Dressed in their Sunday Best

All dressed in their Sunday best, families walk to church. From my porch, sitting quietly in the morning, I can sometimes hear the congregation singing hymns. American missionaries, who lived in my village twenty some years ago, built, among other things, three evangelical churches and converted many people in town.

I went to one service, curious to see what a Christian service, conducted in Hausa, within a predominantly Muslim country would look like. The pasteur stood confidently at the simple wooden pulpit, dressed in a shiny white robe, delivering his sermon to the engaged mass, women on one side and men on the other (I sat in the middle, oblivious to the gender seat assignments). After the sermon, the altar boys passed around the eucharist, a sweet biscuit and some pungent fruit drink. The service closed with the men and women singing in succinct harmony. In fact, except for the fact that the service was in Hausa, it felt like any other Sunday church service I have attended.

In contrast, yesterday after the four o'clock call to prayer, wearing their Sunday best, crowds of people walked to the edge of town for a spirit possession ceremony. Filled with anticipation, I crouched on a mat, crowded by women and children, but protected from the scorching sun by the shade of a towering tree. There next to me in the circle of people, three drummers used sticks held together by colorful pieces of cloth, to beat the outside of calabash bowls. Behind them one man shook a gourd filled with beans and another glided a branch across a string producing a fiddle-like melody.

Two women and three men entered the circle, wearing red and black cloth, headscarves and leather belts decorated with dangling tassled cowry shells and mirrors. They began to circulate the space, pulsating their upper torsoes while throwing their arms up in the air, haulting occasionally to scream. After they all congregated to the center of the circle, encompassed by geometric designs that had been etched into the sand, they started sobbing. Their weeping wails intensified with each pulsating movement, until one of the men fainted onto the hot sand. Simultaneously, several women from the crowd of onlookers, rose in a trance-like state, pulsating their heads with their eyes shut. One of the women who rose, took long strides around the circle, periodically diving onto the ground landing on her knees. Then, with a breaststroke motion began shoveling sand onto her face and rubbing sand in her eyes, as if she was bathing in it.

A cloud of dust emerged and enveloped the trees and clouded the glowing sun. In the hazy mist, villagers removed the belts and scarves off the bodies that had been possessed. Their faces, drenched with sweat and tears, had stopped twitching, their bodies stood still as they greeted the crowd and then finally left the circle.

Minutes later, evoked by the drums, villagers started dancing. I was invited by my friend, Salaamatou, to enter the drumming circle. As I did, a flood of nerves made me nautious, particularly with hundreds of eyes watching to see whether or not their new foreign villager, had a shred of rhythmic capability. With two quick steps I started flapping my arms and pushing out my rear, in an effort to simulate what I had learned in Africa dance classes years prior. No more than thirty seconds of dancing, and a mob of women and children closed in on me, smiling brightly and greeting me on my movements. Overwhelmed and unable to move, Salaamatou grabbed my hand to lead me out of the circle. Finally able to take a deep breath, I realized that the mob, like me, had also followed Salaamatou's lead. So, she ran over to a fence, grabbed a stick and held it in the air threatening to beat the followers. Effectively, they all ran away. Then, as the sun set, Salaamatou held my hand and smiled, dancing in her step. As I tapped my feet in unison with her, I felt relieved that I made it through my first spirit possession ceremony.

Coming Home

I was so anxious about going back to my village after being at training for a month and only having spent one month prior to that in my new town. I didn't feel like I had deeply integrated into the community quite yet. I wondered if, in fact, my villagers would even remember my Hausa name or why I came in the first place.

Yet, after the journey from Niamey, I got out of the taxi and was immediately greeted by my mayor and the soda guy. So, I sat on a bench with them and sipped my cold coke and laughed as they teased me that my neck had grown to resemble that of a horse after eating in plenty at the training site for three weeks. Then, walking home from the market, I exchanged many greetings and warm smiles with my villagers. They all asked "Kin zo lahiya?" (Did you return in health?) In health, I replied. They told me they were happy about my return and may Allah give me good luck on my work here. What a relief. ..they remembered me and seemed pleased upon my return.

Now, as I am sitting watching the sunset and listening to the guinea fowl squawk while Zirga, my cat, is curled up in my lap, I feel like I am home for the first time in my new village.

Rhythms of Niger

5:30 A.M. I wake to the melodic call to prayer, boys in the streets beating their drums, women pounding millet and corn, and even the crickets chirp in rhythmic unison. The rhythm of daily life in Niger has become part of my heartbeat and soul. At first, the rhythms sounded deafening. Now I feel as if I have become part of the song. I sometimes enjoy the sounds of kids chasing me down the street, the loud squaks from the guinea fowl who rest along my concession wall at dusk, and the shrilling wimpers of a nearby donkey. The symphony of animals, children and villagers compose a song, shaping the melody and the heart of Niger. A song that I am learning to dance to in rhythm with the language, the people and the culture.

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.

Photos

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.

A New Kind of Christmas

No snow or carols, lights or trees. No last minute shopping or parties to attend. All I have of Christmas in my house is an ornament of a squirrel wearing a santa hat whisked in gold and green ribbon, one that my family sent me in my Christmas care package. I have never been away from home during the holidays. And, I have always enjoyed this time of year more than any other; drinking eggnog with nutmeg and playing games with my family and eating my mom's quiche. This year, I sang Christmas carols in a Peace Corps van on the way out to my new village with other PC volunteers and then read A Christmas Carol to get into the spirit. Even though nothing about Niger evokes a feeling of holiday spirit, I have Christmas in my heart this year more than ever. Scrooge says "I will honor Christmas in my heart and try to keep it all year." Although I will dearly miss not being with my family, their love is with me today and always. I have a new appreciation of the spirit of Christmas, one of joy and gratitude for people dear to you. This year, I am having a new kind of Christmas. Tomorrow, the volunteers will cook a big meal and listen to Christmas carols and enjoy the day amidst the paper snowflakes hanging from the ceiling in the hostel. To all my friends and family, you are with me today and always. Lots of love and Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from Niger!