Where Happiness Lies

Never have I felt pangs of hunger. Never have I not known where I would lay my head to sleep at night. I have always had nice clothes and things. I have had the time and the means to get an education. Why me? I was fortunate to be born in a country where, even though I am a woman, I can go to school and marry whom I choose and when I choose. I have lots of choices, opportunities and access. One of the villagers in my town spoke to me about his wife, Zenibou, who cooks over smoke for hours each day and then goes to the water well twice a day and waits in line for hours sometimes to fill her buckets with water. In the U.S., I eat and drink everyday never really appreciating the access I have to these basic necessities. I have never faced the hardships that my neighbors, friends and colleagues have faced all of their lives.

Upon reflection, guilt creeps over me, like a dark shadow. To compensate, I find myself making it a point to express to my villagers that I have school loans and that Peace Corps does not give me a lot of money since I am a volunteer. The reality is that I have more money than most of the people in Niger, just from my living stipend. Many villagers tell me that they want to go to America, where there is money and education and opportunity. I respond by telling them that Niger is wonderful and they should stay in their country. Who am I to tell them they should want to stay here?

Yet, despite a lack of money, opportunity and access, most of the Nigeriens I have interacted with appear and say that they are genuinely content with their lives. My Nigerien friend, Rabi, very poignantly told me that people in Niger are happy because they have so few possessions and things in their life. They focus on family, religion, and greeting people in their community. Maybe they can process more, feel more and understand more about themselves and others because they do not have things to clutter their lives, to detract from what is important. After this conversation, my pangs of guilt that I have felt before morphed into a feeling of envy. I found myself wishing that I could live a day when I do not think about things or money or wanting something, rather than just being content with all that I have.

I have been struck and surprised by the fact that Nigeriens are very willing to give their things to others, demonstrating a genuine generosity despite the fact that most of the Nigerien population has very little in terms of material goods. I think their kindness and generous spirit has evolved from their lack of attachment. I hope to absorb the genuine spirit of generosity, let go of thoughts of things, thoughts that detract from being content with the moment and human interaction as well as everyday experiences. Maybe happiness lies within each of us. The key to happiness could be as simple, yet as difficult, as just being.

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Life and Death

At 5:30 am, I awoke to wailing. A woman and her children sobbing hysterically across the street. The old woman, referred to as "tsohuawa"-meaning old woman in Hausa, who lives there with her daughter had been ill with a cold. I found out that afternoon she was having difficulty breathing and went to the hospital. When I went to visit, the woman laid in agony, curled up on a bed as her friends and family sat on the cold ground beside the bed listening and watching her attentively. After sitting there a while, waiting outside the old woman's room, a nurse invited me into a room across the courtyard where a young woman curled up on a bed breathing quicker and quicker with each contraction. Just a few steps from where a woman is fighting to live, another is birthing life. As the sun set, I left the hospital. I will wake in the morning wandering if a child was born and if a woman died. As life comes and goes, Nigeriens digest it all. Since they believe that Allah controls life and death, mortals cannot control the cycle. The next morning, when I opened my gate, a cluster of men sat in silence in front of tsohuawa's house. I saw them and knew the woman had died in the night. Traditionally, when someone dies, men sit in front of the house and women gather in the concession, waiting for people to come pay their respects. I kneeled before the men, bowing my head slightly, as I greeted them. "Ina kwana" (how was your sleep), followed by "Allah ba mu hankuri"- "May Allah give us patience"- the phrase I remembered reading in my Hausa study manual that one utters after a death. After greeting the men, I entered the concession. Even after knowing the old woman only a few weeks, it was strange to not see her sitting under the tree and shelling peanuts as she had done everyday. Instead, ten women, heads down, greeted my coming. I kneeled and returned their greetings. Death, such a big part of life. A difficult part of life, but one that is engrained in a country where the average lifespan is 45 years old and children die everyday from malnutrition. We know not when or where or who. All we can do is appreciate the moments that grace us each and every day no matter where we are.