Closing Remarks

Note: this will be emo.

Today, I am officially a returned Peace Corps Volunteer. I suppose that is as good a time as any to write this. The ferocity of my emotions astounds me, has left me exhausted for weeks now. I am not really processing what's happened. When I can curl up in a corner in my mom or my sister's house, I might dig it all up. But for now I'm burying most of it. When it floats back up to the surface, I just push it farther down. This is how I sleep, how I don't cry, how I don't lose it. Volunteers are always weird when they get back to the states - you can't return from an experience like this unchanged (or so I'm told). Those of us in Peace Corps Mali that are about to go back are going to be even more strange. Being wrenched from your home will do that to you (See? told you it'd be emo).

I'm assuming that by now you have all seen Mali splashed across the news. Hint: there was a coup d'etat. If you're still confused, I would suggest searching BBC, Reuters, or the Associated Press. If you're interested in personal opinions on what the Malian population is going through, there are also many useful blogs. This, however, is not directly about the current events in Mali but about what I personally have been going through.

What would you take with you? I looked around my house (MY house) after saying goodnight to my mom on March 21st, wondering how one packs almost 2 years into an evacuation bag. That evening, my mom had called to tell me there was shooting in Bamako, the first I'd heard of anything. It shook me, but I didn't actually believe anything would happen. The next day, I imagined writing this entry, how I would commemorate my time in Mali, but I didn't actually believe anything would happen. Days went by and things got so much worse. I had many conversations in which I said that they couldn't keep us in Mali, we'd eventually have to evacuate. But in my heart I didn't actually believe anything would happen. On April 2nd I was allowed to return to village and then on April 3rd I was told to go back to Koutiala. I said goodbye to Adiaratou and Drissa, but not real goodbyes. I didn't tell anyone else because even though we were being consolidated to Bamako, I didn't actually believe anything would happen. I would be back. I think they call that denial.

I spent 11 1/2 days consolidated (coup-ed up, if you will) in the Koutiala stage house. That is a rather small house and there were 10 of us there... not exactly the best situation. We occupied a couple of days by painting murals at the Women & Children's hospital, but mostly we just sat around, watching tv, napping, reading... listless. My emotions were on what I thought was a roller coaster. After the last few days here (think one of those roller coasters where they strap you in, your legs are left dangling, and you spin and swoop and dive so much that your head is swimming afterwards), I would say that those days of consolidation was more like driving over large hills. Waiting was horrible. We reloaded news pages constantly, wanting something consistent and definitive. It was incredibly frustrating and irritating to not know what you were planning for or when you'd be allowed to go home.

Then, on Sunday (April 1st), we were told we could return to site the next day. A few people left as soon as the sun was up to lead the way; I had a few things to do so I waited until afternoon. A wave of relief washed over me as I walked down the mango tree flanked road leading into my village. I used the time as if it were any other time at home, like my future wasn't up in the air. The morning of the 3rd, a friend called to tell me that we were being sent to Sikasso or possibly Bamako. I registered that this was the beginning of the end, but I didn't accept it. I explained to Drissa and Adiaratou that I might not be able to come back, but when I left we said "see you soon!" I didn't say goodbye to my village, take last minute pictures, or try to 'tie things up' - that would have made it too real, too difficult. I was lucky because I was able to go back and get some sort of closure - many volunteers weren't allowed to return to site. But I realized as I locked my door for the last time (actively ignoring that it might be the last time) that if I was being forced to leave, it would be impossible for me to truly find closure.

That night, we received the email of evacuation. Reading it, I just felt numb. I suppose there was some relief at having a definitive answer to all of the waiting, even if it wasn't the answer I wanted. The next day was horrible, full of goodbyes and harsh realities. When we arrived at the training center that evening, I put up my tent and collapsed, drained from the emotions of the day. The next few days were spent at the training center outside of Bamako, preparing to leave. There was quite a bit of drinking. On Sunday we flew to Accra, which is in itself quite a culture shock when coming from Mali. Peace Corps has put us up in a really nice hotel where we spent the week doing processing stuff, having what they call a 'transition conference.' As I noted earlier, my emotions the last few days have mirrored one of those roller coasters with a superhero name. Again, there's been a bit of drinking. I've spent the week trying to figure out what I'm going to do with my future, ignoring what has happened the last few weeks. Dealing with one is enough, I don't think I could handle emotions attached to both the past and the future. Much easier to compartmentalize. At this point, the conference is over and we all have some basic idea of what we're doing next, even if that plan is to fly somewhere else. I, for example, will be flying to Istanbul and a few other places before returning to the states and applying to become a response volunteer. Hopefully within a few months, I will be jetting off to some other place and adventure. I am excited to see family and friends in the states and to have a few small luxuries back, but understand that right now I want to be home, in my village, so I might be a little weird. Understand that a part of me will always be in Mali and that I will always carry Mali with me.

Mali,
The last 21 months have flown by. I was planning on another 17 months with you, I wasn't prepared to leave like this. You have taught me so much, helped me grow in so many ways, I can't begin to express my gratitude. I came to you wanting to make a difference, but it's me that you have changed. I will never forget:
 sitting with my Drissa drinking tea; laughing at my dancing with my women; the first time Ina smiled and called out my name; the shy excitement of my siblings; waking up and looking out across the fields, feeling overwhelmingly content and lucky; giggling with Sali; holding Safiatou's hand as we greeted; the way young mothers nervously fretted over their babies; the way older, experienced mothers would toss their babies around like it was nothing; Djelika's laugh; joking with strangers about completely inappropriate things; taking a bucket bath under the stars; the stars; feeling safe just because it's Mali; the woman who sold sweet potatoes at market; the protective-ness of Bwa & Salif when I went to market.... So many people, so many things.
You have taught me many forms of patience. You've taught me the goodness of people, the importance of basic education, and how truly fortunate I am in so many ways. You've taught me to acknowledge my weaknesses, but you've also taught me how I am strong. I am forever indebted to you, and I promise to return, even if only for a visit. Mali, i nyenanfin be n na kelen. I be n miiri la kosebe ani hakiliw te na jigi, u te na bo.

Peace & Love
Elyse