The look of quiet strength

Life after the sudden and unexpected coup d'etat and evacuation has slowly simmered into...a lot of contemplation.

In my last blog, I wrote candidly about my feelings after being unwillingly removed from Mali. I joke that I have "refugee" status, but really that's not funny. There are real refugees in Mali, and all around the world, who have had no such shelter and no such luxury as I did to flee the country...safely.

With that said, the taking of my Peace Corps life has told a very telling story. Just a month ago, my life for the next 12 months was perfectly planned out. Just a month ago, I was researching vacations, graduate schools and job prospects for my post-Peace Corps life. And now, in just one month, I'm on a new continent, contemplating in which country to live and just exploring what it feels like to live by the seat of my...gut.

Evacuation has taught me how short life is. I took it for granted that I would live another year of my Peace Corps life. What things would I have done, had I known? To me, it's important, to live with no regrets, to try new things and to be audacious, and never have to look back and wish I had done something I didn't do. So, when I look back at my Peace Corps life, I have no regrets. This experience has taught me that life is too short not to tell people how much they mean to you. That life is too short not to dig into those relationships that make it worthwhile. That life is too short not to live the life you deserve. And it's also too short to give up on your dreams.

What would you do if you weren't afraid? (in short)

I am so glad I worked hard on the language acquisition in Mali. It taught me so much about the beautiful depths of the culture and it illustrated how hard I was willing to work for my Malian friends. I am so glad that I spent all that time walking down the streets, greeting literally every person I saw. Strolling down the street, greeting, was always something I enjoyed, but now I see its true importance, in retrospect. I guess it was about a willingness to integrate...mutual respect, that I could show my Malian friends.

I am so grateful I spent time chatting with people under the constantly moving shade, dancing my way through the hard times and telling jokes left and right, as Malian culture dictates.

I can squeeze my eyes shut and see Sabou's smile. Sabou is the President of my women's shea butter cooperative. She is one of the most inspirational, strong-willed and saavy women I know. Sabou is a feminist in a country marked as one of the worst places in the world to be a woman. Sabou survives Polio, and cannot walk, in a country where there are no legal rights for people in her position. She strongly and slowly cranks her hand-crank wheelchair around the rough edges of Mali, without a complaint and often with a fabulous sense of humor. In a country where it is stigmatized to A) be a woman, B) a strong, outspoken woman and C) living with physical handicaps...AND running her own business with more than 1,000 members, as a WOMAN? Yeah, that's Sabou. She's awesome. She graces us all with her incontrovertible strength.

One of my up-and-coming friends (right before the coup) and a new English student of mine, Mami, lived down the road from me. Almost daily, Mami would call on me from her concession, while she was busy juggling the pounding of grains for her family's meal, the care of her younger siblings and her studies. She would yell, "HEY RAMATA! AN BENA ANGALAKAN KALAN WA?" (Hey, Ramata! Are we going to study English?) And she never stopped asking me.

I would tell Mami that when work lessened, then we would start studying together. Mami is one of the very few students chosen to explore Holland on a student exchange program with the Dutch organization, Voorshoten. She wanted very badly to learn English so that she could speak it when she arrived in Holland.

When I finally went to spend some time with Mami and her family, I was overcome with an incredible sense of respect for her, and for the quiet strength of all the women I had met in Mali.

I sat there, with my hands in my pockets while Mami welcomed me into her home one night. This meant sitting outside under the one, flickering light, while Mami and her dozens of family members and friends buzzed with chatter. We sat, joked and drank tea. They all begged me to stay for dinner. It was getting late and I really wanted to get some work done, but I relented.

Mami pulled out her English books, proudly. She told me how much she wanted to learn English and she smiled at me with a big, toothy grin. As she did this, her brother, who is about five years or so younger than she, started hitting her, telling her she was stupid and protesting that she couldn't speak English at all.

The insults being a product of youth immaturity, I can understand that, but what I witnessed that night represented a greater obstacle that women in Mali, and really, in the world, experience...all the time.

How could Mami ever build the confidence to persevere when she was constantly told she "Can't do it"? How could Mami ever convince her parents to keep her in school when the entire society thinks she's not the right gender to complete the task? Furthermore, where could Mami turn when searching for the possibility of an English-speaking Malian woman when there are none in her environment?

Often, people say that there aren't adequate numbers of women in politics or science, for example, because women don't want to be in these fields. It's way more complex than that.

And Mami is a great example. Did Mami want to learn English? Did she want to stay in school? Did she want to make good grades and eventually graduate to college? Did she want a career of her own, able to function as her own autonomous individual? The answer to these questions is Absolutely! But when she had people, especially those stereotypically in power, telling her that she cannot do it, that she isn't good enough, that it's not appropriate work for her gender...It's just not that easy. And that night, I could understand the plight of women in Mali just a little better.

Mami, of course, prevailed, and continued to badger me to teach her English. That night, I invited her to my English club and she met some wonderful English learners.

There is this look that I noticed when I was in Mali. I saw it when I looked up to Sabou during big decisions. I saw it when I glanced at Mami that night, amid her brother's insults. I, myself, stared unwaveringly, when my male boss at my women's sewing school refused to shake my hand because I am a woman. It's the look of quiet strength. Quiet perseverance.

When I told Sabou and my Si Nafa people "Good-bye," Sabou told me not to worry. Although Mali seemed to be crumbling and sliding away like sand slides through fingers, Sabou told me that they would not stop working. They would keep going. And she gave me this look, and I understood.

Do you see it?