to memory verses of the Holy Book. It really was not much different than Orthodox Jewish youngsters learning the Torah, or Christian youngsters learning the Bible in VBS or Catechism. The image though, seemed so foreign to western eyes. The boys were adorable and wanted us to take their picture, but as the Imam was not home, we did not have his permission so were advised not to do so. We went inside and sat in the living room that had ornate furniture typical of Arab households, framed Arabic verses on the walls, and Arabic music sifting through the windows from another courtyard. What a setting! Then, we exchanged pleasantries in English and Wolof before resorting to French.

Moustapha is the teacher who was supposed to be my Fulbright Exchange Partner...what a pity that did not happen!

The conference was held at the abandoned hotel in the town, and began with much fanfare two hours after the scheduled start. I attended with my two Fulbright colleagues, and we were received like dignitaries. Native English speakers all the way from the United States coming to this English language colloquium in the interior of the country, what an honor for them! I was asked to say a few words at the start and again when we departed. We three ate it up, and the formalities were quite entertaining. The whole conference was conducted in English as teachers from that city and rural villages discussed the benefits and challenges of Cooperative Learning and Needs Analysis in the English language classroom. I was so humbled by their commitment to and command of the English language. In the States, French teachers or Spanish teachers would NEVER conduct their professional development seminars in that language; we do not have such ability.

So much to learn, every single day.

Experiences

2009-01-18T16:24:00.001Z

The experiences happen too fast to even process them. Life here in Senegal is a continuous lesson. There’s no denying that I love to learn, and therein may lie the blessing and the curse. I have such a hard time reducing encounters to vignettes. Every story needs to be processed and told; but again, life doesn’t grant us the luxury of endless time. So much is temporal, and the force lies within the moment, not necessarily afterwards during the reflection.
So, I am both invigorated and exhausted. Does the student who never takes a break really learn?? Everyday I listen to world news in French as I prepare my coffee and breakfast. Paying close attention to what is said and how it is said, before I even interact with anyone else for the day. Greeting the guards in Wolof, trying to understand the new utterance they seem to throw at me every day, in a language whose sounds have proven to be so challenging to internalize. Then there’s the nonverbal communication that might come in the form of a guttural click, a slight groan, a hand on the heart or on the forehead. There’s the expressions and the delivery style. There are topics, as a westerner with financial means and life experiences, that have no meaning if shared with many of the locals. I had to be equally entertained and frustrated the other night when one of my colleagues who is in her early sixties was talking to a group of young Senegalese men in their twenties about Tchiakovsky’s 1812 Overture and Ravel’s Bolero, and how difficult the violin and clarinet pieces are to play. Imagine a group of black men being lectured by an elderly white woman about classical music in the U.S.? Even that image is out of the ordinary. Now imagine that lady gesticulating and miming actions with great passion in front of men who don’t have running water in their dwellings and most likely have never seen ANY musical instrument other than drums?! And she comments that of course these are pieces that EVERYONE knows!

Everyday I get to play teacher to her and other colleagues while trying to learn myself. It is amazing how little we know and how much there is to know. This fact is exciting, yet demanding. So Senegal continues to teach me so much. There is so much I want to share in a certain moment, and then I have another amazing, eye-opening experience. I play teacher and student from sunrise to sunset. I am being changed in ways unbeknownst to me. The sensory deluge is in such contrast to my recollections of daily life back home. What follows then, may be a full recounting or a vignette; I will let my fingers decide.

Life's Ups and Downs

2009-01-17T23:04:00.001Z

Well, as I seem to be saying repeatedly, what a difference 24 hours can make. Yesterday was an emotional roller coaster. Too many people said to me in person or sent me email messages that began with, “As I’m sure you already know...I’m sorry. I wish you the best.” The problem was that I DID NOT KNOW.

My exchange partner could not overcome his challenges in Farmington Hills both in his home and school settings. As a result, the school principal recommended immediate termination of the exchange. That request resulted in the U.S. State Department putting my exchange partner back on a plane to Senegal within 24 hours. He is now back here in Senegal. That left me in an undefined position, suggesting an immediate return for me as well, for exchanges are defined as two-way. If one side doesn’t work, the other is obliged to terminate as well. All day, I waited for a phone call from the States for some clarification on what exactly was happening, had happened, and would happen. I cancelled appointments here that I had in anticipation of more pressing news.

After morning classes, then lunch at an Indian restaurant and a walk around the Colobane Market** with Abdoulaye, we returned home. The irony was that he had an interview with a bank that morning that went very well, and he may be landing a new job which will finally deliver him from the horrible supermarket warehouse. I was sincerely happy, actually overjoyed, for him. But I could not stop my restlessness. We walked across the street to the U.S. baseball field/park and listlessly threw around the frisbee and swung on the swings. The sun was setting, a truly beautiful sight; yet I was not at peace. We went back across the street with Tom, one of the other Fulbright teachers, and grabbed a drink as a potential distraction. It didn’t work. Ahmed, one of my first friends here, stopped by to see me for the first time since my return from vacation. As I explained the situation to him as I understood it at that point, he insisted that I must put all my concerns and worries in God’s hands. Last night around 9 p.m., while he was with me, I received a call from my principal back home who explained what had happened. He then proceeded to offer to do his utmost so that I could delay my return to the states, if that in fact was my wish, which it is. To bring a somewhat comforting ending to a tumultous 36 hours, he said he already had identified long-term substitutes who could fill in through Spring Break; after that was still undetermined, but he would work on it. Sooo, I’m here to stay until mid-April at least, maybe even until the end of the school year in June.
I’m exhausted yet elated. Anxiety transformed into relief. As my friend Ousmane says daily, “God is great.”

**Immense market with used clothes--among the tens of thousands of items, a UofM Hockey Jersey. Vendors young and old, male and female, forlorn and haggard sleeping on top of their piles of clothes. The attention to folding, cleaning the clothes by other merchants. Using a toothbrush to clean soles of shoes. Such dignity and resignation in the same space. The beautiful Indian restaurant, French pastry shop, European villas in Les Almadies, but not forgetting that that was Abdoulaye’s first time there, and 10 year old boys walking barefoot with empty coffee cans begging for spare change. Layers of contrast. Everyday reality. Such reality layered on my layers of contrast from the latest drama. The words are not here to describe the sentiment, because what can capture that which is incomplete, in opposition, and defies logic? Life here sometimes is about just adjusting to the pain.

Change

2009-01-14T21:44:00.000Z

Sometimes I just don’t know how to process my feelings. As I sit here I am purposely listening to a hauntingly beautiful violin piece played by Farid Farjad. The song was on a disc that a former student, Ida Tajalli, gave me years ago. I remember her having difficulties finding her place in the world as a shy, nice young lady who is of Iranian Muslim descent. Being of such a minority in Farmington Hills, Michigan, and in many places around the United States, must be very challenging. I am here in Senegal as a minority trying to understand and assimilate into a society full of would-be minorities in the United States. It’s a humbling experience. I have learned so much from those whom we typically marginalize back home.
I am planting my feet and feeling anchored here. Yet life seems to remind us, so often, that that which we think is stable is in the process of change. Every day, week, month, even year, can be so ephemeral, so fleeting. What lasts? Very little. This dynamism is what gives life so much vitality, while also breeding a sense of insecurity. The past couple days I have felt that it’s time to start some other activities and rountines here to make me feel even more anchored. I have interviewed U.S. personnel at the Embassy and at the USAID (Agency for International Development) complex in the hopes of possibly finding a volunteer opportunity. I have talked to some at the International School of Dakar about teaching supplemental U.S. History to the American students. I am also in the process of having my level in Arabic assessed so I can register for a course to refresh and deepen my knowledge of the language. This week everyone who sees me has remarked that I have fully integrated and now am Senegalese. It’s a good, anchoring feeling.
So why the melancholy? I’m not sure. Maybe it’s the malaise in the lives of my loved ones. Perhaps it’s foreshadowing for my own changes. I am believing our spirits are more interconnected than we admit, and our inner peace comes not only from our own volition but also from the totality of all those in the world with whom we come in contact. Contact being not exclusively physical, but encompassing common thoughts, feelings, and experiences with those next door and literally on the other side of the globe.
While leaving the Embassy today, the cultural affairs officer who is responsible for my program asked me if I had called my U.S. principal. I said no and asked why such a call would be in order. He informed me that my exchange partner is ultimately failing and sending him back here to Senegal is imminent. The news was both unexpected and destabilizing. Ultimately that could lead to an abrupt end to my year here with my return in the days or weeks ahead. I cannot even begin to process what such news will mean for me emotionally, physically, intellectually, socially, and professionally. I just hope more communication is forthcoming and clarity is within reach. Inshallah.

Thanks for being You

2009-01-10T00:35:00.003Z

The authenticity of each other is our most redeeming trait. No airs, just who we are. When at home, I had the pleasure of attending my friend Rodney’s wedding. At the reception I met up with John Francis, the father of my childhood friend Phillip. I always remembered Mr. Francis/Uncle John as a no-nonsense fella. He was of the working-class, and always had a natural ability to make you feel completely comfortable in his presence. He did not have an easy life, working long, hard hours with health complications, in order to support his family. Nonetheless, he, and his wife, Aunt Nora, for that matter, loved to laugh and truly sucked the nectar out of life. At the wedding reception, John welcomed me warmly and engaged me in extended conversation about my experiences here in Senegal. He was attentive and full of curiosity. He was eager to learn not only what I was living, but to learn as well what lessons I was acquiring from my time here. We laughed, moved on to join the rest of the group, and shared drinks. What strikes me about Mr. Francis is how real he is. Like one of my best students, he is still impassioned to learn about life. He will never grow old in my eyes. Moreover, his warmth was like that of a loving uncle, while his respect for me and my knowledge, being someone who has lived so many fewer years than he, really humbled me.

This beauty of humanity, reflected by Uncle John, is the blessing that I am living so often here in Senegal. Early on in these entries I said I would profile some of these special people in my life. I have talked to you about a few, including Abdoulaye and Zacheria. There are so many more, some regulars, others chance acquaintances. Let me share with you.

Khady and Ouzou. Ousmane is another security guard here at the building, who has an infectious smile and an even greater laugh. He actually was one of the first guards I met, but then was on a month leave shortly after I arrived, so he was not in my first accounts. He had gone back to the village to work the fields and harvest the millet. He came back to work here with even more enthusiasm to get know me. We talked about me tutoring him in English, but to date, we still haven’t had a lesson. We have, though, become great friends. He is friends with Zacheria, and they live right around the corner from each other. Ousmane started talking to Khadija (Khady) and could not wait to tell me how excited he was about her. He is the classic romantic and blushes (in a Senegalese way) every time he mentions her name. Ousmane is a villager living in the city who has noteworthy ambition. He is 31 years old, like the other guys, but did not pass his high school exit exam, the Bac. One of the reasons he wants to be tutored in English is so he can pass the Bac. He has gone to the Ministry of Education on several occasions to navigate the bureaucracy so that he can pursue and attain his goal of a diploma. He shares his room and bed with two other guys, just like Abdoulaye and Zacheria do, for lack of financial resources. He has welcomed me into his life, introduced me to his friends, takes me to his barber, and teaches me how to laugh more. Every time we meet he greets me with a big hug and that million dollar smile. Upon my return this week, he could hardly contain his excitement in telling me that he and Khadija are now engaged; as by Senegalese village custom, their parents met, and kola nuts were distributed to signal a joining of the two families. A ceremony at the mosque will follow, but for all intents and purposes, the marriage has already begun. He told me how much he missed having me here when it happened and had invited his friends over for a dinner to celebrate his joy. So, this past Wednesday night, which was another Muslim holiday here, he invited me to go with him to meet his eldest brother and family and share dinner at their home. I gladly accepted and was very warmly received. They live modestly, like most of my friends, but bent over backwards to make me feel comfortable. After a wonderful visit, during which his four year old niece took a liking to me, we headed over to Khady’s home so I could see her for the first time as his “wife.” He took her a number of gifts, which is such a beautiful part of this story...He was so tongue-tied when we arrived, that I had to do most of the talking! Then he started to mumble as he gave her the first gift: a flashlight for reading and walking when the power goes out. He then gave her the second gift: a radio walkman with headphones, yes just a radio, no cassette or cd player. He was quick to tell her though that it was not from China, and so was of a good quality! Thirdly, and perhaps most striking, was that he bought her a Kaplan-like SAT or MCAT prep study book, but for the exam given at the end of middle school in order for one to move onto high school. So, the most important and valuable gift, was one of learning, a book. Although she is in her twenties, the reality here for females is that very few have been given the opportunity to go to school through high school. His future, and hers, are inextricably linked to his belief that education is the necessary missing ingredient. She was touched, and spent a lot of time looking at each and every page. The beauty in the simplicity manifested continues to touch me.

I am blessed to have many persons in my life like Uncle John and Ousmane. Many of you who read this entry are those for whom I am so grateful. Tonight I thank God for my time here; the world is full of beautiful people.

Time

2009-01-10T00:33:00.000Z

Some images evoke emotions that bring inner peace. I just walked past a photo of oak leaves scattered over a snow-covered forest floor. The singular beauty of the white blanket highlighted by remnants of a past season. This harmony is what I often seek, a feeling of fulfillment; nothing lacking.
Life can be full of such moments, be they images or interactions. Life is also full of opposite experiences, feelings of longing, frustration, and incompleteness. Yet, what is life if not the ebb and flow of the tide...
What a week can bring to your senses. I am humbled by the privilege of having this experience in Senegal. An opportunity to stop, smell the flower, and savor its beauty in that moment and later on. What I lack in the U.S. in time, I am finding here in Senegal. Yet time is not all we need, we also need experiences to make the time rich. Some of those experiences are in the company of others, while others are defined by solitude. To choose to be alone with my own thoughts now appears to have been a rare luxury in the U.S.; here it can be a daily, cherished reality. Let me quote some lines from a vignette that I recently read from an anthology entitled, Dream Me Home Safely: Writers on Growing Up in America, edited by Marian Wright Edelman. The book is my current nightstand occupant, and the piece is called Summer Coming by Anna Quindlen.
“Summer is coming soon. I can feel it in the softening of the air...Open windows. Day trips to the beach. Pickup games. Hanging out.
How boring it was.
Of course, it was the making of me, as a human being and a writer. Downtime is where we become ourselves, looking into the middle distance, kicking at the curb, lying on the grass or sitting on the stoop and staring at the tedious blue of the summer sky. I don’t believe you can write poetry or compose music or become an actor without downtime, and plenty of it, a hiatus that passes for boredom but is really the quiet moving of the wheels inside that fuel creativity.
And that, to me, is one of the saddest things about the lives of American children today. Soccer leagues, acting classes, tutors--Our children are as overscheduled as we are, and that is saying something.
This has become so bad that parents have arranged to schedule times for unscheduled time.
...There is ample psychological research suggesting that what we might call “doing nothing” is when human beings actually do their best thinking, and when creativity comes to call. Perhaps we are creating an entire generation of people whose ability to think outside the box, as the current parlance of business has it, is being systematically stunted by scheduling.
Perhaps it is not too late for American kids to be given the gift of enforced boredom for at least a week or two, staring into space, bored out of their gourds, exploring the inside of their own heads. “To contemplate is to toil, to think is to do,” said Victor Hugo. “Go outside and play,” said Prudence Quindlen. Both of them were right.”
I am happy to say that Senegal is helping me be that kid of a lost era in the U.S. May we all as adults make a conscious effort to carve out “nothing time.” It is making me the person I am becoming, and I am ever so grateful.

Happy New Year!

2009-01-06T23:25:00.001Z

Happy New Year! A time where the feeling of anything possible reigns; a time to change for the better, a time to think differently about many situations, a time to give a little more, listen more attentively, take better care of oneself. The new year brings hope for many of us. In the midst of our routines and sometimes undesirable environments (physical, metereological, emotional), we push ourselves to blaze a new path. The ultimate traits of human resiliency and inventiveness. What we realize as we start a new year, is the potential for happiness when we take advantage of these voluntary changes of heart and mind. May we each find the sources to re-energize for the great experiences, adventures, and challenges that lie ahead.

In this country of seemingly perpetual sunshine, it’s a blessing to wake up daily to the blue sky and fresh morning air. By afternoon the temperature rises as the heat strikes you; but if lucky enough, a refreshing breeze passes through, and while seeing the sun’s rays reflect off the ocean waves, you know you are a fortunate one. It is in this setting that I am communicating with you.

I have lived through innumerable experiences since my fingers last touched this keyboard; so many of them significant in the depth at which they touched me. Sometimes however, I live through them, enjoying the fleeting nature of excitement that they bring; other times, I allow them to linger as I ponder their impact. After all, as my friend Steven reminds me, we are the sum total of every experience that we have lived, and we are different today than who we were yesterday as a result of living. In the entries that follow, I hope to share some of the fleeting and lasting experiences of the past few weeks that are giving voice to the Elias of 2009. Que Dieu est grand!

4 New Posts: This One: Christmas Gifts

2008-12-13T16:05:00.001Z

Are you giving Christmas or Chanukah gifts? If so, please consider giving a gift to my two friends Abdoulaye and Zacheria. A check for $25, $50, or $100 will help us achieve so much LONG TERM change in their lives. After my first request I did not know what to expect in terms of contributions. My request was indeed circulated around the world, and money has come in from Michigan, California, and Australia. I will be keeping the money in my account until we reach our goals, then I will pull it out and help them purchase their vehicle/livestock. If you would like to contribute--now, or later but with a pledge now--please email me at eliasjkhalil@yahoo.com or write out the check payable to me and send it to: Elias Khalil, Fulbright Teacher // 2130 Dakar Place // Dulles, VA 20189-2130. If you would like a refresher on their stories, visit the following entries in my blog (eliasjkhalil.blogspot.com): 11/7--Profiles; 11/14--Caring; 11/21--The U.S.-Who is Welcomed?; 11/24--Happy Thanksgiving.

December Sentiments

2008-12-13T16:03:00.000Z

As the dawn breaks the pink hues softly fade into a increasingly brightening sky. The brisk air, so common in the morning of a beautiful autumn day, welcomes you through the window screen of your bedroom. You turn slowly toward the light, stretch, and gladly fall victim to the smile that finds its way onto your face to say, “Welcome to a beautiful day.” It is December 13, 2008. The wind is blowing, and sitting on the balcony watching the palm trees from the Austrian Ambassador’s residence bending to nature’s forces, I know I am blessed. The last few days have been amazing: the air is fresh, the sky so blue, the sun’s heat is warming yet not burning. I have begun a Dakar winter.

This past Tuesday was the biggest holiday in Senegal: Tabaski. It commemorates Abraham’s faith in God by his willingness to sacrifice his son. As many know the story, his son is spared by God and a sheep is slaughetered instead. So Tabaski is, as they say in French here, the Feast of the Sheep. Eash household buys and slaughters a sheep, and a mutton feast follows. Asking forgiveness from each family member and neighbor for any harm you may have caused over the past year is the tradition and standard greeting for the day. It is truly beautiful and humbling. Imagine a society which celebrates and values each person’s utterance of “I’m sorry.” A sincere forgiveness so that relations can move forward in a spirit of peace. Should holidays really be about anything else?

Dakar being the capital, has many transplants; which means home for so many Senegalese who work here is actually elsewhere in the country. Part of the beauty of the last few days has been the relaxed feel in the streets: fewer people, no traffic jams, less garbage, more smiles, and full stomachs. People are just coming back to Dakar today, and on Monday the reality of big city living will resume...

It’s been weeks since I have written; there are reasons. Life here is so demanding on a daily basis that I feel drained at day’s end. Life in the underdeveloped world is difficult. I now appreciate why government and businesses call such places a “hardship” post. With Thanksgiving behind me, Tabaski wrapping up, and Christmas approaching, I realize more than ever the importance of family and friends. No place nor persons can replace the warmth of sharing traditions with your loved ones. So, while I have had no shortage of new, rich experiences, I have had a shortage of excitement. It’s difficult for me to share with others when my state of mind is not ebullient. With that said, there is so much still to say; so please continue to follow me on this journey, looking above and below for other December entries.

How about this for an image...

2008-12-13T16:02:00.001Z

How about this for an image...

A ten year old walking down a dirt road (few roads are paved) with a black plastic grocery bag, sticking out of which is a hoof and lower leg of a sheep that was slaughtered two hours prior.

The majesty of a grey heron or a pelican with a wingspan of 8 feet taking flight in Djoudj, the third largest bird sanctuary in the world.

Instead of luggage in the lower compartment of a tour bus, you see sheep.

On the luggage rack on the top of buses, 8 sheep, each individually wrapped in blue tarp and tied down to the rack as the bus navigates the crater-filled roads at dangerously high speeds.

A local open-air market, and as a consequence, all surrounding consumers walking by, sporting hundreds of butcher knives and machetes.

A Thanksgiving feast hosted by an Embassy employee for 40 people in her downtown home that would have made even the biggest gourmand salivate, while outside the walls of the home were beggars sitting on the sidewalk.

A street vendor who wanted to charge me $14 for a pair of sandals because I’m white, but after chiding him a bit in his Wolof language, walking away with the sandals for $5.

A country whose population is 95% Muslim, selling artificial Christmas trees and garland on street corners all over the capital.

Hearing Black Senegalese yell out orders for Lebanese food--with perfect Arabic pronunciation--in the local Lebanese eateries.

Sitting in a sublime Jazz restaurant nibbling on lamb chops and listening to amazing live Jazz, Reggae, Blues, and traditional African music with a saxophonist whose tonal clarity rivals James Carter.

Going to the West Africa and International Trade Expo and buying beautiful ceramic vases for $6 and $10 from a handicapped artist from the country of Burkina Faso. Visiting boothes from Libya, Syria, China, Egypt, Mali, Nigeria, the U.S., and Tunisia.

Getting excited and spending hours walking up and down the aisles of a brand new French supermarket, because its one of the few places that is clean, orderly and reminiscent of home.

Sara, one of the building security guards and my friend, who literally lives in a tin shack, saving some of the lamb he slaughtered on Tabaski, to give to me as a gift.

Spirit of St. Louis

2008-12-13T16:01:00.001Z

St. Louis, the New Orleans of Senegal. The Jazz capital of all of West Africa. I just returned from spending four days there, celebrating Tabaski with some Senegalese friends. In colonial times, the French laid out a perfect grid of streets on this island, with classic French architecture, buildings of 2-4 stories with beautiful wrought iron balconies overlooking the pedestrians who would be walking down below. St. Louis was named a World Heritage Site by the United Nations in 2000. Today the UN is threatening to take away that honor. The reasons being: the neglect of the buildings, the noncompliance with historical preservation codes in rehabilitating the structures, the absence of infrastructure support by the state, and the disappearance of hundreds of thousands of dollars given by UNESCO for such purposes. So, what does St. Louis look and feel like? The ghost of its former self. It would be as if Hurricane Katrina wreaked its havoc on the French Quarter of New Orleans (one section of the city that was relatively unaffected). It’s sad. Everyone from the rest of the country believes St. Louis is a beautiful historic city. Although many have never left their birthplace in Senegal to visit their own country for lack of financial means, they still have pride in St. Louis. Moreover, their pride in French architecture goes beyond the fact that as colonial powers, the French exploited thousands of local citizens to achieve such beauty. The Senegalese are intelligent, yet simple and forgiving people. Unfortunately, I have now heard the broken-record story more times than I can count: corrupt, bad governance. A leadership that lines its pockets at the blatant neglect of its people. A historic city crumbling; teachers not paid their salaries for one to two months; the monopoly electric company gouging the poor with bills for consumption levels that are physically impossible in their humble dwellings; a taximan, after a fender-bender with the wife of a government official, loses his car because the official extorts him--with pressure from the police, to produce money he physically doesn’t have, while the official has at his disposal more money stolen from the citizens than he knows what to do with; the guards--my friends--here in the building not being paid their monthly salary right before the biggest holiday of the year because the government building manager just didn’t feel like it and left town for a week when payday came around; classes canceled at school last Thursday when kids from another school came by with rocks threatening to stone us if we did not let our students go with them for a citywide student strike--for no apparent reason other than to make the holiday break longer, and we having to comply because there are no locks on school property doors, no hall monitors or guards, and no police to call if such an event occurs. When I came here, I expected to see underdevelopment because of poverty. What I did not expect to see is such abject corruption. These people, hard-working, faith-filled, and family-focused, deserve better.

Happy Thanksgiving: To Be Grateful Through Giving

2008-11-24T17:13:00.002Z

Happy Thanksgiving. I have so much to be grateful for; you first and foremost. Friends and families--people--are what make life worth living and so beautiful. In this season, what better way to be grateful than to share with those less fortunate than us. Please consider, when you are giving thanks for what you have, to remember the beautiful people I have come to know here in Africa. It’s ripe time to talk about and present to you Abdoulaye and Zacheria’s letters. I believe that this process is the best way that I can envision helping them. I am sharing their stories with you so that, if compelled, you can share some of your financial resources to help them realize a better life. And in the spirit of giving, please take the liberty to share this blog entry, and earlier ones about them, with others who may be open to helping. In this age of the Internet, it would be wonderful to reach a tremendously large audience and together create life-changing realites for my friends here. The two men are not related, but have become my closest and most reliable Senegalese friends. Unfortunately, most formal avenues for aid, especially in the form of start-up funds/capital formation, are not available for individuals. Most of that money goes to cooperatives, groups of villagers, and women, since females have traditionally been marginalized in their income-generating potential in many poor countries. In short, a hard-working man here has few avenues to escape his dead-end reality. I cannot change all of Africa, but with your help, I am determined to help Zach and Abdoulaye. With that said, they and I are continuing to research non-governmental organizations (NGOs) in Dakar and in cyberspace for other avenues of support. It has been a humbling and a learning process for me, and an empowering and hope-filled one for them. The collection of funds will last as long as it takes to help them get started. If you feel you can help, with ANY amount (the cost of a latte or of a Lazyboy), please let me know by emailing me at eliasjkhalil@yahoo.com and we can arrange the logistics of your donation. You can also choose to remain anonymous, and I will respect that request.

I do not want to inundate you with sadness, because the reality is that they have both a resignation to their situation and a resiliency to do whatever it takes to make life work. In the process they love to laugh and have good times, as do we all.

Following are Zach and Abdoulaye’s letters, respectively:

Dakar, 24 November, 2008

Dear Friends,

I would like to begin with my most respectful and cordial greetings. My name is Zacheria and I went to school through the 9th grade, which is the end of middle school here (High school is the equivalent of 10th to 12th grade). Afterwards, I stopped school, but not of my own volition. My mother fell gravely ill at the start of the new school year, which would have been the beginning of high school for me. As we are a poor family, we had to choose, with the little money that we had, to take mom to the hospital or to register me for school and buy school supplies. I chose to take care of my mother. Afterwards, I went out to look for some work to help feed the family. Two years later, my dad died. A few years later, I lost my mom as well. Truly, it’s really difficult, and I am the only son of my mother.

I am a security guard at an apartment building, and I earn $160/month. I work 60 hour weeks, which translates to about $.65/hour. With that amount, I have to pay the rent, food, transportation, electricity, and water. I buy all my water, as I don't have running water in my rented room. Currently, I share a single bedroom with a friend, and we are obliged to share the bed, because I do not earn enough to rent my own room. In the end, I cannot escape from the vicious circle. I am 30 years old and have been working in the same job for 8 years, with which I really cannot envision a future. With my youth behind me, I would really like to begin a project that could help me create a future.

Thus, I would like to be helped with some capital to either buy a taxi or begin raising cattle. To purchase a used taxi, I would need approximately $8,000. After living expenses and the cost of gasoline, I would hope to bring in a profit of $75-$90/month. To buy 3 cows, which would be the minimum number necessary to make the change from my current position worthwhile, would cost around $1,500. By raising the cows and starting to breed and sell them, after living expenses, I would envision being able to save about $50/month, which would allow me to start building a future. The difference between the two projects is how soon each would generate revenue. The taxi would be immediate, while the cattle would necessitate months before realizing any revenue.

I am relying on your comprehension to appreciate my sentiments, and I am grateful for any consideration.

My sincerest gratitude,

Ngor Zacheria Bakhoum

Dakar, 24 November, 2008

Dear Friends,

I am a young Senegalese man who is 31 years old, originally from the village of Palmarin. My name is Abdoulaye Diop. I am the oldest child in a polygamous family with many children.
I did university studies in Dakar, and I have two degrees in Business Management. Currently it is impossible to find work which is commensurate with my education, and I have been looking for such opportunites for years now.
I am forced to do manual labor in a warehouse, and I earn $190/month, which is not enough to live on. Moreover, my younger brother, who studies at the unversity, is living with me, and he receives no financial aid for his education. I share my salary with him, which means that there are days where we do not eat.
I would like to start my own business in transportation, that is, buy a station-wagon taxi (seats seven passengers), which would bring in daily revenue. That income will enable me to make a better living and break out of the vicious circle that is my current situation.
I am requesting financial aid to purchase a vehicle that would cost around $6300. I ask if you could contribute according to your ability. I will be very appreciative if you could help me start my own business.

Thank you very much,

Abdoulaye

Been Busy...3 New Posts

2008-11-21T12:17:00.001Z

The U.S.--Who is welcomed?

2008-11-21T12:08:00.000Z

Monday was a tough day. Abdoulaye, who has been a true friend since my arrival, had an interview at the U.S. Embassy for a tourist visa. I had helped him fill out the forms and cover some of the corresponding fees. To have an interview, you must make a phone call to a certain phone number which is charged to the applicant in the amount of $16. The applicant then has the right to 8 minutes on the phone to arrange an interview. The applicant must bring several passport photos, proof of employment with stated salary, and proof of a flight reservation to the U.S. which costs around $10. When granted the interview the applicant must pay a processing fee of $130 regardless of interview outcome. U.S. Immigration law is crafted in the exact opposite spirit of judicial law. Any applicant--including those interested in just a 30 day tourist visa--is, by law, assumed guilty of intent to permanently immigrate. The onus is upon the applicant to prove beyond a doubt that he or she is sufficiently rooted at home: married, children, homeowner, bank accounts, and a salary large enough to dissuade the applicant from looking for a better-paying job opportunity in the U.S. If the applicant is single, rents a room, works in a supermarket warehouse, doesn’t have significant savings, then he--I’m speaking of Abdoulaye--is found by U.S. law to be guilty of the potential to stay illegally in the U.S., and is denied a 30 day tourist visa. The fact that he has American friends who have provided paperwork that attests that they will host him in the U.S. makes no difference. The fact that, by his friendly nature, he has served as the unofficial and often indispensable cultural and city guide for the Fulbright teachers for the past 3 years, helping us make sense of this place and really appreciate our experiences, makes no difference. He is not allowed to step foot in the land of immigrants.

After Obama’s election, Abdoulaye was truly inspired, as are millions of individuals worldwide, that anything is possible. A simple 30 day visit to America. To see with his own eyes what is possible in the land of opportunity. To come back to Senegal with a strengthened resolve to achieve. To really believe the sky is the limit. To visit so many friends in America who would love to welcome him as a small sign of gratitude for all he did for them during their time in Senegal.

A 30 year old who would like to make a 30 day visit. A man who wants to leave his dead-end job to build a sustainable future. A man who would like to continue to support his brother and his parents, and his other siblings, and have enough money to be able to meet a woman and eventually marry and start a family. When he called me after the interview, he told me, “Elie, c’est dur.” “Elias, it’s hard.” He repeated this simple phrase several times, started to choke up over the phone, then broke down and started to cry. I joined in.

Simple hopes...dashed in a world that is not so simple.

Here's The Latest...

2008-11-21T12:07:00.003Z

Listening to a piece on the BBC radio, about Axel Rose releasing an album after 12 years in the making, has put me into a Rock mood. I’m sitting here listening to Aerosmith, singing Dream On right now. As is often the case, the windless heat of yesterday has disappeared and given way to a beautiful breezy morning. The one down side is that when I leave the doorwalls open for the air, layers of sand cover the floor and every surface in the house...and I am on the 6th floor! The locals tell me there is a wind that will come in a month or so that will literally shower us for some time with Sahara Desert sand; I’m told I’ll have difficulty seeing in front of me. I guess it’s time to buy a pair of shades from one the hundreds of peddlers outside.

Just wanted to check in and tell you a bit about the week. The recovery from the accident included nursing internal bruises around the ribs which has made sleeping on my right side nearly impossible. Going to work this week involved catching taxis as quickly as possible, for I was not emotionally ready to walk much along the streets and relive disturbing images of my accident. I got xrays and nothing serious turned out; I visited the Embassy nurse who said to take it easy for another week. If things don’t improve, she said to make an appointment for a complete examination. My energy level is down, which has frustrated me and obviously prevented me from exercise, running, or baseball =:(

I had dinner with the Public Affairs Officer and his wife at their nicely appointed and Embassy-provided apartment in a downtown high rise. Last week, the day before my accident, I was one of several guests at the Ambassador’s residence. So lately, I have literally been wining and dining with the diplomats; it’s been right up my alley. Additionally, one of my friends here (Carolyn) who works at the Embassy, left keys to her house for me and Inge, one of the other Fulbright teachers. We treated ourselves to a nice evening and dinner there with Tom (the other Fulbrighter) and Abdoulaye, as Carolyn’s cook made us salmon and stuffed Capitaine, a delicious local fish.

I have always thought rasta and braids worn in the U.S. by many, including Bob Marley fans, are so emblematic of being carefree and fundamentally “chill”. So, after many weeks of inquiry, I have located someone who said she could fabricate and attach braids to my hair, my oh so thinning and weak hair. It’s a process common among women, but rare among men, because in general we have such short hair. Generally, guys who wear rasta/braids are sporting their real hair, which has grown impressively long. Well, to make a long story short, Fatima started on my hair yesterday. After more than 5 hours of pulling and twisting and sewing and braiding, about 2/3 of my head is done. I couldn’t sleep last night from the pulling sensation of the braid on my scalp and because of their physical presence which prevented my noggin from finding the pillow. I don’t know how people do it! Fatima is coming back today for probably another 3 hours, but I think I’ll have her undo what she’s done than to complete the process. I have taken a couple pics at this point which I can share with you; the novelty just isn’t cool enough to justify the pain (and the fact that I should only wash my hair once a week). In any case, it has been a relatively cheap experiment. In the U.S., for women, such detailed work could cost upwards of $200. I paid $5 for materials and $10 for labor. Gotta love this place!

Outdoors

2008-11-18T16:50:00.001Z

Cutting through the crystal blue water, gliding along almost effortlessly, it was hard to believe I was in Dakar. Ten days ago, a new acquaintance took me along for my first foray in kayaking. We walked along the petite corniche, a seaside road that is peppered with upscale hotels, private gyms and clubs. This road is hidden below the surface streets, almost along the side of a mountain. (There is a reason why downtown is called the plateau.) We rented a two-person kayak, and very quickly I found myself on what seemed to be the open waters of the Atlantic. From one vantage point there was no land in sight; from another, the waves converged from differing directions crashing against the black rocky cliffs. The view of the skyline was even new for me. In total, it was another surreal experience that defines what it means to be here in West Africa. Throw out every dominating image you have in your head, because it’s surely only one small slice of the pie that is this continent.
From the kayak, I could also see the Isle de Madeleine, an uninhabited island about 3 kilometers off the coast that I had visited the previous weekend. A nature lover’s paradise that boasts tremendous, sprawling Baobab trees, and is a migratory home to hundreds of species of birds during the breeding season. A real treasure. The island also houses a cove which is like an inland lake that is turquoise blue and radiates in the perpetual sun of this land.

The evening previous to the kayaking, I participated in my first run with the HHH (Hash something something). It’s billed as a running group with a drinking problem, or a drinking group with a running problem. Apparently they exist as chapters all over the world. People get together to do a designated run set up by the course leader. Invariably the course is more like a scavenger hunt, as one can only continue running if little arrows written with chalk can be spotted to indicate your next direction. You typically run in a group, or in packs, and sometimes there are false arrows that mean you have to turn back to the main route. Once the right path is recognized, the leaders yell out “On On” and everyone echoes the chant and continues the chase. In the end, you gather, sing some songs that everyone except you knows, get initiated in some way or another if you’re a new member, and then drink the beverage of your choice. It was quite an experience, at times really cool, at times kinda cult-like. In the end, it’s a great way to meet new people, and that’s how I met Clara who took me kayaking.
Oh by the way, did I mention that all these excursions are happening in November, and the temperature is 85 degrees with full sun? Who said Africa is not for you?!

Labels and Lebanese

2008-11-18T16:40:00.000Z

I have been hesitating to write this piece, as I believe my thoughts are premature. Yet passion knows no time, and the expression of emotion is what makes us so human. For many of you reading this entry, you are well aware of who I am and from whence I have come. I am someone who constantly battles the use of labels to categorize, for they seem to do more harm than good. Yet, at the same time, it’s so hard for me not to use some of those very labels to express my own identity. Behind every generalization and stereotype is some truth, but also so much contradiction. I have spoken previously of diversity, and presently I am reminding myself of the reality of that word. In the end, as different as we all are, individually or collectively, we are all indisputably human.

Humanity binds us much stronger than anything that we let divide us.

With that preface, I am already straying from my intended topic, but then again, a reflection of who I am and how I write: an Arab who revels in the use of language, for in it one finds all the emotions of life.

What does it mean to be Lebanese? I have thought I knew that answer for a long time. Growing up in a Lebanese-American home; traveling to Lebanon to connect with my ancestral origins; doing graduate work in the language, culture, religions, and politics of the land; I thought I was a living emblem. Coming to Senegal has turned that notion upside down. For me, being Lebanese means recognizing and embracing the struggle of the hard realities that life can throw at you. Being Lebanese means cultivating an open spirit and mind, for we are often found in lands where we are the minority, and a smile wins more friends over than a frown. Being Lebanese means learning the local languages and customs to adapt properly and hopefully move beyond survival to success. Being Lebanese means having a profound faith that God will not abandon you if only you trust Him. Being Lebanese means sharing that faith with others--not through proselytizing, but through actions of openness, sincerity, compassion, and giving. Being Lebanese means being proud of your heritage, and identifying yourself as either not being Arab or being a different type of Arab. Being Lebanese means enjoying living, demonstrating a joie de vivre. Being Lebanese means listening to beautiful music or poetry in Arabic, knowing that those words and rhythms have no rival in stirring the soul. Being Lebanese means preparing and eating food with family, friends, and strangers, for nothing epitomizes more our genuine love for one another and respect as equals, than breaking bread together. Being Lebanese means looking out for the family first and yourself second. Being Lebanese means that the group, village, and common good are more important and more natural than individual gain. Being Lebanese means greeting people with “habibi” “albi” “hayati” “noor al’uyooni”--my beloved, my heart, my life, the light of my eyes--because whoever you are, we really mean it! Being Lebanese means hugging and kissing and touching each other, for the human touch is the most powerful manifestation of love for one another.

I have been here close to three months, arriving with great expectations. If the Lebanese here were anything like my definition, I would feel right at home. Unfortunately, my perception of reality here could not be farther from the truth. God bless Imperialism, Colonialism, and Capitalism. You see, around the turn of the last century when the United Kingdom and France took control of much of Africa, in order to fuel their own growth, both powers looked for intermediaries to be on the frontline, dealing with the daily realities of conquest. All joking aside, it is not unlike the current situation in Iraq, where the U.S. has hired defense contractors to do the work of the government’s bidding. In Africa, the British chose the Indians and the French chose the Lebanese. Through the course of the century, with the end of colonialism, those intermediaries stood much to gain as the new power brokers in those soon-to-be newly independent countries. So though independence brought some semblance of autonomous decision-making and self-determination by the indigenous population, much of what made the economies run was still in the hands of foreign minorities: the Lebanese largely in West Africa, and the Indians in East Africa.

The Lebanese here in Senegal are an inward-focused people. Yes, they have mastered the local language, yet they have chosen to dismiss the local culture. They control the lion’s share of business, from dairy processing facilities to high-end department stores to hotels to all the valuable real estate, and everything in between. In fact, they are battling, somewhat successfully, against the ongoing Chinese economic invasion of the continent. There are now three or four generations of Lebanese here, many of whom speak only French and Wolof, not a word of Arabic, and call themselves Africans. In fact, although Lebanese by blood, many have no interest in visiting Lebanon; it’s just an abstract, ancestral homeland; not a relevant, current reality. With that said, they have been cultivated into greed-driven merchants. Money drives them above and beyond any other force. One is only of interest to them if they have something to gain from that person. They, in my opinion, do not deserve to be called Lebanese.
A favorite biblical verse states: “The just man shall flourish like a palm tree, like the cedars of Lebanon shall he grow.” This verse has not been lost on the centuries and millennia of Lebanese in the world; I have seen it in the United States, in Australia, in Lebanon. What I see here is an abomination.

Personally, I expected great welcomes and demonstrations of hospitality. I have stopped waiting. I had one contact here (a couple) because they are relatives of someone back in Detroit. After I had delivered their care package from Detroit and a Sunday spent together, I have not seen them again. They told me about their two sons--both in their twenties--but I have not met them. They would be logical buddies. I have never been invited to their house for a (Lebanese) meal, and they were “instructed” by their relatives back in Detroit to look after me. I think after we had a conversation about my career and reason being here, they must have surmised there was little to gain from me. After all, I am nowhere near their socioeconomic level. In fact, in the same conversation, I asked if their sons had Senegalese friends (I mean Blacks of course), they abruptly said no and that I should be careful mixing with them. And they were the family, who because of family, should have demonstrated great Lebanese hospitality. I have been to grocery stores, furnishing stores, cafes, all run by Lebanese--some Christian, some Muslim. I have introduced myself as Lebanese American...not even a warm handshake or smile. I even told one Lebanese lady that I did not have my mother here so I needed a Lebanese mom; she chuckled, said she would have me over for dinner, and be my Lebanese mom. I have seen her on several occasions since; no dinner, just superficial, shallow words. I have been to the Maronite church three times, and not one person has come up to me to greet me--not even the priest, after he had met me the first time and I was told he was so fun-loving. I went to a high-end nightclub with a $20 cover. The place was 95% Lebanese, for only they could afford to lead such a New York/Paris lifestyle. In fact, the club flew in the D.J. from Paris just for the weekend. I saw some Lebanese there from stores I patronized, but no one struck up conversation with me. Either I’m delusional, or these people are genetic anomalies. It’s funny that couple told me to be careful about mixing with the Senegalese, when even with great effort, I CANNOT mix with the Lebanese. It’s funny and sad that the first to invite me to dinner were Senegalese who don’t have bank accounts, but those with the means hoard their food.

There’s a great piece written by Khalil Gibran that is called, “You Have Your Lebanon, I Have Mine.” In it he bemoans the focus by others on politics, greed, and division; while he defines his Lebanon by the beauty of the mountains, springs, and smiles on the faces of farmers and peasants. I think a lot about that piece now. Thank you Khalil Gibran; I knew we had more in common than just a name.

Caring

2008-11-14T17:39:00.001Z

Life is funny. One day it provides you with so many people and experiences, and the next can be void of the human touch. It’s Friday again, the day without classes for me, and I’ve been sitting here not doing much. You can call it convalescence. I call it boredom. I have successfully eaten breakfast and lunch and taken a shower. I finished another book, this one by the Intercultural Press called Into Africa. Most recently, I checked my emails until the power went out. I am not leaving the apartment today because I was ordered to rest for three days by the doctor. Yesterday morning I was walking home from work. The boulevard has a median with only one lane on its western side and three lanes on its eastern side. The tricky thing though, is that there are two lanes for each direction of traffic. After crossing the first lane and reaching the median, you still have another lane with traffic coming in the same direction, and then two more lanes with opposite moving traffic, yet with no median separating them from oncoming traffic. A strange system to say the least. I crossed the first lane, mounted the median, but forgot to look to my left and only looked to the right for oncoming traffic. No sooner than I stepped down, I was struck by a fast moving mini-pickup that propelled me into a somersault in the air. I came crashing down on the pavement in front of the vehicle and blacked out. I came to after a minute or two, but still had the wind knocked out of me. A crowd had already formed, many individuals coming to my aid, checking to see that I could move. It was surreal. Needless to say, just this writing exercise is surreal. After a couple minutes, the driver of the vehicle helped me up and into his vehicle. Witnesses gave their names and wanted to come along to make sure I would be taken to the hospital. In the end, I murmured to take me home. The thought of being in a hospital in a foreign country, with foreign languages and faces, and possible interminable waits--as I already had surmised that my situation was not life-threatening--would be too much to handle. The man and his brother drove me home, all the while being in a state of numbness and shock. When we arrived, he helped me out of the car, and I quickly spotted Zacheria, my dear friend and building security guard. Zach came over and I motioned to the man to explain to Zach what had happened. Zach displayed great attention and concern. He took the man’s contact information, as the man offered to come back to take me to the hospital if desired. Zach walked me upstairs to my apartment, helped me to the bed, brought me water and an ice pack for the bump on my head, then went about contacting a doctor. Here, there is a service called SOS Medecin, where a doctor will come and make a housecall upon request. Zach was steadfast in checking on me while waiting for the doctor downstairs, and requesting and waiting for the driver to return to bring money to cover my doctor and prescription fees. The doctor came and determined that I had suffered shock and bruises. He suggested that I have some xrays taken of my neck and back. I am scheduling an appointment as I write this entry. Meanwhile, my friend Abdoulaye had called just to say hello. When I told him what had happened, he said he would come over immediately after work. So, around 6 p.m., both Zach and Abdoulaye were here to make sure I had everything I needed. Shortly thereafter, the driver who hit me, called to check up on me. So, in the midst of a potential tragedy, I was showered with such caring, compassionate people. Zach informed me that he wouldn’t see me today, as right before my accident, he received word that a family member had died in another city, and he would be gone the next two days for the funeral. Abdoulaye offered to stay the night, and said he would be back later today. I received concerned calls or visits from five other people. I’m fine. In the big scheme of things, the story could have ended very differently. I’m so fortunate. And most of all, I am blessed, that in this country, communal living is not just a term used in the tourism books, but is one that came to life so fully when mine was threatened.
Thank you.

4 New Posts in 2 Days...Enjoy!

2008-11-07T13:34:00.003Z

Peinard!

2008-11-07T13:33:00.000Z

Peinard! That’s way I am, at least says Sheikh Niang, my colleague at work who teaches French. He, like all the Senegalese, love to tease. In fact, nothing gets my prinicipal laughing harder than when I jab back. He says I have integrated quickly and now I’m Senegalese. So what is peinard? It’s someone who doesn’t have a worry in the world, someone who is carefree. With a teaching schedule of 11 hours, I could see why Sheikh would say that! And when on Wednesdays and Thursdays, I leave school at 10:30 a.m. after only two hours of teaching, I then hear “Veinard!” Loosely translated: lucky bastard! So, you see, life here, in many ways, can be very nice!
I’ve gotten out of my daily habit of jogging on the Corniche because some days during the school week, I get home from work too tired to work out. Okay, believe me, life is different over here. You have to wake up early--never with enough sleep; haggle with a taximan to get a decent fare--that’s tiring day in and day out; go to school where you can’t put your bag down anywhere because it’s so filthy everywhere; endure the rollercoaster of your stomach and bladder after breakfast without relieving yourself because there is no working toilet; feel ahamed every morning that you haven’t learned enough Wolof to respond to the follow up greeting that comes after “How are you? Fine” and invariably is different from each colleague; try to express yourself on more than a superficial level in French with your colleagues and explain appropriate behaviour to talkative teenagers in French with a word or two of Wolof thrown in; walk over an hour home to avoid paying a taxi everyday two ways or to avoid being squished like a sardine into a filthy make-shift bus where pickpocketing is rampant; greet and chat with the building security guards for 20-30 minutes before going inside because the greeting is culturally expected and the chatting part of the frienship; change your sweaty clothes, grab a bite for lunch, and then lie down for an afternoon siesta because you’re wiped and it may not even be 1 p.m.! So, veinard I am not!
Well, last Friday I decided to go jogging as I don’t teach that day. In fact, I am writing this entry today, Friday morning, because I have some time and have just had my peanut butter and coffee. So, I was running back from the Mosque on the beach and a handful of middle school boys noticed me. Of course, when you’re not black over here you get noticed pretty quickly! I had on a workout shirt sporting a bandana on my head; it’s the closest I can get to looking like a serious athlete. So, just like out of the neighborhoods of Philly when Rocky Balboa starting jogging and training for his fights, the kids started jogging behind and with me. It was unbelievable! There I was leading a whole delegation of future wrestlers or soccer stars down the corniche amazed by their determination to keep up with me but not to pass me out of respect. I turned to them and asked “jusqu’à où?” which means “how far are we going?” They said “all the way!” A few fell off the tail and two stayed with me. Those two then started to tire and asked, “Toubab, jusqu’à où?” I said all the way! Soon the two became one, and right before I reached my street to turn off, the sole runner started to slow down. I turned to him, gave him a high five and went home beaming! Their determination, their smiles were priceless! And then, the sometimes celebrity/novelty status that comes with the word “Toubab” from young Africans was just awesome. Toubab means white person. It’s a term that comes from the Arabic word, “Tabeeb” which means doctor and was often the first/only white person many Africans encountered decades ago. It can be used with positive or negative connotation today, but it was definitely one laden with fun that day.

Profiles

2008-11-07T13:32:00.001Z

Thus far I’ve tried to paint some pictures of what life for me is like here in Senegal. Just when it seems I have met enough people to form some impressions that are coherent in my mind, I meet others who broaden and enrich my perspective. One thing is for certain, I love to meet people. I love to spend time with new acquaintances, listening to their stories and their take on life. There’s no doubt I have a soft heart, and if I could, I would help every single person I could in every way I could imagine. But a dose of realism is necessary and good for me. So, after much reflection, I have chosen to share with you the profiles of several individuals who make up the beauty of the fabric that is called the Senegalese. These profiles, I hope, will help you appreciate why I am so happy to have had this opportunity. Many of the building security guards will be profiled, for I am getting to know them better than most. I will talk about my neighbor whom I met just yesterday who is an aspiring musician. I will share vignettes on some of my colleagues, and perhaps one on the U.S. Ambassador. I had the fortune of re-meeting her last weekend at a Halloween party, and she and I had a one-on-one conversation for 45 minutes; it was amazing!

What I do want to do is that which I believe is realistic. I am choosing two of my friends to profile in depth and to make an appeal of help. They are names and maybe even faces I hope you recognize: Abdoulaye and Zacheria. I believe, as I know so many of you do, that we are strongest when we can support each other. Our individual potential is magnified and realized when we are connected to others. Even Obama’s victory is a message of rebuke against unilateralism, greed and individualism in the markets and society. It is also a message of hope for all that we will achieve when we look beyond ourselves and work for both our own development and that of the common good. With that said, I will make this one and only appeal to you: When you hear their stories, if you are compelled to help--in even the smallest, and what you may feel most insignificant, way possible, please join me in doing so. I have invited both of them to tell their own stories in the form of letters that they are writing in French and I will translate into English. I hope, with the power of technology and the internet, we can make life-long changes in the lives of these two noble, hard-working men. I know the timing back home for such an appeal is not ideal, but as MLK Jr. said, “The time is always right to do what is right.” Thank you so much in advance, and their stories will be forthcoming soon.

Song

2008-11-07T13:30:00.000Z

So school has started. I am teaching two sections of English to 8th graders who are in their third year of study. We meet only 3 hours a week. I also teach 5 hours a week of beginning English to 6th graders. So, as you can imagine, we’re doing a lot of simple greetings right now. They have already mastered “How are you? Fine. Thanks. And You?” But like my Wolof, they have a hard time going beyond that at this point. I’ve been trying to teach them other responses like: I’m good, I’m great, I’m tired, I’m sleepy; but they all seem to be “fine” everyday! The 6th graders love to sing the alphabet song. In fact they love music. Dare I say, singing and chanting together are part of their DNA. I believe music is a universal trait of expression, but there’s something innate about the embrace of rhythm and beat here that stands out. So, the other day, while I was going over the days of the week, the song “Manic Monday” by the Bengals came to mind. I started singing it softly as I was circulating around the class. The students immediately picked up on the sound and developed a drum beat. Soon, the room was filled with African percussion in perfect synch calling me to sing on. It was so natural, so spontaneous, I was in awe.

Last Friday night, Abdoulaye and I decided to check out the night life on Halloween. We went to a dance club that was sponsoring a Halloween night, but when we arrived around 10:30 p.m. the doors were not even open. Apparently, even though the party was advertised to begin at 10 p.m., nothing starts in earnest before 11:30 or midnight, so why even open the doors?! So, being downtown and not being able to get in, we decided to go to another bar that I had heard about from a friend. The bar was more like a cafe/restaurant with multiple levels of seating for about 30-50 on each level; just the right size. We sat at a table on the lower level right next to the quartet that was playing an African/Jazz fusion. Imagine a Santana or Dave Brubeck number with the jovial, harmonic rhythms and beats often found in African music; it was great! Some songs inspired people to get up and dance; we soaked it all up. Then, just when we were about to leave, this older, robust lady ambled down the stairs in a worn, nightgown type garment with flip-flops on her feet. I wondered who was she and what was she thinking coming there dressed as such. Well, immediately I was confounded even more, as everyone, one by one, got up greeted her with a smile and a kiss, and treated her like royalty. I then said to myself, she must be the owner. She started making her way toward our corner and I heard people greet her with the name Cesaria. I stopped in my mental tracks: Could it be? Noooo. Impossible. Maybe. She is light-skinned, which means she could be Cap Verdian. But I thought she was dark-skinned. Wait, I remember, she is dark-skinned, because I saw her in concert in Ann Arbor. But there is a large Cap Verdian community here, maybe in real life up close she is light-skinned like all the Cap Verdians I have met here. Ohhhh. I don’t know!
She came my way, and I felt obliged, like the rest of the clientele, to greet her. I did so in French, and she was so welcoming and happy. I tried to ask her if she was who I thought she was: “Are you really Cesaria Evora?” She smiled, she laughed, then said a lot of things in such a heavy accent in which language I am unsure, that I ended up still not knowing! She proceeded to tell me she is a singer, she would be singing there the next night with her orchestra. “Oh, great,” I thought. Now, I’m even more confused. And, I have other plans tomorrow night...damn! Well, on my way out, I asked the bouncer what was her name, and he said he only knew her as Cesaria. As you can imagine, the mystery was killing me! In any case, I left so excited to try to find out. When on Monday or Tuesday I saw my Cap Verdian colleague at work, she disappointedly informed me that Cesaria Evora was definitely dark-skinned and that was probably someone who is famous locally who chose to take the same stage name perhaps because she sings in the same style. Who knows? But oh what a trip!

p.s. If you don’t know Cesaria Evora, look her up on YouTube or ITunes with the song Sodade...you’ll appreciate my excitement!

Unforgettable!

2008-11-06T14:36:00.001Z

The awe. I cannot think of another word to better describe the indescribable. So many others will have said it so much more poetically than I, but I can’t help but express my joy. I think I am still in shock. This morning the world saw one of the greatest expressions of humanity in recorded history. Watching from the continent where lie the origins of so much that has been wrong with human actions in modern history: discrimination, exploitation, slavery, and genocide, Barack Obama’s victory is nothing short of transformational. The scope and scale of which is still hard to fathom. My taximan said the day before the election, when we wage war, it costs the whole world. How wonderful it feels, with today’s election, to have returned hope to the whole world.

There’s a warmth and sincerity in the hand shaking and embrace from a Senegalese that has no equal back home. In it is a smile from the heart that profoundly touches you. Throughout the night, into the morning, and all throughout the day, I was embraced by so many Senegalese. From today’s taximan to my students running up to me to congratulate me. My colleagues, overjoyed, were talking about it when I arrived. On the radio and the television, coverage continued throughout the day. The president of Togo was on the line during the morning radio broadcast, and when asked for his reaction, he paused in mid-sentence, saying he couldn’t find the words to express the joy that surged inside him. My good friends, Abdoulaye and Zacheria, were each profoundly touched. So much so, that they couldn’t stop talking about how they stayed up all night to watch history unfold. There is a renewed or even a new spirit of hope in their lives. The belief that “tout est possible”--anything is possible--is resonating like never before in the consciousness of the African heart and mind. This is no show nor fleeting emotion. Obama’s election is a victory not just for the U.S., it is a testament to the potential of humanity, both individually and as a collective. What we can do when we treat each other with respect, put our faith in someone because of ideals and character instead of color, and when one can and does work towards one’s potential without any externally-imposed obstacles, the possibilities are endless. Overnight, the yearning and hunger for an America that stands again as a beacon of hope, opportunity, and equality has been fulfilled. There were rallies and marches in Dakar and capitals all over Africa expressing their gratitude for and hope to America: a country that stands for the defeat of discrimination and the embrace of justice; a country that has just told the world there can be a better way, and we will lead by example; a country that has just demonstrated, that although wrought with deficiencies, one has, deserves, and must exercise the right to change and to hope. There’s an elation here that is emanating from all. It feels so good to say again that I am proud to be American. Equally exhilirating, it feels great to be in solidarity with all, and say I am proud to be a citizen of our world. World history was made today, not only in America, but in the whole world.

Diversity

2008-10-26T22:24:00.002Z

Like a conscious dinner host, I hesitate to present my words for the feast, because they remain in such unrefined state. Nevertheless, all too often we are not fortunate to have the luxury of time to ruminate and synthesize, so I share with you the ingredients of today that will hopefully entice and whet the appetite for what I hope will be something even greater in the future.

How many of us revel in the aroma of garlic or onions sauteing in olive oil? The scent of freshly baked bread or an autumn apple pie coming from the oven? What these smells tell us is that life is lived through the senses. We cannot live through others, nor through their stories. Each of us needs to experience life so that it has meaning for us. Although we know this intellectually, we instinctively fight it. How many of us, as teachers or parents or older siblings, point to books, articles, websites, or our own life stories to teach a lesson to the other? The intention is admirable, but often the result is incomplete. Why? Because that person has not lived it. I believe that the lessons of life are best learned and internalized when they are our lessons. So, that brings me to my observations here. I cannot pretend to tell you what is right and wrong here, what are the challenges and solutions, what we back home should be thinking and doing. I’m not equipped. No one is. All I can share is how I feel from my experiences.

Senegal is a place of scents and smells. Senegal forces you to LIVE. There is no passivity, no just “being”. I just finished three books I have been reading; that makes seven total in just over seven weeks! One of the books is entitled, “The Poisonwood Bible” by Barbara Kingsolver. The storyline revolves around the experiences of an American missionary family in the Congo at the end of the 1950s/beginning of the 1960s. The book is powerful and humbling; I definitely recommend it. But, here is the catch: I would have put the book down after the first couple chapters had I started it in the United States. It is the context, the setting of being in Africa that gave the book so much meaning and made it relevant to me. Almost every reference made was one I understood, yet equally was ignorant of just two months ago. In the book, Anatole, a Congolese who married Leah, one of the Americans, traveled to Georgia, and shared with her the following observation: scents and smells were missing from America, it was antiseptic and only hinted at disinfectant. How true in so many ways.

Dakar is full of scents, full of diversity, in the fullest meaning of the word. People--races, ethnic groups, languages, facial features, skin tones, religions; socioeconomic status--ultra-rich, middle class, poor, destitute; architecture--cutting-edge, colonial, bland, tin shacks, tarp tents; and education--intellectuals, educated, uneducated, illiterate--but all so much more informed than their equivalents in the west. What can I say? I’m living an experiential inundation here.

Last week I was invited for dinner at my colleague’s home. She was born here, but her family is originally from Cap Verde. That’s a country made up of a series of islands in the Atlantic Ocean not far from Senegal. It is a former Portuguese colony and almost all its inhabitants call themselves Catholic. Their skin tone is similar to a light skinned mulatto or Puerto Rican. They are a significant community here in Senegal, and they view the African reality quite differently from the black Senegalese. Among the black, the Wolof are the largest ethnic group whose language has become the de facto national language. There are also the Serere, the Pulaar, and many others. They all speak of the national values of tolerance, peace, and teasing each other. There is no ethnic strife here, they have always had peaceful elections and transitions of power, they practice democracy, and are a secular state. One of the ways they keep peace is with a great sense of humor, constantly teasing each other and making light of any differences. With more than ninety percent of the population being Muslim, one would assume a religious state, but Catholic holidays receive as much fanfare as Muslim ones: November 1, All Saints Day, is a national holiday here. They are Muslims, they believe and practice peace--as promoted by their religion, and they cannot understand why the U.S. and the West paint Islam to be such a violent religion. What am I saying? Diversity. What we think is one way is so multi-faceted. The diversity is humbling. I am learning so much from living here. Yet it’s so difficult for someone else to grow and change in the same way when he/she is not living the same reality.

I have experienced the hospitality of the Serere, and although hospitality is a professed national value, I have heard the sincere, unselfish form really doesn’t exist among the Wolof. Again, diversity. Then, of course, there’s the Lebanese here. They defy every definition of Lebanese that I personally possess in my head; they’re a different breed, to which I don’t feel a strong affinity.

School. Maybe tomorrow, the third Monday thus far, will be the first day I actually teach students; we’ll see. As for Ousmane and his exams at the university, the written exams have been taken, but the orals have yet to be administered. If the academic year starts in December, that’ll be great, but January is more likely. Yesterday, I visited the University campus. It felt like a ghost of itself, hollow from the absence of student life, and hollow from the absence of physical maintenance. I may write more on this trip; it is very difficult to process...

We lost our softball game on Saturday against a team of Senegalese who just started playing baseball two seasons ago. Imagine our shock and embarrassment. Proprietors of the national past time mercied by foreigners who didn’t know what a baseball glove looked like three years ago. Again, diversity.

Today, on the BBC and RFI(Radio France International), profiles on race and racism in America on the eve of the election. The honesty of the reporting--diversity. Interviews on the radio, television, magazines, and by me with people in the street, all reflect how important TO THE WORLD is the U.S. presidential election. The hope is unanimous for Barack Obama. The people here are suffering too much, and he provides so much hope for THEM. Once more, diversity.

School

2008-10-18T11:04:00.000Z

Creeping around the corner is the source of life, that African sun that invigorates and fatigues. The ocean lazily soaks up the rays and reflects them like sparkling diamonds. I vacillate in my chair on the balcony between profiting from the sun and hiding in the shadows to relieve myself from the heat. In the distance to the north is the hill with the Mamelle lighthouse that sleeps now during the day, but will awake when the sun decides to take its siesta. The setting is predictable here; almost everyday is identical. Recently the nights have been breezy, taking the edge off the humid heat. The humidity is supposed to diminish in November, and the heat toward the end of December, when the locals say it begins to gets cold for a couple months (75F and sunny during the day, and 60F at night). This afternoon is certainly a lazy one for me, as I have chosen to slow down the pace. A couple nights ago I believe I did not sufficiently bleach the lettuce for my salad, so I fell sick yesterday. Microbes abound, and my stomach is so sensitive...
I’m feeling better now, after having taken the morning off of work and going out for a few groceries. Speaking of work, let me tell you what this week has been like. I am working at a middle school in the middle of the city. I have been assigned to teach English to one class of 6th graders and two classes of 8 graders. This past Monday was the first day back, but of no surprise to the locals, classes were not held. Here, families have financial difficulties of such magnitude that putting food on the table can be an accomplishment. Recently the country celebrated “La Korite”, the end of Ramadan. The holiday is as big as Christmas in the west. Therefore, all the families spent any money they had on the holiday expenses, and as a consequence, money is scarce. In order for classes to begin in school, each family has to pay a registration fee of about $30-$60 per student. Without payment, we have no official list of students registered. Without an official list, we can’t start teaching! So, this whole week I went to work, and spent the time chatting with my colleagues (we are only about 20), while the secretaries registered students who did have the means to come by the school and pay their fees. As of Thursday morning about 100 of about 350-400 students had registered. The principal said we’ll start teaching classes this next Monday even if all haven’t registered. What that means in practical terms, is that I may not have full classes until the beginning or mid-November! I am supposed to teach, yet be resourceful enough to revisit material when large numbers of students show up to the class a week or two late.
Now, if you’re thinking about alternative, more efficient ways of starting school over here, don’t think you’re the first. Even some on the staff feel things can and need to be changed, but that means demanding not that you change, but that OTHERS change; which is difficult anywhere, but acutely so here!

That’s one part of the education story. Let’s move to the university level. Abdoulaye’s brother, Ousmane, is studying Portuguese at the university here in Dakar. Last year the students went on strike several times because the university did not provide enough classrooms or chairs or even space within a classroom for all the enrolled students. Needless to say, it’s difficult to learn any subject if you can’t find any place in the room where the teaching is supposedly taking place. So, the university response? They kept classes in session into the summer, but delayed exams until the first week of October. That meant that the start of the fall semester would be delayed. Well Ousmane went to take his Portuguese finals last week, and the teachers did not have enough copies of the exams for the students scheduled to take it, including him, nor--again--were there enough spots in the room. Ousmane did not take the final, doesn’t know if or when he will take it, does not know when classes for the new semester will start, because the obvious shortage of teachers relative to the number of students means the teachers will need weeks to correct all the exams...IT’S A DISASTER!!

Is it any wonder that young people drop out of school here? One, it’s nearly impossible to learn. Two, if you make it through, there are no jobs. Third, being in school without the possibility of leaving for a developed country, is a waste of your time and potential to contribute income to your family through menial jobs. That’s why we hear about boat people, those who risk their lives and sometimes lose them, in canoe-like fishing boats on the unforgiving Atlantic Ocean in pursuit of Spain. And so many of them are university graduates!

Takin' It To The Streets

2008-10-18T11:02:00.000Z

So going to a soccer game in any country outside of the U.S. is supposed to be an unforgettable experience. Well, they sure did not disappoint here! I already mentioned that Senegal was disqualified from 2010 World Cup possibilities by not winning last Saturday against The Gambia. Now, the rest of the story. A few days prior, the proverbial straw indeed broke the camel’s back. After weeks, or perhaps months, of electricity outages, at what appeared like deliberate times of the day, the citizens had enough. The explanation of gasoline for the power plants being too expensive to purchase in sufficient quantities (and you thought George Bush and his oil friends wreaked havoc only in the U.S.), the explanation that there was just too much demand for the capacity, and the explanation that the government was blocking Senelec (the national electricity company) from acquiring fuel, clearly did not suffice. The citizens, especially those in the poorer districts, set up road blocks around the city with tires and lit them on fire. The city streets were in chaos and the national guard was called in to restore order. Remember the black out of 2003 in the U.S.--imagine that daily! No need nor ability to buy food for more than one day; it WILL spoil. (Perhaps that’s what got me sick yesterday...) Have you ever showered and shaved by flashlight?
Anyway, the next day the power was back on all over the country and did not go off for even 5 minutes for 2 1/2 days straight. That brings us back to the weekend and the soccer match. Friday saw a power outage, yet it was on all day Saturday leading up to and during the game. After Senegal tied and was disqualified, pandemonium began. Fans started throwing whatever they had at the Senegalese players on the field. Riot police were brought in with shields to hurriedly rush the players into the tunnel and clubhouse amidst a downpour of garbage. We decided to leave the stadium as quickly as possible. It took us a while to weave through the crowds, and when leaving the grounds, we saw masses of humanity rushing out of other gates as if they were being chased by the police. We picked up our pace, made it outside, reached a hill and turned around for a glance backward. I saw people running in all directions--out of the stadium, into the stadium; it was utter chaos. Then in the distance you saw smoke billowing from inside and around the far end of the stadium. Was it tear gas or fire or both? We didn’t know, we just headed toward the main road and an empty taxi. The police were rushing traffic and did not want any cars to stop. We managed to run after a taxi, jumped in--against his wishes--and started our escape. Within fifty meters we came to a halt on the freeway, because yet again, upset, unemployed, hopeless youth started blocking the road with tires and were ready to set them alight. Out of nowhere came the siren of an ambulance, and for some reason, the youth picked up the tires off the road, our taximan hauled out of there, and we were free! I never saw the ambulance, nor saw fire on the road, but when I reached home, that’s all everyone was talking about. The streets were on fire and the people had had enough. The national guard again came in, and it took several hours to restore a semblance of order. When I went out dancing with Zacheria later that night, all the major intersections were manned by army personnel. Needless to say, the electricity did not go out that night, nor at all on Sunday. The next outage was Tuesday. Since then, the outages have been less frequent and of shorter durations--although I’m writing this entry on the computer’s battery because of the latest one. So, what’s going on here? Who’s at fault? It doesn’t help that yesterday I received an electricity bill for one month usage in the amount of $1,875.00! Who’s behind this madness?! Are we nearing a breaking point? How much longer will the otherwise patient, tolerant, forgiving Senegalese put up with thess crimes? It’s hard to say; but again, those who exploit will continue to do so, until revolution occurs. And the people here are getting really, really tired.

Pictures Fit To Be Framed

2008-10-18T10:56:00.000Z

When I first arrived here, I had ideas of romantic images that would frame the experience. Although this country has shocked me visually with all its contrasts, there are so many grains of beauty and awe. In the midst of the dirt and debris of the middle school where I will teach, lives a family with a little girl who can’t be more than 2 years old. Everyday she comes running through the field with her stained clothes, but with the most beautiful smile and eyelashes. I don’t know her name, but she makes me smile everyday.

Last Sunday at Ibou’s house, his brother Pap was playing with his 8 month old daughter, and the beauty of life, children, and family was so alive at that moment.

Two nights ago, I caught my first perfect sunset here in Senegal. While playing softball, one of my teammates told us to stop play and look to the ocean, as he said it was the first clear sunset he had seen here in his five years in Dakar. It was absolutely magical.

The smile of my principal as we greet each morning at work; priceless!

Last Saturday, I went dancing with Zacheria. We left his home around 12:30, arrived at the club around 1 a.m. and danced until 4 a.m. What struck me most, was the love for life, the totality of the person and his/her spontaneity in becoming one with the music and the moment. The fact that Zach has lost both his parents, is 30 years old and has to share a bed with his childhood friend because he can’t afford to rent a bedroom for himself, and the fact that he works 12 hour days for less than $6/day or less than $.50/hour, these realities do not stop him from making the most of what he does have. Friendship, a job, life. His energy and dancing were contagious, and replicated by everyone in the club, most of whom I assume, have similar stories. We worry so much about THINGS back home, when it’s US that count. That night at the club was full of images that will inspire me, for I hope, years to come.

The other images that I haven’t spoken about are the American ones. My program is administered by the U.S. Embassy, so I’m in touch with much of the personnel there. A couple weeks ago I met the Ambassador; and I continue to meet and converse with diplomats from all ranks, bankgrounds, and responsibilities. This aspect of the experience is equally invigorating. When you walk into the main building, the walls on either side are adorned with photos of each U.S. president from Kennedy to the present meeting with the President of Senegal at the time of our president’s mandate. I often visit the Public Affairs Section and meet with the PA Officer Chad Cummins in his office on the 8th floor. One of my first visits was the day after Obama’s acceptance speech in Denver. Chad had the speech streaming from a news website that we watched intently. At times I would look up at the rooftops of Dakar while Obama was speaking of redeeming America’s image in the world, and I couldn’t help but feel so proud to be American. Yesterday, I went to the Embassy and had the opportunity, priviliege, and joy of casting my absentee ballot vote for the next president of the United States. In that room were Americans of all colors and creed doing the same thing. You could not ask for a more beautiful picture to frame. I proceeded to have a fascinating conversation with a diplomatic courrier (the guys who deliver all the confidential documents of our gov’t to different places around the world), and a consular officer who has served in Mexico and now Senegal. What we spoke about was the diversity in the State Department. In Dakar, there were Americans of Chinese, African-American, Lebanese, Turkish, Irish, Italian, and Senegalese background. About 40% of the current Ambassadors around the world for the United States are women. And there is no office of the government that more needs to reflect and use such diveristy for effective cross-cultural communication than the State Department. So, after much reflection, you and I both know, our government has many faults; but there are many things that we don’t see daily that they do get right. On the other side of the ocean, living in Africa thousands of miles from home, I feel really proud to be American.

Pluggin In!

2008-10-12T21:16:00.000Z

Life, anywhere, is worth living, when it's fun! I'm starting to make those connections that give life so much meaning, and make it enjoyable. Of course, for me, that means spending a lot of time with others. So, a bird's eye view into the last few days: Wednesday early evening I went to softball practice at Ebbet's Field, which is where the U.S. Embassy team practices, of which I am a member. Our first game is Saturday, October 18. I joined with Tom, one of the other Fulbright teachers, and invited my friend Abdoulaye to come, learn the great American pastime and play with us. That night, Johanna and Mariah, two American students from Suffolk University, came over with some of their Senegalese friends and we all hung out until about 1 a.m. Thursday and Friday were workdays, but I stopped by the Elton shop across the street for my daily visit with my friend Ibou (short for Ibrahim) who works security there. Friday night I went with Abdoulaye and Mariah to the French Cultural Center for a concert by Wasis Diop, a famous Senegalese acoustic/world music musician. It was amazing!!! The setting was intimate and his sounds were so authentic and warm. Check him out on YouTube! After the concert, we went to Al-Andalus Cafe to have Lebanese ice cream and smoke the argelah. What a great night! Saturday I went with the Suffolk crowd and my friend Eliman to the National Stadium for the Africa Cup and World Cup qualifying game between Senegal and The Gambia (a neighboring country). The game was not that exciting, for it ended in a 1-1 tie, but there was so much action...Throughout the game was the continuous sound of the African drum, as it reverberated from groups of drummers in several sections around the stadium; it was electric! A gigantic Senegalese flag was passed around the whole stadium in the stands, so everyone could touch it and display it pridefully for the masses watching on television. There had to be about 50,000 excited, screaming fans; it was a sight to see. More on the game in another posting... Saturday night I went out with Zacheria, another newer friend who is the security guard for my building. We went to his house first to meet his friends and family. We hung out there from about 11 p.m. until 12:30 a.m., then we headed out to the club. We were going out to dance "mbalakh" the dance of Senegal. It is a mixture of slow salsa/merengue with spontaneous free expression. There are definite steps and movements, but sometimes it's reminiscent of the Elaine dance from Seinfeld! It too, is a sight to behold. Anyway, we went in a group of five, and danced from 1 a.m. to 4 a.m. before calling it a night. What a blast! I felt badly for Zacheria though, because he had to work at 7 a.m., so he came back to the building with me, grabbed a foam mattress that the guards have in storage, and lay down in the hallway until his shift started. I offered him the couch in my apartment, but he declined. Needless to say, I did not delay in finding my way to my bed. Today, once I got up, I readied myself for lunch at Ibou's house at 1 p.m. Inge, the other Fulbright teacher, and I were picked up by Ibou at 1 p.m., and proceeded to spend the whole afternoon at his house with his family. Ibou is 23 years old and has many borthers and sisters. His father is in the Senegalese army, and is currently serving in the African Union mission in Darfur, Sudan. Ibou's family was wonderful, their hospitality so warm, the conversation stimulating, and the Ceebu Jen (Fish with Rice and Vegetables) exquisite!

There are so many stories embedded in this account that I hope to share soon. What I wanted to express here was that I am developing great relationships with real people who continue to teach me so much and have made my time here so wonderful.
Stay tuned for the black outs, the political crisis, the street riots that I survived, and the heart-wrencher from Zacheria's reality...

School is starting, I think!

2008-10-12T20:45:00.001Z

Last Thursday was my first day of school. I took a taxi for 1300 CFA ($3) to the school, which is located across from the Main Mosque in Dakar. The Mosque, by the way, is impressive, and was a gift from King Hassan II of Morocco, replicating the one that adorns Rabat. The school consists of a small building with three rooms for administration, and another two story building that contains 10 classrooms, 5 on each level. The school holds about 400 students for grades 6-9, with two classrooms per grade, the other two rooms being used as a library and a computer room. There are no books in the library, just an empty room with some random tables and chairs. The computer lab has about 15 very old Dell computers, while each class of students has about 30-45 pupils. There is no gym, no cafeteria, no sidewalks, no entryway. There are not nearly enough tables or working chairs in any of the rooms for all the students. I only saw a couple rooms with a teacher desk; teachers each have a 2' x 2' locker in the administration building to keep their books, chalk, personal valuables, etc. The playground is a desolate, arid red dirt field with broken bricks and refuse strewn about. Next to the administration building are a couple tin shacks, which are called home by a couple families. There are random goats and chickens roaming about. And, this is downtown!
Well, back to school. On Thursday, all the faculty just checked in with the principal, sat around and chatted for a couple hours then went home. On Friday, we had a faculty meeting in which there was spirited debate over the attendance policy and criteria for admissions for students transferring from other schools. After the meeting, I valiantly tried to talk with the other English teacher, Khaly, to find out what was needed for Monday, the first day of school. Friday I went through the student book that I had received from him on Thursday, posed some questions, and found out that he used a different book than the one he gave me. A bit frustrated, I asked how to prepare to teach on Monday without a teacher guide or accompanying workbook. He said not to worry, because I wouldn't teach on Monday, the first day of school. What?! Well, you see, here in Senegal, the students have to register before starting school. Most students and their parents take their time registering, so I probably won't have enough students to conduct a meaningful class for at least a week to ten days. In the meantime, I was told to introduce myself to the kids, take attendance for those who have showed up, ask them to buy any books that I might require, and then dismiss them! I'm to do the same thing everyday with any new students until it is determined that classes can begin. Lesson number 1...again: T.I.A. !

Awa, Titina, Ndongo, & Abdoulaye

2008-10-04T16:27:00.000Z

And we think we know so much...

Awa and Titina are 24 and 22 years old respectively. They work in banks and insurance agencies, while working on further graduate degrees. Ndongo is in his twenties, one of ten children with both parents deceased, and works in a call center. Abdoulaye, my first and closest Senegalese friend, is 31 years old, with a college degree, and works in the warehouse of a supermarket unloading produce 50 hours a week. Abdoulaye is one of six children who migrated to the city from a small village in order to help support his family. His father is disabled and no longer works, he has one brother trying to make it through university, and the rest of his siblings survive in the village with no real work available to them. Abdoulaye makes about $200/month.

What each of these four young people have imparted upon me is their thirst for knowledge. Each has already acquired and cultivated an intellect that would embarass most Americans of a similar age and university experience. Yet, they want more. These four want to work, want to study, want to change their environment and society. They believe in themselves, are proud of their African identity. They want to show that, when given the tools, they can realize the same dreams and aspirations that we in the west or “developed” world have. What they do not want is our pity, our charity, our culture, our food, our language. They have a proud history in which they are well-versed; they already know our language and culture better than most of us. My conversations with them on American politics have been humbling for me. What they want, and what they deserve, is a level playing field. They do not want to be denied opportunities to learn (rejected student visas to the west) because they are black or muslim. They want companies that provide them with job opportunities that recognize their educational preparation and achievement. They want jobs that pay them a decent wage and do not exploit their labor, so that foreign entrepreneurs and corporations can increase their bottom line and pay higher stock dividends to their shareholders. They want trade policies that allow African farmers to sell their products to western markets, instead of blocking them while forcing the countries to accept western products. They’re not asking for the extraordinary, just the ordinary. Who among us, doesn’t want our children to have a fair chance to prove themselves?

Yes, they are just some of the voices I have heard, and they may not reflect the reality of all here. But I quote one of many favorite songs, “The more I learn, the more I realize the less I know.” The time is at hand where we need to appreciate that learning never ends, and if only we’d listen to the ones we so often dismiss, we’d find out that they too have much to teach us.

Life is Good!

2008-10-04T16:25:00.000Z

Each day has its own gift. Yesterday was October 3, my birthday. In previous years I wondered how I would feel on that date; sometimes my expectations met, other times not. Recently I have not felt the urge to think about my birthday as a special day filled with certain activities and people. Yesterday, though, was different. Being away from home and in another country, you are acutely aware of your identity and the milestones that mark who you are. I woke up to a lesiurely breakfast then I went for my daily jog. My spirit was soaring even though the sky was overcast and the air heavy with the ocean humidity. After running, I wandered down through the wealthy residential area in front of my apartment headed for the beach. I ran into my friend, Ahmet, the security guard whom I mentioned previously. He came out from his station, greeted me warmly, and we began to converse. I was so touched by his faith in God and his internal contentment. He spoke of the importance of being happy with what we have been given, not to complain nor aspire for money if we don’t have health. He mentioned Stevie Wonder and how difficult it must be for him to have all the money in the world and not be able to see his wife and children. Ahmed kept repeating “Al Hum Dillah” which is Arabic for Thank God. He had so much wisdom in his simple words.

He invited me to come one day, when I’m free, to his home so he could show me around, and show me the beauty of communal life. He is definitely poor, but thankful to have a job. He works guarding the entrance of a mansion that belongs to a Lebanese baron. Ahmed lives in what we would call the slums back home, but he prefers it to the wealthy area because of the open, communal living. In his neighborhood, all doors are always open, people share tea together and talk for hours, no child is in danger and thus can go anywhere because everyone knows each other and looks out for each other. He and others may be materialistically poor, but poverty carries no badge of shame here. It reminds me of the village life of our parents back in Lebanon, in contrast to the hurried, private, gated, individual-oriented life of the modern, western urban/suburban citizen.

Two side notes to add to this message of life as a gift: My aunt, Khaltu Hasna, just called me while composing this message to wish me a happy birthday. It was wonderful to hear her voice which was full of so much love and concern for me. It was a beautiful, thoughtful act that reminds me of how blessed I am. Secondly, another call just came in from the security guard at the Elton gas station/convenience store across the street. He called just to wish me a happy birthday again and to ask if I had a nice time last night ( I invited some of my new friends over).

Life is about people, not the place. That’s why I love Detroit, my home, so much. In my neighborhood I am surrounded by good people and friends. Here, in Senegal, I am starting to make those connections, and I am beginning to love being here because of the people.

When we’re able to look beyond the environment, (which for me here, has admittedly taken a long time and considerable effort), we see the beauty of humanity. And if people are beautiful, is there really anything else we can ask for?!

2008-09-30T23:38:00.000Z

2008-09-30T23:28:00.000Z

Palmarin

2008-09-30T22:55:00.000Z

What next to tell? Palmarin, a quaint fishing village about 2 1/2 hours south of Dakar was my destination over the weekend. To get there--if you don't have your own car--you need to hitch a ride. In Senegal that means reserving a seat in a "sept-places" 7-seat vehicle. Well, if you're like me, you're thinking of a mini-van. Well, hate to bust your bubble, wrong again! A sept-place is a 1975 broken down Renault or Datsun sationwagon. That's right. And just like when some of us were kids, you have to climb in and bend your head somewhat permanently to position yourself in the back row. So, for about $8/person you buy a seat in this Indiana Jones adventure and hope that the story has a happy ending. The trip in reality took 4 hours because after 2 hours of unrelenting traffic jams, the paved road became an African red dirt path laden with potholes deep enough for a baptismal immersion. It did not help that the rainy season, which everyone in Senegal was certain had ended, decided to come back with vengeance over the weekend. The road was impassable, as the stationwagon swerved from edge to edge valiantly trying to dodge or minimize the unforgivable terrain. At wits end, the driver decided to head off into the bush with the vehicle trying to find the much narrower, yet more stable donkey-and-cart path. So, there we were, in the middle of the jungle. I felt like I was in a scene of a Vietnam war movie, trying to run away from--or sneak up upon--the Vietcong. Now at times, a donkey or horse did show up on the path, but if you're reading this, you know which side won! So, Palmarin, you ask, how was it?...Absolutely divine. We found an "encampment" right on the beach to call home for the night. Palm trees, tropical flora, white sand beaches, lazy waves, meandering cows, goats, dogs...all sharing and adding to this picture perfect scene. I went with Inge, one of the other Fulbright teachers, and Abdoulaye, our "first" Senegalese friend. Ablaye, as his friends call him, is from Palmarin, and he wanted to take us to his home and village. His mother was wonderfully hospitable, as she cooked meals for Inge and me, while she, Abdoulaye, and everyone else fasted on account of Ramadan. It was so beautiful and unselfish an act. She and everyone there embodied genuine kindness, and now I know why so many people fall in love with Senegal...

The World Is Small

2008-09-25T00:41:00.000Z

I am ready to go to bed, but I just had a really cool Skype experience. I was able to connect with my sister and brother-in-law and see my niece Soraya and my nephew Najib for the first time in a month. I then got to see my mom via Skype at my other sister's house. I have been skyping now for about 2 hours and it's been so cool. The best part was when I was talking to Felipe, he was telling me his sister, Fefi, in Spain was having problems with downloading Skype. So, what did we do? He instant messaged her, while I sent her Skype as an email. Felipe and Naomi helped Fefi download it by giving instructions over the phone and through instant messanging, and within two minutes I called her using Skype in Spain and saw her, and then we did a conference call among us all! So, here I am on the African continent, Fefi on the Iberian peninsula in Europe, and Naomi & Felipe in North America, and we were all talking together...for FREE!!!! Some things in life are truly amazing!

View from my balcony

2008-09-24T08:47:00.000Z

First Impressions-Sept 18, 2008

2008-09-24T08:42:00.000Z

I'm here in Dakar, Senegal. WOW!!! I've traveled a lot, have seen many different places, but had NO clue this place would feel so different than everywhere else. Clearly the fact that I am trying to settle here instead of just touring around is a major source for my sentiments. The extremes: poverty, excessive wealth, pollution, breathtaking bluffs overlooking the ocean, villas, aluminum shacks, mercedes, 30 year old mini-buses with double the number of people they technically should carry, aggressive and harassing vendors, potholes the size of Comerica Park, mud and impassable roads when it rains, unbearable dust and humidity when it's not raining. That's the lay of the land. The people: smiles, generous with their time and assistance, love to laugh, sympathetic to my transition period and cultural shock, everyone in the country smiling all day while fasting because it's Ramadan, people sleeping on cardboard on the sidewalk or under a truck in the middle of the day because they're so hot and tired from not eating.
At some point I'll get used to this living surealism; right now it's fascinating and fatiguing.
There you go, a glimpse into my world on September 18. Next Tuesday I meet with someone from the Ministry of Education who will tell me what school I will teach at, as classes do not begin until the first week of October. I've been spending my time adjusting--which honestly has taken more effort than I could have ever imagined; navigating bureaucracies and utility companies and repairmen to get working internet, running water, etc; and attending intensive language classes in Wolof, the dominant tribal language of the country--which has proven to be much fun.
Saturday I'm leaving the big city for the first time for some R & R at a seaside resort about 2 hours south.

Smiles all around--Sept 23, 2008

2008-09-24T08:30:00.000Z

Today is a great day. I saw Ahmet. He stopped me on my way to lunch to wish me well. Who is Ahmet you ask? Ahmet is the “guardien” (security guard) in a very important residential area across the Corniche from my apartment building. One day I was walking back from the shore where I discovered the nearest beach, and as I was walking down the street, not knowing if I was on private property, Ahmet approached me and greeted me. When I asked him if I was on a private street, he reassured me that I was on public property, but the mansion he guards belongs to a Construction baron who is Lebanese, of course. The houses next door and behind the Lebanese belong to former cabinet ministers of the government, while the house kitty corner to the Lebanese right on the water belongs to the Minister of Finance...who knew?! In his explanation I thought he asked me if I was Lebanese, yet he understood that I asked him if he were Lebanese! Of course, with 100% Black Senegalese skin, that was NOT the case, but I did proceed to tell him I was of Lebanese origin. He then began to sing the praises of the business acumen of Lebanese in Senegal. I was quick to tell him that, as for me, I was not one of them...unfortunately, I think. Ahmet told me to come back and visit him often and he would show me around. So today when he saw me, he wanted to know why I hadn’t come to visit and when I would; I told him tonight or tomorrow. My colleague said that soon I would know all of Dakar. Remember Elie, when we all called you “Mr. Detroit”?! That part of the Lebanese genome I do share.

This morning I, along with my two colleagues, met with Ibrahim Ba who is reponsible for English language instruction for the Ministry of Education. I went with his assistant Marie, and Dieynaba Toure from the U.S. Embassy to the school where I would teach. It is, in fact, Mahib Lo’s school, the school of my exchange partner who is now at North Farmington. We arrived unannounced into a decrepit room that looked like it was used as a conference room or the teacher’s lounge. One long table with irregular chairs, one working flourescent bulb and three or four broken or missing bulbs hanging precariously from the ceiling. The paint was a dingy yellow, pealing everywhere, and hanging down in patches of 2 square feet. Baas Diop, the principal, was in his cotton shirt and sandals and graciously welcomed us into the space. Again, he did not know we were coming, nor did he know who we were! We proceeded to tell him that I was one of the American Fulbright teachers, and wasn’t he aware, that the Ministry had assigned me to his school. Unphased, he said he had not yet received word, but he was happy to have me. He said the staff is like a family and that I was now part of the family. I thanked him profusely, all the while being in shock of his reception of the news, not having prior knowledge. Then again, the Ministry was bringing me to him and did not set up the meeting. Advance planning, setting up and confirming appointments...T.I.A. (This Is Africa) Marie from the Ministry had told us that the first day of school is decided upon by presidential decree, and because Ramadan was ending perhaps on Wednesday, October 1, rumor had it President Wade would declare Monday, October 6 as the return date. However, that was pure speculation, and normally teachers report before the students, but again, because of Ramadan, the date for teachers to report was not yet decided (today is September 23!). Perhaps the teachers and students will both start on the same day, but we were told that would be quite a rare happeninng! Back to the principal: I proceeded to ask him about my schedule and courseload and he initially rattled off some courses and said it would be about 16 hours of instruction a week. I had been told previously that was at the high end of a courseload, so I simply asked him if I could teach fewer hours. He adjusted immediately, said I would teach “sixieme” (the equivalent of 6th grade) and would have about 11 hours of instruction a week. Drawing on that business acumen in my blood of which I am certain I must have a trace, I then petitioned to teach only Monday through Thursday; he said no problem! He told me to come back next Monday (September 29) to receive my official schedule. We exchanged phone numbers and then we left.
When I got home, I found that the plumber and building manager had fixed all the water problems; after three weeks I now have hot water throughout the apartment and enough water pressure to take a shower. To top it off, my cleaning lady washed all the clothes and sheets, ironed my clothes that were drying on the line, and folded them neatly and tucked them away into my dresser. And guess what, it’s not even 5 p.m. I’m finishing a cafe latte that I made, and then I’m going to go for my run along the Corniche. Today may be the best day yet!

Moving In

2008-09-22T20:00:00.000Z

I'm 37 years old, I'm a high school teacher, and I don't know what street I live on.

Welcome to Dakar, Senegal! Here it's about landmarks, not streets and numbers. So far, I have not found a Senegalese who really knows how to read a map of the city. I know I live in a big apartment building that is called "The Rose Building" but it's no longer rose! I know I live across the street from a gas station called Elton, around the corner from the Korean Embassy or Ambassador's residence, and a street in from the Corniche, which is the seaside road that rings the peninsula that makes up Dakar. My neighbor/district is called Mermoz. So when I'm downtown and want to get back home, I tell the taxidriver "Elton, Mermoz" and every single time, I arrive right in front of my home. Attached I hope, will be pictures of the Corniche and of my apartment. Enjoy!