Barack u Bama

Just an interesting linguistic fact that struck me the other day- in French, the word for "guest" is the same as the word for "host". It's the same word.

I was not looking forward to the field trip for International Development class. In fact, I was loathing it. Stressing over it. I did NOT want to go. And normally I like field trips.

But all Professor Kane told us was that we were going to visit the Liberté 6 slums, to see how development didn't work. A bunch of white college students going on a field trip to see the "Barack" of people who had been kicked out of their homes so the land could be used for a hotel or airport or restaurant. Displaced people. And we were going to see just how bad they had it. Poor people, our teacher kept reminding us, and he always shouts, in English, to emphasize his point. It was embarassing. I'm not here to see poor people because they're poor. I don't want to be that American who looks and takes pictures and smiles at all the cute children and doesn't give money even though she could and should because isn't it all just so fascinating, how they make do with so little? And isn't it so sad, and even infuriating, all of the indignities they've had to go through because of the circumstances? I don't want to be that American student.

And I was. We all were. Fifteen students took an oh-so-colorful Car Rapide to the Barack of Liberté 6. We were met by a couple who showed us around, and the first thing they said was 'bienvenue". They thanked us for coming to visit, and for taking interest in their group. We got a tour of the polio vaccination clinic, the school and preschool, the old health post (closed down because they couldn't afford supplies or a doctor's salary), the whole neighborhood, really. And everywhere we saw "welcome" it was painted on the sides of buildings and spoken everywhere we went. The most welcome I felt, though, was when we visited the barack Imam. He joked with us and (helped by a translator or two) gave a whole speech about how America was going to help them, about how we were here as students now, but he hoped we could come back later to help out. He showed us the mosque and then prayed, we all did, but it wasn't uncomfortable. We simply held our hands palms up in front of us, bowed our heads, and listened to him (and the translators) say how he hoped we would become the next President of the United States, or marry a Senegalese man or woman, or do well in our studies, and above all be well and come back some day.

This was not a Muslim prayer, it was a human prayer. It was friendly and forgiving and I felt the sun soaking into my palms and I looked at the pack of children that of course had been following us the whole time, and I looked over the corrugated iron rooftops of the makeshift shacks at the shining new apartment complexes and I couldn't understand what the imam was doing or saying but he was still praying for me, one of those American students who came to see the slums, to see how poor people live here. And the professor kept saying at every stop, "can you imagine this? Can you imagine living in these conditions?" and he was saying that right in front of them, and he was our teacher, our Senegalese teacher who was shouting in English "Do you see this? They are poor!" and my face was burning but they were thanking us for coming and I wanted to help and I couldn't and they weren't asking for our help, they were asking for us to come back when we could help, and to be well until then.

I'm not sure I understood correctly what was going on next but apparently there was someone named Bama, and we were going to visit her house, because that meant we were visiting the "Barack u Bama", so it was funny, right?

It was a tiny room with no electricity, that we all couldn't fit in at once, and so we awkwardly filed in and out of it as quickly as we could, thanking our host for having us. I was the last one, and tried to thank her in Wolof. As I was leaving, another woman beckoned to me. My teacher explained that she was saying that she couldn't afford a gas burner (4,000 CFA- $8) and had to cook over a wood fire, and that she had asked me to buy her a gas burner, but he had already explained that I was a student and didn't have any money. I promised her that next time I came back I'd get her a gas stove. She laughed, and said something else, but I was already walking away. I heard my teacher shout after me "Do you understand, Johanna, what she is saying? You see, she has nothing, absolutely nothing, and she is inviting you to share lunch with her! This is how poor people live here!"

I understand, Professor Kane. It's okay, you don't have to shout. And you don't have to speak English, I understand French. And I understand some Wolof too, enough to ask two little girls if they went to school. Enough to tell Bama's neighbor that next time I'll bring her a gas stove and we'll share lunch.

The children waved goodbye to us, shouting and as we pulled away they started singing as one big grinning clapping waving mob. We waved back, mostly to keep them from climbing onto the car rapide as it was moving. And we drove away, and went back to school. Just like that.