The Process

The school year is winding down, and it is just one of many things coming to a close. It's time for reflecting on our Bamako years and celebrating all we've experienced. Sometimes I forget to appreciate the many things we have done, in the midst of feeling isolated and far away. (from what, I can't exactly say, but Bamako inspires in me a sense of distance.)

The painting / book project I began just over a year ago is also coming to a close. We will have the first of two final showings, complete with book mock up, 11 paintings and a music and dance performance. It's a fitting end and feeling like the best finale I've had leaving a country.

The project involved creating a series of paintings to explain the traditional dance called Dansa. I had brought up the idea one day after dance class when I heard that the instructor had an organization dedicated to researching origins of traditional dance. His group also had an objective of bringing traditional dance to public schools. I love dance in schools and thought a literacy component would be a great addition. I also figured Malian students would really benefit from having books documenting their cultural heritage. So began a year of collaboration.

Drissa and I signed the paintings yesterday. We started with a kind of solemn, formal signing on the first few and then hurried things along. I tend to do everything too quickly.

But I have been reflecting on the process- of painting together, of telling the story, of crafting the scenes and of gathering information.

A few mistakes were made from the outset, some of the kind that I knew were not such a good idea at the time but chose to ignore and others, well, I am not sure how they happened.

The biggest mistake was in getting the story right. Somehow we were under the impression that the dance we'd chosen to depict was a wedding dance. I can see how this information was misinterpreted, but it was still surprising to find out, once the project had been nearly complete.

This process was heavily focused on the images, not so much on the story. I've never approached it that way and it is another reason the miscommunication did not get worked out until the end. It was easy enough to rearrange the story a bit, so it remains factual and still fits our images. But next time, double checking the information seems like an obvious first step.

My fact finding mission, really just a clarification of details, involved a meeting with the griots- two ladies the dancer and his wife know. They arranged an evening at their house so I could ask questions and verify the order of events. Initially, I'd had some questions about the role of the bride and how she felt about some of the steps in the wedding process (being sequestered for several days) and the role of the henna painting (was it true red henna meant innocent and black henna meant not so innocent? and who would ever choose the black henna?) but by the time of the meeting, I'd worked through my angst about the details. And my curiosity. I was more focused on the big picture.

The ladies were helpful in describing the order of events, though all stories seem to evolve in that circular thinking common to tales involving African tradition. It's hard to keep track of a story that isn't linear. When one path leads to another and a suddenly interesting detail is revealed, which brings us down a whole new path, but doesn't really relate to the original question....yeah, it's a bit of a challenge to pull out the relevant information. But I was more enriched for the immersion of it all.

They liked my idea and caught a quick glimpse of the images which prompted them to do some on the spot praise singing. The older woman began, and actually seemed to put the younger woman on the spot, as she was still eating. She managed to sing out a few words in between bites, eventually succumbing to the pressure to sing rather than eat. The difficulty of being a griot- always in demand.
They sang so beautifully I wanted to rest my head on someone's shoulder and curl up and be comforted. Their voices were soothing.

Of course, I couldn't understand everything they were saying, aside from my name. Occasionally they threw in a French word or two, something about painting, something about telling stories, and oh yeah, something about my long nose. Leave it to the griots to sing it like it is.

I never really know how to respond to moments like that, so I just sat and soaked it up, hoping to file away the goodness for one of those days when I need a happy memory. I left with my pages of notes and sincere thanks for the evening.

Another step has involved getting the paintings photographed, which we are still not sure has been done correctly. But I do have a file of high definition photos from a Malian photographer who has worked on the national archives (Mali has a history of acclaimed photographers and is in the process of uploading works to digital storage) among other projects, as well as his own work. When I asked him about printing, he suggested the photography school and asked if I had time right then to go visit. We took off on his motorcycle and arrived within minutes. I really appreciated his understanding of my deadline and his willingness to see me though another phase.

We spent about an hour talking to the director, calculating sizes and discussing the objective of the project. The printing room hosted a 12-ink color printer larger than I am tall. Swiss, I was told. There was another under cover that had come, perhaps, from France. I am sometimes still amazed at the things that get imported in. This was impressive.

The director was incredibly helpful during both of my visits. He was patient and interested in the creative aspects of the project. He understood my dilemmas (one of the mistakes I'd chosen to ignore was the size and format of the paintings - clearly not ideal for transformation into a book. I knew this at the time and yet, we'd forged ahead anyway with the materials on hand.)  Because there were 3 basic sizes, each one had to be calculated in relation to the others. And there was the problem of the two landscape formats, which would need to be split to cover two pages.

The director, Youssouf, was a very kind man who worked hard to understand my vision and help with formatting and printing the images. While we waited for a sample print, we talked art and even yoga. He told us a story about the need for movement in keeping the body spry and showed off a few of his poses. When the young kids come into the studio for training, he sits them down in a circle and gets them stretching. He challenges them to touch their head with their toes. The best life lessons always come in unexpected places.

When our test sample was complete, we made a few more minor adjustments. Youssouf talked about his own experience as painter, which he gave up when he found it couldn't provide his meals. He said he was taking careful interest in our work, treating it as he would his own. He seemed really interested in the creativity of the work. "We are not a print shop, we are artisans, We're crafting something," he told me, once we'd finally figured out all the measurements, especially the tricky landscape split. I am hoping to pick up the finished product in the next few days and add the text. Drissa may even have time to add some designs to the page borders, which are quite large in some cases due to our awkward canvas dimensions.

The last piece to all of this is the dance. I have been wanting to perform since I arrived full of energy and enthusiasm to be dancing with such great drummers again. However, this has all come together so quickly, there isn't really time to prepare the way I'd like. We've only practiced twice and there might be two more times before the exhibit. That's about a billion times less than the number I'd really hope for. I'd feel much better if the moves were so ingrained I didn't have to think much about them. Or listen so hard to hear the break.

But I do love dancing and the performance part, our amateur part, is sure to be over before it really begins. I guess what I love is dancing in class when the music goes on and on and we have a million times to get it right. When it feels full and open and free. I am not sure I will be able to replicate that feeling in a 5 minute performance in front of a bunch of people I don't know. But I am willing to try.
It will be the most fitting way to say goodbye to Bamako.

The Cognosu- where a new bride is secluded
for a week after her wedding. She's not
completely alone, her mangamaga
prepares her meals and gives her good
advice about wifely things 

Ecole Eco-Poincon

Spring break wasn't much of a break. Between moving and my grad classes, there wasn't really time for rest. We did take a day, however, to go and visit a school I'd read about in this article from France24.

I was intrigued by such progressive measures happening right here in the capital. Blind and sighted children studying together. And a blind teacher on top of it all. This completely inspiring story seemed to be perfect for finding a way to help our students engage in the community and learn something as well.

So, my field trip partner and I took a ride out to the school. Although it is said to be in Bamako, the journey took about an hour. Much of it was on a fairly decent main road and even after we turned onto the dirt road, it was still in pretty good condition.

Typical Malian landscape stretched out before us, dry, hot, dusty. Bushes and small trees dotted the fields, a structured village sprang up at one point which had us navigating a small dirt road with high mud walls on either side. That was the most interesting thing to see, along with a refreshing mango tree providing a bit of shade and a community hang out.

Into the Malian bush

However, most of the land was sprinkled with little cement buildings. One room, mostly finished but not complete. We guessed they were placed by landowners to secure their claim to the spot. I was struck by the emptiness of everything. I wondered how people got even the most basic of supplies. While we did see a few quincailleries, the hardware shops catering to all the construction workers in the area, there was't even one boutique or small items store. I also didn't see many motorcycles, which would have reduced to trip to the main road to about 10 or 15 minutes.

These empty stalls were scattered across the fields

Eventually we turned off behind one of the half finished houses and parked the cars. The school was a small building, just two classrooms and it looked lonely, the only painted building in the middle of a field of concrete shells.

We visited the first class and were met by a cheerful teaching team. The main teacher, a blind woman, and her sighted teaching assistant we warm and welcoming. The children waited patiently while Mr. Diakite explained how the school worked and showed us the materials he'd brought back from France for use in the instruction of the blind children. One of the girls wrote something for us using a pointed stylus and a frame that held the paper. Another child shared his grid with raised braille number tiles.

A cheerful teaching team

A sighted student went to the board to demonstrate his math lesson. The students had been working on math problems and he was solving 8+8. He did this by coming up and making tally marks, creating eight lines on each side of the plus sign. Then he went back and counted all the lines. Part of me was wondering why or when they might teach the tally system, or if they taught counting by groups or other strategies for determining the answer.

The little boy in front seems tired of the interruption

But another part of me was observing this boy, counting out his lines, while the rest of the class repeated everything he said. I've seen and heard this countless times in African schools, and even some not so African classrooms. The choral response. I hadn't given much thought to it before but in this moment, the sense of community was striking. I was thinking about how difficult it might be for some children to come up to the board and put their answer there, and I wondered for a minute if the call and response would be intimidating for a shy child. But just after that thought, I saw the power of having your peers support you in this way. I had new eyes then, seeing this choral response as an enfolding and community encircling. Just another small action that leads to the strong sense of connection to others and a little less to the individualism of America.

I wonder how it would have played out if he'd been wrong,  or if he'd counted wrong. Would the group still repeat him? Would someone offer the correct answer? Or would it be up to the teacher to make the correction?

I didn't have time to interrogate about teaching methods. We visited the next classroom for only a few seconds, no demonstrations. This was the older class, with less students and a more serious teaching team.

After those introductions, Mr. Diakite took us over to view the dormitories. Its a big word used to describe the bedrooms available in another shell of a house. There are three bedrooms, one for teachers, one for girls and one for the boys. The teachers room had two beds with frames and mosquito nets. The girls room had only mattresses on the floor, while the boys room hosted a set of bunk beds and another bed on a frame. Mr. Diakite had been able to have the bunk beds made after a recent trip to France where he'd been given the funds in a donation.

Donations are far from the main source of the school. Diakite offers half of his salary as a government minister to pay for the teachers and the caretakers of the blind children who stay on during the week. He provides food for the children and the family of the woman who watches over them. On the weekends, the teachers and students go home to visit their families. For those whose families are too far away, Diakite opens his own home and hosts them for the weekends.

It was nothing short of remarkable to hear this man talking about the things he is committed to doing for the blind children of Mali. He says he has 10 more blind students who want to enroll next school year, but surely there will reach a limit to his ability to afford it all out of pocket.

I am hoping we will be able t0 establish some kind of kinship between our schools so that can serve as a resource at times. It would be great to be able to get the students together to create art and possibly auction it off. Or even just getting together to create is a likely benefit.

But in the end, it takes funding to do good work. I am hoping that the word will get out about Youssouf Diakite and his progressive school for blind and sighted children. I regret not being here in Bamako longer to try and make some thing incredible things happen.

Two room school house

Half built buildings provide a home for many

We took a walk down the road to see some cows

Our guide, walking with her radio

Hot, dry, dusty and skinny cows

We even passed a pig corral, which I found surprising and rare

L'année blanche

I am not quite ready to let the stories end, although it is going to take a concentrated effort to find and share. There is no doubt my experiences in Africa have taken a turn. Some of it is due to familiarity, which renders the once magical into the now understood. On the other hand, I have had a few life events that sent me inward rather than outward. Definitely the arrival of the girl has been one of those events. Going back to school is now another.

I realized that my posts over the past 10 years have created habits of writing that I am going to need to overcome. Links become citations, Google searches become academic searches. It is not so different, perhaps, but just more thorough and requiring more structure. On a positive note, I look at an assignment requiring 7-10 pages and my only problem is how I will limit my thoughts to such a short paper.

And of course, as I've already written, Bamako seems to be the quiet years for me. I have not had the opportunity to travel much nor the motivation to see many sights within the city. And now, before we know it, our African journey will take us to yet another country. A new adventure awaits, especially since I had never really planned on visiting Nigeria, and yet, in a few short months, we will be living there full time.

I am wondering what I will remember about Bamako and Malian culture. Once I find out we're leaving, there is always a slight need to pack in a bunch of sensations and experiences. I took several photos of my full studio and Drissa and I will make a short video about our painting together. It is definitely one of the highlights of being here. We both recognize that it is not an everyday opportunity to paint and create with someone on the same canvas. It's not likely to happen again soon for either of us.

There will also be the final exhibition of our work and dance performance. That will feel like a real send off. A finale of sorts.

Until then, I am buys trying to usher my students through the final months of school. Never an easy task in middle school. The students in my performing arts class were preoccupied with the school strikes happening in the city. One student worried that the strikers would show up at our school.

It's not the first time I have heard this. It happened several times in Abidjan as well. The local schools go on strike and then respond, often aggressively, when the private schools don't follow suit. It is a challenging situation to be in, for certain, but forcing schools to close by pulling students out of classes and making threats on campus doesn't seem like it will do much to further the cause.

My students were adamant that the strikers had gone to the French school and tear gas was involved. Perhaps they confused it with this, which seems to discuss parents concerned about the security situation in Bamako and the potential closure of the French school. I searched for news of something more, but was unable to find anything. Which doesn't mean it didn't happen. It just means it is not making headlines. No surprise there.

What did come up in my Google search was a wealth of stories about strikes and the possibility of 'l'année blanche,' meaning a school year wasted. Not enough time in classrooms for children to learn, not open during testing, and no advancement. Everyone will have to repeat, spending next year in the same grade they were in this year.

The articles come from as far back as 2004. These articles are from 2008 and 2017, and in the latter,  the role of private schools is explicitly discussed. Many students coming from the north who have fled violence there, were taken in by the public schools for free and this has led to an imbalance of shouldering the responsibility for the advancement of the country between public and private schools. In 2019 the problems continue. Teachers are demanding better working conditions, including increased salary (or even a salary. Demanding pack pay is mentioned, suggesting that teachers are not and have not been getting paid.  Housing allowance is also a point.) These are not new problems.

This post from 2012 explains the problem well. Schools take so long to get going, and then the inevitable happens- holidays, political unrest, terrorism- which requires more breaks and before you know it, the year has passed with the number of actual classes held in the single digits. Not much learning exchange takes place and those who do manage to pass, only do so because they have taken it on themselves to figure out the material. Or they have paid.

This notice from Dec 2018 is within this school year and serves to show that multiple disruptions prevent fluid and engaged learning from taking place. A fifteen day strike has been called, to occur in three phases from March to April, which seems to signal no end to the disruptions for students.

The problem, cited here and here is that the children of the government officials are often not in public schools. The end result is that the masses suffer from decisions made by the elite, who are not affected in any way. Parent associations do not seem to be stepping up to provide support either. Overall, the complicated problem, ongoing since 2016 when talks in this round first began, seems bound to continue. The damage to generations of children and the future of the country is at stake.

Meanwhile, as children worldwide  protest climate change,  Malian students are just hoping for the chance at an uninterrupted education. 

the quiet years

I'm supposed to be writing a paper. Any writer worth their salt will recognize this post as distraction. And it is. But it is also filled with nostalgia. I was browsing through previous posts ( I thought there was one or two that might make interesting vignettes in my paper, really, I was here with academic intention) and realized it's not the first time I've reflected on my quality and quantity of writing. Which is essentially a reflection on my quality and quantity of living.

If Abidjan was the lost years, years spent in shock over a break up and then trying to pick up the pieces and see a way forward, Bamako seems like the silent years. The quiet years. The lonely years. I have an idea or two kicking around for an interesting post, but mostly, it's not happening. You know. You can see. My absence is telling.

I have just another excuse now, the doctorate program is going to eat up all my time. Already I feel like it is a race to read everything (which we were told on the first day of classes by one professor that it is unlikely we will actually be able to read all assignments. The student council welcomed us with a powerpoint including tips on "how to gut a book" and other grad school strategies for understanding without reading every page.) I am determined to read as much as possible, though, and have succeeded only in feeling as though I will mix up all my references and attribute quotes to wrong authors and babble incoherently.

Luckily, or not, many of the ideas overlap and support each other. Another student made reference to the same worries as she posted a comment and then wrote, "I hope that is the right reference. So much reading!" Yes, we are feeling it.

The one thing I am not feeling is the stress of getting it done. I don't have other things- or people- pulling at my time. The routine is set. Mbalia gets her hours and once she is in bed, I am free to work (or procrastinate by writing here. But it is likely, I will be on hiatus- after my next post about perspective and painting and the feelings this city evokes in me.)

Bamako is pretty empty for me, though a friend just shared a video clip of Dogon dancers in a festival downtown. Everything starts so unpredictably, and the traffic creates such long lines and late nights. I am not interested. I would rather walk the neighborhood with my girl and get excited about the white horse or a fun little hill to climb. She still wonders at the sounds of the goats and searches the skies for bats. This morning we happened to be up with the stars and she couldn't stop remarking on their beauty, especially when coupled with the moon.

While I have fleeting moments of guilt- I should expose her to culture and take her to the masked dance, I myself might have enjoyed the masked dance, but I see it all as a trade off in time. For now, it's good enough, the girl and I hanging together, doing my studies, a little yoga. These quiet years won't last forever. All things are temporary.

I might try to write more often- or at least once a month. I might try to notice how Bamako is different, unique, magical. But I might also try to get through my studies, love my girl and look forward to our next spot, which will hopefully be ever closer to home.

Among the Americans

Despite the somewhat dismal previous post about the state of 2019, the new year promises to bring plenty of positives as well. Personally, it is the start of a new kind of journey, one dedicated to scholarly pursuit and fulfillment of a dream. Several dreams, actually. And it is super exciting.

I am here in the US, among the Americans. It definitely feels that way. My stateside experiences have become colored through various lenses and many have written about the reverse culture shock of trying to return home. But, as happens for many immigrants, the more time away and the more time spent in another culture creates permanent shifts. I am American, of course, but it feels like American plus...or maybe American minus. They feel different. I feel different, like an outsider looking in.

The relationship with food is the thing most standing out to me this time. Other things like race and religion, of course. You can't go to America without talking race and religion. The thing about the food issue is that no one is talking about it, and no one seems aware of it.

Americans eat a lot. All the time. I am here starting classes- the days are filled with 2 hour classes, usually followed by a few hours break and then another class. There are required dinners and optional presentations in-between. There is an hour for lunch on your own.

No matter what class I am in- before lunch, after lunch, after the required dinner, someone is eating. Sometimes it is the same someones, munching their way through every class. Last night I was at a student presentation- his final capstone project on popular music influence and the legacy of MLK. It was an engaging presentation and a huge project. People were rattling bags and snacking and even eating an entire salad. I was stunned. I am continually stunned.

I wondered why she couldn't wait an hour to eat her salad? Or what had she done with the hour before this presentation that prevented her from eating? I am stunned at the disrespect to the presenter, the inability to wait for an appropriate time and also, and perhaps most importantly, the inability to be truly present- either with the salad or the presenter.

Eating your food while attending a discussion class (because, let's face it, all of these higher ed classes are going to be discussion classes and with themes like ethical leadership and cultural differences, it's going to be full of hot conversations) seems the epitome of conflict. Are you going to be eating or talking?

While, to me, it appears disrespectful to the professors or the presenters to be eating, often I notice the snackers are not really paying attention to their food anyway; it is a mindless eating. Which makes me wonder all the more why they are doing it, at this moment? Surely the salad would be so much more enjoyable and fulfilling if you were to sit and eat it and enjoy it. Be present with it. Make it a meal, understand the sacredness of food. The gift of food.

It's what is missing. The idea that food - as a nourishing entity, is not only essential but sacred. And deserves our attention, our gratefulness, our presence.

The same can be said for the conversation, the presentation, the class. We are here to engage with others- in person- for a short time before we continue our virtual studies together. This is a fleeting moment to connect with our classmates, to put nuances in manner of habit and speaking together to try and understand perspectives and backgrounds that we are each bringing to the experience. It is a short moment to observe and connect. Why is your attention diverted? Why is this time, my time, not sacred to you?

I am appalled by this, the Americans' inability to be present, to be in the moment, to recognize the sacred. I am stunned. Mostly because I had naively assumed this was a problem only amongst my middle school students. Perhaps I haven't been getting out enough. Surely I haven't been in many social circles. Maybe it is not an American affliction- perhaps it is a human condition. In either case, in any case, it is detrimental to our social connections and our social need. All other benefits aside, this is one aspect I am not enjoying among the Americans.

the state of 2019

Mexico is paying for the wall
Jair Bolsonaro has been sworn in
JK is hoping for annulled elections due to their chaotic implementation - eerily familiar to this 2011 outcome
Madagascar is crying foul too,
Sudan is having its own economic crisis, and protests for elections
No internet in either of those countries...
China and Taiwan continue
Nicaragua
West Africa is a mess....
Niger
Nigeria
Mali
Burkina Faso
Algeria
then there are natural disasters
women's issues
Saudi Arabia
children dying
children are dying
and more children are dying 

there's a lot of work to do.
unless you're in the US gov. in which case, no work at all.

Talking to yourself and other strategies for maintaining control

It's come and gone- the tensely awaited election day in Congo. While it didn't go as badly as it could have- some people actually got to vote- it certainly didn't qualify for a 'free and fair democratic election.' Voting stations didn't open, those that did faced- to no one's surprise- electricity problems that prevented the electronic voting machines from functioning properly. Voters couldn't find their names on the list, they didn't have time to wait in long lines, long lines pushed and shoved and refused to be orderly. Persistent voters in Beni organized their own process after being excluded from the election, along with several other cities, by the capital.

None of this is surprising. I think despite a fragile hope that these elections would somehow give way to new leadership in Kinshasa, all signs point to JK holding onto power by any means necessary. The part I can't quite fathom is the talking yourself into it. How does he manage to convince himself of what he is doing? Any trek outdoors makes it clear that the population is not in support of this.

I wonder also at the coordination between so many players. How do they all face themselves each morning? They must resort to adding preprinted ballots, menacing voters, and other techniques of cheating and lying. Perhaps the money they stand to gain is worth it all. Perhaps they really believe in what they are doing.

I was reminded of a book I'd recently read about rewiring negative messages from the past. The book discusses the science behind changing messages we tell ourselves everyday that ultimately lead to defeat. One of the biggest criteria for changing old ideas is simply repetition. In order to create new neural pathways, one has only to repeat an action, a thought, a behavior enough times to create a new roadway for it to become habit. Helmstetter writes, "programming creates beliefs, beliefs create attitudes, attitudes create feelings, feelings determine actions, actions create results." His main idea being that it all starts with the stories we tell ourselves. If we truly want to create outer change, we must make changes to the input first.

It makes good sense. The mind has incredible powers of manifesting the information it hears. We're just not always aware of the information going in- or we don't take the necessary time to monitor, filter, and protect our thoughts from damaging information. If I am ready to believe this will work for me, then I must believe it is the way those holding onto power in the DRC get through each day.

They simply repeat to themselves that they are in power, they deserve power and their lives depend on it. They are willing to do anything, including murder their own citizens, in order to maintain access to the millions they cypher each year.

But in reality, simply repeating something doesn't make it true. Not when there are others involved, a whole country of people rallying against you. You can't just talk your way into a dictatorship- or can you?

The American government has ordered its citizens to leave the country. The email was rather blunt.

Security Alert - U.S. Embassy Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the Congo (December 31, 2018)
Location: DRC, countrywide
Event:  The government of the DRC shut down internet services on December 31 in the aftermath of the elections.  Phone lines are still a functioning way of  communication.    

Actions to Take:

Depart the country.

It goes on to list other steps, but really, after the first one what more information do you need?  However, this is not the first time the government has blocked the internet and phone systems. I recall something quite similar during the last elections. And several times in between.

So what makes this time so different that the US government has decided to call for departure from the country? Once again the Congolese are left to fight the battle themselves. Despite the many social media posts, there are few articles about the election process or its aftermath, and among them, the language seems tame.

The ruling party is pulling out all tricks for maintaining control. It seems like the international community is busy talking itself into alternate realities as well. It's up to the population now to take matters into their own hands. Courage to the Congolese for 2019.