Conversions

As I planned for the summer trip to the US, and the required road tour that involved gathering the kids in New York, attending a soccer tournament in Chicago and returning back to my aunt's house in Michigan, I remarked on the obvious. "Driving in America, where everyone stays in their own lane,  and follows the rules, driving without the cows, motorcycles, taxis, horse drawn carts and Xingda tricycles? No problem," I thought.

It was a friend with long time international experience that pointed out it wouldn't be the rule following I'd have to get used to- it would be the speed. In many African capitals, traffic doesn't move much above 25mph. My days of 70 on the interstate were far in the past. I under-estimated just how far.

The speed, coupled with our first leg which happened at night, spurred a chain reaction of anxiety and nervousness. The journey was filled with the reflective orange cones and barrels signaling construction and roadwork. The highways narrowed and constricted with cement barriers, playing optical illusions. If I'd already broken my vow not to drive at night, I reaffirmed my commitment. This would be the last time. I couldn't keep horrific images of rolling hood over undercarriage across the roadway, or being nicked by an 18-wheeler as it barreled past us. Like any good panic attack, the images intensified my fears. The fact that I couldn't stop imagining it seemed all the more likely to make it happen. It was a harrowing 15 hours that took forever to end.

Once in Chicago, it turned out the hotel we were staying at was a solid 45 minutes away from the tournament field. Forty-five minutes down a major expressway. By that time, I was longing for the stalled traffic jams and cow crossings I'd left behind. I kept a constant eye out for a stray motorcycle sneaking up on the right. But the most unexpected thing to get used to was the toll booths.

Pulling up to pay a fare requires a left handed exchange. I am required to turn in a ticket, some money, possibly receive change. All conducted with the left hand, which evoked a feeling of awkwardness. The first few times it happened, I hesitated and tried to reach across and pass the money with my right hand. I couldn't quite make the connection, and I definitely couldn't grab the change. I was surprised by the impulse to resist and the subtle sense of something not quite right every time I had to acquiesce. I did manage to stop myself from apologizing and just tried to observe my feelings, which had become first nature.

By the time we headed over to Michigan, I was feeling mostly myself again. While not completely at ease with the speed, I managed to quell the kaleidoscope of butterflies and make the drive in a reasonable time. Once we left Illinois, we also left the toll roads behind.

At my aunt's house, we were able to settle into creating some routines. We are a family that loves the gym and it took us only one day to get signed up at a nearby workout spot. They were offering a teen summer challenge program that made the family membership extremely economical. It was a refreshing sight to take a quick tour and see all my favorite machines.

Nabih and I were both tickled at our adjustment from kilograms to pounds. We had to do a bit of trial and error to find the sweet spot. One thing immersion leads to is the ability to live and think in a language, measurement system or currency. That doesn't necessarily mean the ability to translate. We experienced something of a learning curve as we figured out the new weights. It was so much more impressive to be crunching 100 pounds (a nice round figure) as opposed to 45 kilograms.

Overall, the conversions are easy to get used to. Fun little examples of how much living outside the US for ten years really changes the inner habits and thoughts.

A different kind of season

It's packing and moving season- again. For the first time ever, I am ahead of the game. I made a timeline and stuck to it this year. All of our boxes are packed, the paintings are wrapped. Only the suitcases left to go.

A colleague at work who is also moving mentioned she might have a "practice pack" to see how heavy the suitcases actually are. I gave it some thought, but so far I have only managed to throw all the clothes inside an open bag. It's close. A lot closer than this post from 2014.

I still relied on a painter friend to come and help with the artwork. He said it all goes easier in company and he is right. While packing my last two boxes this weekend I had virtual company from 3 friends in the US and my brother in Guinea. It wasn't planned, but it was a nice addition to my packing routine.

Wrapping and taping

Piles again, but so much more organized

the final collection: 9 boxes, 1 bag,
 1 sculpture-in-baskets and 2 steps tools

Baskets and drums, yes we want them

Paintings- on frames! 

I still have many of the same considerations that seem to accompany every move. Despite making a detailed list of all the items in these boxes, I am not really sure what they're filled with. Nostalgia. Books. Some toys. Masks and statues. Kitchenware. Just stuff to make us feel like we are still at home when we arrive to a new shell. The pieces of our environment that feel cozy and have recorded our adventures around Africa.

What I don't have cemented is a shipper. Ironically, now that I am all organized, I am still searching for a way to get it across 4 countries and into Nigeria. The only thing left to do is be positive. There are several leads and a few friends have offered to host my things if necessary until I can find an affordable solution, or afford a findable solution.

I am still intrigued by the notion of cutting down. I had begun to prepare for that, in case a shipping solution didn't come through. I think it is very possible. And it would feel good. The problem with packing is that once you start to bring one thing, you figure why not bring it all? I always need a blender, right? And the spice containers? If I am shipping anyway, I might as well bring those. You can see how it snowballs.

In this new age, there is also the dilemma of electronic cleaning and transfer. My computer is all cleaned out (another miracle, really.) All files have been handed over or downloaded and passed along or saved to USB. We're ready.

Mbalia keeps asking if today is the day we are going to fly away from here. I think the gradual packing and giving away of things has been good for her as well. The adoption ceremony for our best turtle Shallah, was very positive. She's been an awesome pet to have, really like part of the family. Turtles are smart. And friendly.

The signing- a serious affair

Little Mohamed signed after agreeing to all
of the requirements, even singing

Our final dance show and art expo was super sweet with a guest appearance by Djeneba Seck. That beautiful singing again. And I did manage to get up and sway along when they invited me. No smashing solo, but I am slowly making progress.

As often happens in the time of goodbyes, friendships get made and experiences seem all the more tender. I am hoping to hold onto the revelations and upsurges in courage so that in our new home, we don't wait so long to create these bonds.

Tis the season for adventure and we are ready to embrace it.

With all the toys packed, the only thing
left to do is make art

Bye bye Bamako!

Bamako road mysteries

We are wrapping up our final three weeks in Mali. It's been much too short of a stay, hardly time to uncover some of the more interesting mysteries of the country and the culture. But in our own small sphere there are 2 small mysteries worth giving story to.

When we first arrived, we spent a lot of time of walking. Our previous house was near the river and it made for a country walk to school, with farming fields and mango groves all around. Since we've moved, car troubles have resulted in a lot of walking to the main road. We also began a nightly walk through the neighborhood. It means getting to know your neighbors a bit (turns out there are a lot of friendly folks willing to offer a ride- walking is really the best way to get to know a place.) It also means a lot of time inspecting the earth.

Just behind the lettuce fields, a path opens up....
heartbreakingly filled with garbage

Sometimes we get to see this beautiful horse

Almost magical, if it weren't for the
depressingly real trash 

Favorite purple flowers we always stop to smell

Almost serene

While it is impossible not to feel panic and remorse about all of the garbage around, there are small pockets of beauty too. And mystery. I began noticing the "packages" around our neighborhood shortly after we began walking to school every morning. I saw them on the main road near the carrefour just before the turn off for the river. I also saw them occasionally on the intersections of the dirt roads in our immediate neighborhood. 

After a trip to Segou, when we visited the bogolan workshop, I had an idea of what they were. Our instructor had mentioned the small sacrifices made at the crossroads, and the hope that they would bring healing and prayers for those in need. When I asked a friend about the packages I was seeing everywhere, he had a slightly different interpretation. 

Rather than wishing for strong thoughts for the weak, he suspected the contents, wrapped in leaves, were meant to send curses and bad luck out into the world. He said sometimes they were left on doorsteps or in front of houses. 

Perhaps the real answer is a bit of both. Intentions are everything. Maybe a similar leaf wrap contains the ability to do harm or good, depending upon the spirit in which it was discarded. What I haven't really been able to get answers about is what exactly is inside. Or how it is prepared? Or by whom? 

I think I actually saw a table full of them as I drove past a market one day, deep in the middle of a side neighborhood as we searched for a short cut around traffic. These days I am mostly content to sit with my wonder a bit, observing without the constant need to seek answers.

I marvel at the frequency. I saw them every morning on our walk to school- someone was feeling insistent. When we began walking to the road from our current house, those packages could be seen at least once or twice a week. 

Most of the ones I saw were not still
wrapped in plastic

Intentions: for the good or the bad?

Another mystery that is likely to end with more questions than answers concerns a little patch of road, also at an intersection- a coincidence I hadn't considered until just this moment. It's on one of the main paved roads and gets a lot of traffic. There is a square hole there. I don't think it would be too much of an exaggeration to describe it as a living hole. It is a stubborn, resistant hole. It will not be tamed. 

All manner of solutions have been tried- from the obvious- just pave over it, to more creative solutions such as placing a palm leaf in it to alert drivers, to putting a board over it- for those drivers who somehow manage to miss the palm leaf, to this:

Rainy road alert

I suspect this latest addition- the tall board sticking up, was the result of recent rains which flooded many roads and would have left the dangerous, deep hole invisible to drivers. Every solution seems to work for awhile, temporary fixes for a determined hole that won't go away. It's as if each fix becomes absorbed by the hole. After only a day or two, the hole reappears, still square, still empty inside, still disrupting the roadway.

Although I am not pro-concrete, I wonder why someone doesn't just fill it with concrete (although, honestly, I think I do remember something like that happening, and the top of it bowed and curved under the pressure of the cars until one day, the hole reappeared and whatever had been used to fill and pave over it had been absorbed by the hole.) I often imagine Stephen King could wrap a good tale around the energy of this hole and maybe some creepy ill effects spreading out to the people who pass by it daily. 

On the other hand, maybe it could be a spirit of the earth, determined to break free from the confines of concrete and steel and other manmade impositions. Maybe it begins to draw in the rest of the road way, like the pull of a sinking ship, until the surrounding warehouses and big trucks are consumed.....

Just a few little mysteries of Bamako roads.

Final touches

Taking care of the last minute details for our art opening was a bit of an adventure. I'd thought the printing of the book was the hardest part. Searching for a place to bind it wasn't much easier. We began the search on May 1, which is a pretty big holiday in many African countries. Or, I guess I should say it is a national holiday (not much happens except businesses close.) I had thought it was true for the US also, but apparently not. 

It just means that our preferred stop was closed. We asked the taxi driver to continue on to another place. For some reason we ended up on the market road, which was completely blocked with traffic. We had just come from 2 hours at the printing place (a momentary power cut resulted in the machine needing to be reset- a 30 minute operation, and then trimming the pages took at least an hour and a half....oh my Africa. When the guy calls and says everything is ready, he means, everything is ready to come and be looked at and discussed and maybe have some tea over....)

Playing taxi while waiting for photos

So we're stuck in unmoving traffic on the market road and the young taxi guy decides he doesn't want to do this anymore. He actually asks us to get out. Ultimately its a good thing because by walking we leave him in the dust, but really? There was no logic behind that decision since he was still stuck in the traffic. 

On foot we approach first one and then another print shop. They don't appear to be print shops; they are camouflaged in between the tire shops and hardware stores. There are very few signs, just names and phone numbers painted directly on the concrete wall. A few say Imprimerie, but it's not clear if that is a current message or one left over from years past. 

Because of the holiday, we are not having much luck. One guy has the machine we need, but he didn't come to work. Other shops point us toward a cyber cafe. When we arrive, they give us yet another location. We are constantly being told, "No, no just go down one block, turn left and he is there, on the right." Or, "just go up to the main road, take a left and the first right. It is there." Or, the classic, "go down one block, take a right and then ask." Ask for what? No one has a name, there are no street numbers. We explain our story over and over, telling the whole neighborhood what we are looking for.

Eventually, I make the call. One more stop and then we just go home. Mbalia has been walking around like a trooper, but I am exhausted. When we arrive to yet another nondescript concrete storefront, I am not expecting much. But the guy pulls out an old machine from under a table, tucked behind a dusty pile of tarps and odds and ends. It looks like it is going to work. 

I took a seat outside, on one of the chairs that are found all over Bamako streets. It is so comfortable (the big deception is that these chairs, which appear to be threadbare and falling apart, are actually divine) and a sweet breeze comes flowing down the street. This is when I know. I understand how people can be sleeping on a street corner in the middle of the day with traffic passing and people making a fuss all around. I close my eyes and lean back and float away to a beautiful place. Everything feels wonderful, right here, on a tree lined corner, surrounded by people talking and tasking and enjoying the day. 

The last bit of getting ready involved a visit from the jabidala to get some henna on our hands. We were performing the dance of revealing newly henna'd hands, after all and so we needed props.

I don't have a lot to say here- just wanted to share a few photos. But there is always a bit of reflecting when getting the henna. I think about women's beauty rituals - henna requires a longer period of immobility than nail polish, for example, and results in a much more elegant look, in my opinion. There is something exquisite about henna. Temporary body decoration. Powerful. Transformational. 

Jabidala- mixing the henna (and a little gasoline)

Taping the design

Magical....

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.