Leaving Niger

This one is hard to write, but it's been a long time coming. How do you sum up two years living in the bush in Africa? How do I even sum up the last month, when those of us Northern Tillaberi refugees became grouped with a whole new set of refugees from an expanded terror threat. In case you haven't been diligently following Nigerien news. Here's the official word on what's been going on lately:

https://www.osac.gov/Reports/report.cfm?contentID=110469

To see how this plays into the larger picture of AQIM and all the fun they've been having across the Sahel, focusing on events that have occurred during my service, go to these places:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/7798571.stm
http://www.reuters.com/article/idUSLP155404
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/8080447.stm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8373821.stm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8381200.stm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8385559.stm

Wow. I didn't realize how frightening a picture that paints until I put them all together. My village was about 100km give or take from the border with Mali where the French national and the European tourists were kidnapped. However, throughout my entire service, I never once felt as if I were in danger. Someone with an outside perspective could call me naive or worse, but I think it says more about my community and the place I live. I firmly believe my villagers would have done anything to shelter and protect me had the occasion ever arisen.

Looking back, the week I had at my post seems like a positive, real risk. Would I do it again? Definitely. I hold no regrets. At least I was allowed to say goodbye. After the attempted kidnapping of embassy staff in Tahoua, a capital city much farther from the border than my village, the entire region was evacuated of all Volunteers. Many of them had no idea they would never be allowed back to their villages when they got the call to consolidate in Konni. As dangerous as it was, I know that I needed to see my villagers again, and sometimes, when something is that important, you just have to take a few chances.

I'll leave that. There's too much involved in the decisions made by individuals in any given circumstance to really examine them closely. Especially in a situation as extraordinary as this. Overall, I think Peace Corps' response was well managed and assessed all risks responsibly. I won't say anymore in part because of those who've decided to leave due to the security reasons and for those who will be staying on in very trying circumstances. The worst part of my entire second year living under travel restrictions was the uncertainty of the situation on a day-to-day basis. I was sure after the British tourist was executed that I would be evacuated from my site. I was allowed to stay, but it did underline how quickly things could change. That uncertainty will inform their entire service, but I'm confident those who have stayed will weather through it.

And now I'm leaving Niger. I have my visas for Mali (the non-dangerous part) and Burkina Faso ready and I'm heading out the door. This blog has been a pretty good representation of my service, but it can't cover even one percent of the emotions I've felt, the trials I've been through, the friendships I've made, and the rewards I've been given. If none of these kidnappings had happened, I can confidently say I would be staying another year. However, I can't really complain about that. One of my best friends in country (who also spent a full year under travel restrictions in Northern Tillaberi) said to me once that living alone in the bush, over a hundred kilometers from any other American, working with limited resources within our communities was closer to the "romantic" idea everyone has of Peace Corps, which is pretty cool. And throughout all of this, I've learned that Allah provides. I'm not saying things aren't meant to happen for one reason or another, or that things always turn out okay. However, when those two paths diverge in the wood, they lead to endless other possibilities and endless other divergences. That's just the route life takes, and it's better to appreciate what's on your own path, rather than wonder at what you'd missed.

I'll be keeping this blog going throughout the remainder of my time in West Africa, so keep checking for my whereabouts and to see what adventures I've had. Much love to everyone at home. I know there are some worried about me, but I hope that worry is tempered with excitement for all that I hope to experience in the coming months.

Irkoy m'ir cabe cere!

Leaving Tanka Lokoto

I’ve been in Niamey for a while now, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to write an entry. It’s mostly due to laziness, but I also find at the end of my two years in Africa that my attention span for the Internet is about ten minutes max. Add to that the stresses of the last few weeks and the result is a lack of entries despite easy access. (That will be, I hope, the last Freudian slip of the day.)

As anyone can see from my past blog entries, I took some vacation a couple months ago to go out east, almost all the way to Chad. On my way back, my boss called me and told me that I would be held in Niamey for at least a week. I wasn’t allowed to return to my village. She couldn’t tell me why, and even to this day, I still don’t know what actually happened. I have some theories of my own.

Niger’s harvest this year was particularly bad. In the Ouallam department, which is just west of my village, there wasn’t really ANY harvest, let alone a bad one. As a result, the Fulan herders came back from the pasturelands earlier and fed their cattle on the little vegetation in the Zarma farmers’ fields. There’s farmer/pastoralist violence every year, but this year included a few particularly bad incidents that had the potential to spread throughout the region. In addition, the embassy revised its warden status because the North African branch of Al Qaeda began targeting Westerners. And if the threat of terrorism wasn’t bad enough, the Filingue department, my sub-region of the wider Tillaberi region, evidently began devoting all their gendarmes to the Malian frontier, which left the bandits already within the region plenty of time to do their bandit things.

So there were plenty of reasons not to go back to village. In addition to the external threats, I also had some work of my own to do. I waited three weeks in Niamey, and in that time, I had to study for the GRE, train to become a Volunteer Assistant Trainer (VAT) for the newest stage that is currently in country, and attend the Close of Service (COS) conference.

But being out of village, for lack of a better term, sucks. It’s difficult to emphasize this point enough, and I don’t expect anyone who hasn’t lived the life to understand what it feels like. I was forced to leave my small community without any chance to say goodbye or to close the work I had been doing. I felt like a refugee. Living in Niamey, out of my backpack, constantly answering questions that I didn’t actually know the answer to as to why I wasn’t in my village. After two months out of my village, I’d hit a breaking point. The country director and our program training officer had urged patience, and patient I was, but it only goes so far, even after two years in a country like Niger. I had to go back.

The embassy wasn’t happy. I’d pushed and pushed to go back to my village, and after a month, I think I’d created such a headache that everyone was just tired of me. They gave me one week. It was more than I’d expected, but there were a few stipulations. I could tell no one I was leaving for my village or that I would be living there at all. That included Peace Corps staff, Volunteers, and even my own villagers. The only people that knew I was on this “secret mission” were the acting country director, the Peace Corps security officer, and the embassy’s Regional Security Officer. I had to check in via text twice a day, morning and evening, to confirm that I hadn’t been kidnapped. Finally, I couldn’t tell anyone in my village what day I would be leaving them forever.

And so I left for village November 3^rd. This entry could be much longer than it actually will be. I’ll try to be concise and cut out all the personal, sentimental things and get right to the heart of the matter. My villagers were amazing for the week I was at home. Though my house was dirty and dilapidated, my hanger had nearly collapsed, my garden had died, and my cat ran away, I didn’t care. I was just so happy to be back.

But it was a stressful week. I spent most of my afternoons (when I usually napped during my service) packing up my house. My mornings and evenings I spent on specific missions to spend as much time as possible with everyone I knew and loved in village. At night, my favorite little kid, a four-year old named Razak (who I call attakurmizo, Zarma for a sprite or faerie) would come over, refuse to leave my side, and eventually fall asleep at my house. I’d carry him home and we’d repeat the same pattern the next day. I know I said I wouldn’t get sentimental, but he was a rock star the whole week.

I’m so glad the embassy allowed me to return for even just a week. I was afraid I wouldn’t have even an afternoon. The first night I was back in village, bandits killed a soldier and a merchant in Baleyara, the major market town about 22km from my village. It was the second such robbery in two months. The first had been a carjacking in which two merchants were robbed and murdered. It didn’t really worry me, but I’m sure it drove the embassy up the wall. I’m pretty sure my villagers would do everything they could to protect me and knowing that, I never doubted my safety in village for the one week I had.

I’ll be here in Niamey for the next month until I close my service in mid-December, so I’ll skip some of the details, but just say that my leaving party was great. I bought a sack of rice, a carton of pasta, and a goat, and we feasted. All my friends in my village and the surrounding villages stopped by to say goodbye. They knew I was leaving, but I couldn’t tell them that I would be leaving the very next day. Nigeriens hate to say goodbye, so it was probably better that way. Monday morning, I finished the last of my packing and made the rounds of my neighbors to tell them I was going out to the road to catch a car. Irkoy m’ir cabe cere (May God show us one another). Kala han fo (Until one day). Irkoy m’aran halessi (May God protect you).

By the time I had finished the small loop at my maigari’s house, there wasn’t a dry eye anywhere. The women covered themselves with their shawls and refused to make eye contact while I said goodbye. My best friends, both men and women, couldn’t bring themselves to walk out to the road with me. That was okay. I heard them crying; I understood. Even my village chief, a man who’s seen a lot and had to say a lot of goodbyes to loved ones in his 65 years, had that husky voice that usually means tears are close. It’s always hard to see an old man cry.

So much for not getting sentimental. Now I’m back in Niamey, working on a few institutional projects until I’m finished in Niger. I hope to use the next month to post a little bit more about my life here and the land that I’m leaving. I promise future entries won’t be as long as this one.