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!

Shooting Stars

I left for Niger about five months ago. In that time, I have completed training, moved to a village, evacuated my village, lived in Niamey and am now preparing to move to a new village. In that short time, I have met so many interesting people, both fellow volunteers and Nigeriens. It's remarkable the way people come in and out of our lives. Some people who we have only spent a few mere moments with can forever change the way we see the world, like the people of Tama. I have only a few photos of them and will never see them again. Yet, they are forever in my heart, their faces etched in my mind. I won't forget the way Fatchima, the old woman from next door, greeted me every morning at 8, and the way Maryama would grasp my hand when I said something that made her laugh. I won't forget Bori from the hospital who joked that he would give me an airplane and 100 camels for my hand in marriage. I treasured moments drinking tea with the guard at the mayor's office, holding Issoufou, Maryama's baby, and listening to BBC news on the radio with the old men that sat outside of the mosque. These people were shooting stars, glimpses of brilliant light that made me realize that the world is beautiful and people are kind. Even though I only spent two months in Tama, a speck in the spectrum of my life, I will never forget the patience, kindness and strength that the villagers exuded.

Photos

Photos July-December 2009 in Niamey and Tama

New Town

I am moving to my new village in a week. I am excited to start anew and am hopeful that life in my new village will be fulfilling and adventuresome. I will be posted in the Dosso region. Here is my new mailing address:

Kathryn Evans, PCV
Corps de la Paix
B.P. 144
Dosso, Niger
West Africa

Hands of a Nation

Their touch tough and coarse like the mud houses in which they live.
Calloused and dry like the sandy rocks making up the narrow pathways of their village.
Splintered by the wood they use to pound the millet stalk.
Wrinkled, weathered and worn from the sun and the sand.
Jagged pieces of skin, adrift from the palm like a rusted nail emerges from rotted wood.
Charcoaled and crisp like the rocks that sizzle under the cooking pots.
Hands weathered from the 'wahala' of women's work.
Dawn til dark, the women pound the millet, carry the wood and buckets filled with water, farm millet and corn, and tear branches from the trees.
Their hands constantly in motion, constantly at work,
The same hands that gently latch their babies to their breasts for milk.
The same hands that come together to pray five times a day.
The same hands that glide through the soapy water to wash their sequined scarves.
These are the hands that feed the nation.