Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Through The Eyes Of Someone Else

Clarisse with her children
Everyone has a story. Where they came from, where they are, where they wish to go. Life is an endless library of experience that we, the authors, the readers, the critics, and the protagonists continually fill. 

To be frank, it’s not realistic to recount an entire story in one short blog post, but what follows will be my attempt. I will give you a glimpse into the life of SALOU Kientega Kiswendsida Clarisse; one of the women that lives in our courtyard. Sunday night, sitting at the foot of a dusty gazebo and surrounded by children curious about my computer, I asked Clarisse some questions about her life.


Four dates will help organize this story, the first of which being August 10th, 1982. Born in Yako, the story began as Clarisse became part of a family where she would eventually have fifteen brothers and sisters, two mothers, and a father who would pass away when she was six years old. She tells me she never knew her father because she spent her early childhood living with her Uncle and his family.
SALOU Nomwendé Ingred Djamiilatou Rosen
(Photo taken by Marie Warkentin)
She did return to live with her mother in Yako, and at that time began schooling. She continued her studies until just before completing the BAC (an exam that takes place at the end of high school). She was forced to put schooling on hold when she became pregnant in 2006. She met her husband, SALOU Adama, in 2005 and became his second wife. She brought her first child into this world, a daughter, on January 22nd, 2007 at 1:45pm: SALOU Nomwendé Ingred Djamiilatou Rosen (She tells me she can remember the delivery like it was yesterday. Trying to be witty, I tell her I am lucky to be a man. Her contagious laugh fills the air. She agrees and assures me that giving birth is not an easy thing).

In 2008, Clarisse was still living with her mother. Because of this, she was able to go to night school while leaving Rosen at home. Regrettably though, on November 22nd, 2009, her mother passed away and she was again unable to finish the BAC. Given her situation, she moved in with her husband and his first wife in the courtyard where she currently resides with us. The most recent turing point came on August 13th, 2010 at 5:44am when she gave birth to her son, SALOU Abdala.


SALOU Abdala
(Photo taken by Marie Warkentin)
I ask her about her husband. She tells me that she worries about him. He used to sell shoes, but the market was not good, so he decided to go work in the mines - mining for gold. She speaks softly when she says there are many deaths at the mines from either collapses or the oxygen tanks running out with the workers inside. She says that if her husband was able to find a better job, he would be able to help her more. Presently, he is only able to come home 4 or 5 times a month.

I ask: What do you want from this life? She responds gracefully: Everyday, I pray to God that I will get a job. I pray that I can take care of my children. I pray also that one day, when I grow old, my children will be able to take care of me. Right now though, I hope for a job.

She has been searching for work for the last seven years. She tells me of a situation last year where she was almost hired as a primary school teacher. She had passed the oral and written exams, but when it came to the sports section, she had a cramp during the test and failed. With a hint of despair in her voice, she tells me: I feel like it was my last chance in this life to find a job.

She has also applied at other organizations. They have come back and told her that she needs computer literacy. With this knowledge, she can be hired. She has not yet been able to find a computer training opportunity.



I ask her what she thinks the problem is; why has finding a job been so hard? Time, she responds. She works all day in the courtyard either preparing meals, doing laundry, taking care of kids or any other task that consumes her day. When she is finally free in the late evening, she is too tired. 

When the informal interview ends, the group of women and children that have gathered to watch the excitement start chatting in Mooré. Before I head back inside, I ask what they were talking about. Adama, the oldest boy in the courtyard, laughs and says that they were saying how white people always take pictures and show them to people back home. 

I don’t know why I did this interview. I thought it would be enlightening for folks elsewhere to read the story of a local Burkinabé woman. But when they said this, it made me question my motives. There is a fine line between inquisitiveness and exploitation I suppose. I just hope I’m not offside. 

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Taking A Step Back

Frustration.
The word of the week unfortunately. Frustration that I still don't have any work to do (we are waiting on money from the donor organization before we can launch the program). Frustration that I haven't really done anything to benefit the community, nor do I really know what I can do. Frustration that there is in fact too much to do, but no marked starting point. As my understanding of the situation here grows, the opposite effect is applied to my confidence in what to do.

Visiting a local school. Seen here with Mustafa and the
Director of the school. Picture taken by Sarah.
For me, development is suppose to be about providing opportunities; it's suppose to be about empowerment. But does that really matter when you can't put food in your child's swollen belly, or can't pay for their malaria medication when they get sick. In Burkina I feel like it needs to start with the basics - health care, education, nutrition. When I grew up, these things were provided to me by the government (nutrition was perhaps provided by my parents, but we lived in a country abundant with nutritious food). This begs the question: what happens when the government is unable to provide these things?

Enter the idea of charity. Obviously these issues come down to a lack of resources (well money, basically) and the resources, when not provided by the government, come from charities (or NGOs - Non-Governmental Organizations). In Canada though, and I'm sure across the globe, I see people suffering from donor fatigue (a lessening of public willingness to respond generously to charitable appeals, resulting from the frequency of such appeals). We have been howled for years to give. Shown fly-ridden images of starving children, and from the pit of our stomachs we felt empathy and gave. But for how long can we look at these images and feel guilt?

Les enfants d'aujourd'hui seront les adultes de demain.
If we look deeper at the core issue though, we will uncover a truth that has been buried beneath layers of doubt and denial. We are facing a problem of unity. When we view the world through the lens of 'us' and 'them', we miss our commonality. When we forget that we are created equal, that leaves only room for intolerance and animosity. The way I see it, for as long as we don't look at our world as a shared space between us all, there will be no real progress. I see no other solution.

"The feeling of being upset or annoyed, especially because of inability to change or achieve something." The dictionary is rather successful at putting my feelings into words this week. But like always, resting in frustration or pity or guilt does nothing. One must channel these feelings into something that will make this world a better place. A place that weeds out injustice, inequality and inferiority. A place that flourishes on kindness, selflessness and oneness. Optimism is seen as futile to some (certainly to me from time to time), but in this moment, the way I see it: the future needs hopeful seeds to be planted today in order for us to thrive tomorrow.

Sunday, February 5, 2012

Nasarra





Photo credit goes to Marie for the pictures this week.
I have never noticed race as much as I have here. Perhaps a better way of putting it: I have never felt so white. And along with my whitewashed complexion comes a type of celebrity status here. In Yako, if you are white it's a dead give-a-way that you don't originate from here, thus people notice you, talk to you, children want to grab a second of your attention; all because of the pigmentation.
Some benefits of the celebrity status:

I get lots of greetings everyday. While biking or walking the streets, if I make eye contact with anyone, they are likely looking right back at me, so I will say: "Bonjour" or "Bonsoir" and reciprocally I will receive the same. I am working on my salutations in the local language. I know what they are, but I always get a laugh when I try and pronounce them.




The children in Yako are always very excited to see a nasarra (which means 'white' in the local language of Mooré; or sometimes I am called le blanc in french). Some kids will only ask for candy, but others will give me a beaming smile, say "hi" and be content with a shake of my hand. The kids in the courtyard are also very amazed by the feel of my hair since it's much different then theirs.


Some downfalls to being the white man:
The sun is out to get me. Thank-you SPF 50 for saving me thus far.  

I lost my birth name (sorry mom and dad). I liked Kevin, it was a solid name, but in the streets: Je m'appelle Nasarra.

Going to the market is not always the most fun experience. Because I am white, the vendors will sometimes yell out "Nasarra!" to grab my attention. Not necessarily a bad thing, it's just that I'm not a fan of 'pressure-shopping'.

White - Nasarra - Le Blanc. They are just words. I know that here I am easily noticed, but once people get to know me and what I am doing, I reclaim my birth name and become just another person in their life. The racial difference dissipates quickly. This isn't meant to be a profound reflection on racial difference, it's just hard to deny the fact that I am one of only a handful of white people in Yako, and that makes life a little different for me.