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Ci Amerik Gus laa tudd, Ruchman laa sant, wante fii am naa turu Olof. Maangi tudd Moustapha Gaye. Man jangkat laa; duma fajkat. Bi ma ñëwee fii, ci sama rew, Sénégal, lakk naa Angale ak Espagnol ndaxte jangoon naa Espagnol ba sonn ci jangukaay, wante lakkaguma Faranse walla Olof. Leggi dama mën a waxtaan ak nit ñi ci dëkk bi—doonte ma juum bu bare ba leggi—ndaxte ma jeem a wax ci lakk bu askanu rew, waaye su ñu waxée Peulh walla Sóosee kesse, dégguma daara. Lu ma yaggée fii tutti rekk, ma dégg Olof bu doy ngir liggey ci Poste de Santé. Móo tax bi may dajée ay mbokk ci Dakar, sama magu baay ne na ma, “yow jambar nga!”

Defe naa Olof bu xot móo gën a rafet Olof bu jaxase ak Faranse. Fii ci Noflaye ak Sangalkam loolu mungi dee. Bu ma jëfantikoo benn badd bu xot, sama waa kër ñu ree ma. Sama mag bu góor bañ a jappale ma ndax mu lakk “Olof Hip-Hop.” Ma ne, “nii du Olof bu dëgg. Dama bëgg am xam-xam bu seeni cossan!” Waaye dama fatteliku lu mu jangal ma Elhadj, xaritu Emily ku doon dimbale ma ma yokk lakk Olof: “nopp móo mag borom.” Xam naa Sénégal mungi soopeku di dafa mel nii dina reer ay cossanam yu baax. Kon boog damay jóoyal cadawu Sénégal.

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Aux Etats-Unis je m’appelle Gus, et mon nom de famille est Ruchman, mais ici j’ai un nom Wolof. Je m’appelle Moustapha Gaye. Je suis un étudiant, ne pas un médecin. Lorsque je suis venu ici, à mon pais, Sénégal, j’ai parlé l’angle et l’espagnol parce que j’étudiais l’espagnol pendant longtemps au lycée, mais je n’ai pas encore parlé le français ou le wolof. Maintenant je peux bavarder avec les gens du village—même si je me trompe beaucoup encore—parce que j’essaie à parler la langue du peuple du pays, cependant s’ils parlent seulement le peulh ou le sóosee, je ne comprends rien. Bien que ça fasse un peu de temps que je suis ici, je comprends wolof assez pour travailler au Poste de Santé. C’est pourquoi lorsque je rencontrais des membres de la famille au Dakar, le grand frère de mon père m’a dit, « vous êtes un guerrier ! »

Je crois que le wolof profond est plus beau que le wolof mélangé avec le français. Ici à Noflaye et Sangalkam, cela meurt. Quand j’utilise un mot profond, ma famille me rit. Mon grand frère refuse de m’aider car il parle « le wolof de la hip-hop. » Je dis, « comme ça n’est pas le vrais wolof. Je voudrais avoir connaissance de vos traditions ! » Cependant je me rappelle que Elhadj, un amie d’Emily qui m’aidait améliorer parler le wolof, m’a enseigné : « les oreilles sont plus vieux que les siennes à lui. » Je sais que Sénégal est en train de changer, et il semble qu’il aille perdre de leurs traditions merveilleux. Ainsi je pleure pour la culture du Sénégal.

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In America my name is Gus, and my last name is Ruchman, but here I have a Wolof name. My name is Moustapha Gaye. I am a student, not a doctor. When I came here, to my country, Senegal, I spoke English and Spanish because I had studied Spanish for a long time in high school, but I did not yet speak French or Wolof. Now I can chat with with people in the village—even if I still make a lot of mistakes—because I try to speak the language of the people of the country, however if they only speak Peulhar or Sóosee, I do not understand anything. Even though I have been here just a little while, I understand enough Wolof to work at the Poste de Santé. That is why when I was meeting relatives in Dakar [at a family reunion], my father’s older brother told me, “you are a warrior!”

I think that the deep Wolof is more beautiful than Wolof mixed with French. Here in Noflaye and Sangalkam it is dying. When I use a deep word, my family laughs at me. My older brother refuses to help me because he speaks “Hip-Hop Wolof.” I say, “this is not true Wolof. I want to have knowledge of your traditions!” However, I remember what Elhadj, a friend of Emily who was helping me improve my Wolof, taught me: “ears are older than one’s own.” I know that Senegal is changing and it seems that it will lose some of its wonderful traditions. Thus I cry for Senegalese culture.

15 years after Michael Jackson chose to record his historic music video “They Don’t Care About Us” in Brazil, the problems that Jackson tried to reveal through his video still exists. If you haven’t watched his video (the one he made in Brazil, not the one that was made in the U.S.), I recommend doing so (located above), not only because I think it is a terrifically made music video with powerful imagery but rather it will show you a side of Brazil that many news casters and even the government try to shy away from.

The opening scene features Jackson walking down the historic center of Salvador, Bahia, called the Pelorinho. To anyone who has visited Salvador, or has studied Brazilian history will know that to different people this historic center can represent many different things.  To a Portuguese settler back in the 1500s it marks the place of the first successful conquest of the Portuguese in the Americas. To someone of Afro-Brazilian descent it can represent years of culture, challenges, and racism. The challenges and racism that Afro-Brazilians faced in the 1500s are probably quite obvious:  slavery and oppression brought on by the Portuguese settlers. But modern day Afro-Brazilians that still try to make a living in the Pelorinho face the same challenges that they did in 1500s. Of course they are not enslaved but the oppression is still ever apparent. After the United Nations declared that the Pelorinho is  a World Heritage Site (basically meaning that it holds global historical value, kind of a big deal) and over 100 million dollars was dedicated to its restoration, many of the Afro-Brazilians that were living there have been either pushed out to 1) Make room for what the United Nations and the Brazilian government feel is more culturally fitting (i.e. artists, gift shops) and 2) Have reaped little to none of the economic benefits from the restoration. When Jackson says, “They don’t care about us,” this is what he means.

But the oppression of Afro-Brazilians not only occurs in this one isolated part of the Pelorino, the oppression of another hidden class is shown in the other back-drop that Michael Jackson chose to shoot his video in: the favela. The favela is basically the equivalent to a slum or the “ghetto” in the U.S. As someone who lives in a favela and passes what seems thousands of them a day to get into the interior of the city, you would think that more people would know about them, they almost seem to be the norm, but the reaction from the Brazilian government when Michael wanted to shoot his video in one of Rio de Janeiro’s most poor favelas says otherwise. The Brazilian Supreme Court at first banned production of the video because they thought the filming of the favelas would hurt their chances at the clinching nomination for the 2004 Olympics. So when Michael Jackson sings, “They are putting me in a class with bad name,” this what he means. I have experienced this first-hand. When I speak to my other Brazilian friends who live in the tourist parts of Salvador or in richer-neighborhoods, they cringe when I tell them I live in Piraja (what many would say is a favela). I can’t even begin to imagine or know what it feels like for someone who gets this type of reaction from people within their own city, let alone country. Citizens are shrugged to the side, left, and forgotten about.

So  I challenge you, as the 2014 World Cup and 2016 Olympic news coverage is being revved up, look for news that even begins to touch on the homes and families that are being pulled apart and torn down for the new buildings that are being constructed for the some of the world’s largest events here in Brazil. It’s easy to ignore something when the voices of the oppressed have already been silenced.

After only a few days of starting to volunteer there I already felt that I had been building great relationships with the kids and staff. Despite the difficult it can be to communicate, every day that passes I feel more a part of the community that Baguncaco has built. In all fairness, I am not responsible for the kids to learn anything in particular, but I do help out wherever I can and always have a blast. Playing a turned over oil drum with one of the “baterias”, or trying not to completely embarrass myself when I attempt to play “futeball” with the kids, it’s a positive and fun place to be.

In the moment, things at Baguncaco seem like all fun and games, playing music, keeping kids in the gate, but it was made clear to me how important it all is when some of the staff members shared with me how some of the kids had been involved in dangerous things in their community and that Baguncaco was what helped them out of them. Knowing that having fun with these kids and keeping them in the gate and off the street, even if only for a couple hours a day, could help prevent them from leading a life of drugs and violence dictated by their negative surroundings gave me an entirely new understanding of the importance of Baguncaco.

Before reading on, take a moment and watch this video that was recorded here in my neighborhood.

At lunch today my grandmother told me she went out to her daily physical therapy, but she told me the police on strike was getting worse day by day. I stayed confused until I was awoken from my nap by neighborhood yelling, “Pegue muitas coisas na Todo Dia, Casas Bahia e Cesta do Povo!” “I took many things from Todo Dia (Supermarket), Casas Bahia (Furniture/Electronic store) and Cesta do povo (Supermarket).”

I woke up confused. I ask my mom what’s going on, she says, “a povo ta oprevatando que a poliçia nao ta trabalhando.”  “The people are taking advantage that the police are not working.”

My grandmother’s god daughter came into our home bringing us a huge box of packets of flour, a packet of toilet paper, bottles of oil, packets of garlic, two boxes of ‘bom-boms’,  and more chocolate, etc.!! People are literally going crazy grabbing what they can because no one will stop them.

Early this morning I asked my mom if she wanted to go to the movies later on in the night and she told me if this whole police thing calms down then, yes we’ll go.  But after I woke up she gave me that look of, “we are staying home tonight.”
It already being Friday, my whole neighborhood is leaping with joy and blasting the music a little earlier than usual.    My little neighborhood friend Anny-Kelly laughed and yelled out that she was going to sell the shoes she took and make money.

My aunt ran into our house informing us about all the gossip from our neighborhood.  She told us who took what and who is trying to sell products to whom already.  She also told us the street where most of the robbers live were walking down their street with huge refrigerators on their backs, brand new mattresses, and new flat screen TV’s.  I was not surprised at all; I knew it would get this wild!

Because they stole things, (or let me put this in a nicer way) they took things without getting in trouble. This is how most people started their weekend here in Piarajá. It’s not black Friday here, but it is definitely Free Friday (for most people).  Or how my mom ended our conversation about this current event, “Deus e mais!”  Povo corrupto = políticos corruptos.

In partnership with the University of the Americas (UDLA) and the US Embassy in Quito, Global Citizen Year in Ecuador hosted an event, entitled “From Freedom Riders to Freedom Drivers: Cultivating Young Leaders for Freedom in Ecuador,” to commemorate the anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr’s birthday.

The event was held on the UDLA campus in Quito on the first night of the Mid-Term Retreat (January 5^th, 2012).  It was the second cultural exchange that has taken place between the Global Citizen Year Fellows and Ecuadorian youth the Embassy’s Young Ambassadors Program and UDLA students .

During the event, the young leaders viewed excerpts from the Public Broadcasting Studio (PBS) documentary film, “Freedom Riders,” and subsequently discussed issues related to cross-cultural leadership for promoting positive social change.

The GCY fellows and staff, UDLA students, Young Ambassadors from the US Embassy Program, and representatives from UDLA and the US Embassy in Quito came together to celebrate MLK's legacy..

How can you properly prepare yourself for a visit to a developing country?  Iver and I thought we were prepared. Visiting the Travel Clinic, we had five immunizations, Typhoid doses, and had Malaria pills set aside for the trip.  We read snippets from books about Senegal.  We followed the Fellows’ blog postings, learning about their adventures to date.  We packed clothing using Erica’s suggestions so that, as tourists, we would not commit any fashion faux pas!  We were prepared to use cash for all transactions rather than our credit cards.  I tried to recall French phrases (from my high school classes!) that might be useful.  Erica arranged transportation, lodging and an itinerary for our week-long visit.  All was set.  Farewell Ames, Iowa.  Bonjour, Senegal!

As it turned out, Iver and I could never have been fully prepared for this most extraordinary experience.  How can I express the elation of seeing our daughter, Erica, after a five-month absence?  And how can we measure all the ways she has grown and changed during that time as she adapted to her new life and became a global citizen?

Erica with two parent families (deux famillies des parents)

Although Erica claimed that we were having the toubab version of a visit to Senegal (protected, vacationing part of the time like tourists), we were certainly in and amongst the people in a variety of cities and villages to witness “real life” there.  What an assault to the senses!  Imagine the vivid colors and patterns in the flowing women’s dresses (boubous) and head wraps –the beautiful Senegalese women are a favorite image.  Picture the colorful array of produce and other items at the vendors’ stands along the sandy streets and alleys.  Feel the warmth of a handshake and see the wide smile extended as a greeting.  Hear the cacophony of noise in the streets – car horns, truck and bus engines, donkey and horse hooves on the pavement, goats bleating, Muslim prayer chants being broadcast over loudspeakers.  Taste the distinct flavors of chebujen, onion sauce on rice, and bissap juice (made from dried hibiscus flowers).  Listen to the staccato of Wolof being spoken and to the lilt of French (and marvel at your daughter’s/son’s incredible command of both languages!).  All is rich and wondrous.

Corosol fruit, grown at Le Verger, the fruit orchard where Erica works

The opposite is true, too.  The smell of diesel fumes that belch out of trucks and cars (no pollution controls) and burning garbage cause the air quality to be toxic.  Lack of infrastructure is obvious in the condition of roads and the availability of drinking water to all regions of the country.  Sanitation leaves much to be desired.  Safe handling of food is dubious … suffice it to say that we were very careful about what we ate.  Street hustlers shove their wares in front of you – sunglasses, mobile phone cards, made-in-China “African” souvenirs – they are like pesky flies everywhere you go in tourist areas.  The feeling of helplessness is overwhelming every time women and children surround you begging for money; the face of poverty is everywhere and is heart-wrenching.

Teranga (Wolof, meaning Hospitality) is a proud heritage of the Senegalese people and was clearly evident.  Erica’s host papa, Lamine, took a week from his busy life to be with us, to chauffeur us to various places (he rented a car), and keep us safe.  As a result, we spent quality time with Lamine and learned much about himself and his family, his business, his tri-village community and about Senegal.  Lamine is an amazing man, a proud ambassador of his country and is Erica’s best friend.  Erica’s host family was excited to meet us and were welcoming and friendly.  Neighbors invited us into their homes and offered beverages or special tea to us.  Sometimes we even heard, in English, “Welcome to Senegal!  How are you?”

Assuredly, we saw unforgettable sights:  shifting sands in the desert dunes at Lompoul, donkey and horse carts laden with people and goods traveling along a sand “superhighway” at the edge of the surf of the Atlantic Ocean, the breathtaking silhouette of a baobab tree (Tree of Life in Senegal), goats everywhere, women conducting their daily tasks with a baby tied in a sling around their waist and/or carrying a basket on their head, colorfully-painted pirogues (fishing boats), bright-hued bougainvillea growing in many places, people jam-packed into brightly-decorated buses, and unusual fruit such as corosolgrowing at Le Verger, the fruit orchard where Erica works.

A beautiful baobab tree

Regrets?  Yes, there are a few.  I wish I spoke the language so that I could have had more meaningful conversations (but thank you, Erica, for your patience and impressive translation talents!).  I wish I could have taken pictures of the beautiful women in their clothing, or their houses/huts, or the colorful and dirty melee that is a marketplace … but it would have been rude to do so.  I wish we had been in a place to experience music and dancing.  I wish I had left my warm cot in our Bedouin tent to watch the sun rise over the desert.  Maybe next time …

We said our tearful goodbyes at the airport in Dakar.  I admonished Papa to please continue to watch over and care for our beloved daughter and to send her home to us in April.  I felt guilty at leaving – as mothers, we spend so much of our lives protecting our “babies” – from this distance I can’t provide her with an occasional warm shower or some variety in her diet or comfort when she has a difficult day.  Understand, however, that Erica has no complaints; for now, she is Mame Diara, confidently and joyfully a citizen of Senegal.

You note a thousand differences between life in Senegal and life in the United States.  Trying to reconcile these differences, especially between the “we have” and “they have not” has been my biggest challenge since my return home seven days ago.  I wept as I took a hot shower in my sanitized, modern home and had tears in my eyes as I pushed my grocery cart through the store to buy food.  How we take for granted these comforts, these services, these opportunities, this endless variety!  There are many kinds of aches in the world, some so beautiful and overpowering.

I may have returned to my life in Ames, Iowa but part of my heart stayed behind.  God bless our children living and working in Senegal – they are remarkable!  Global citizens … we are incredibly proud of them.  I pray for their well-being, their happiness, and for their safe return.

Le Village des Tortues ("Turtle Village" — Erica's Papa is the director of this ecotourism spot, and the country's tortoise expert)

Our visit to the U. S. Agency for International Development Project

sun dissolve into the horizon… quite an idyllic setting for a mid-term retreat. We all stood in soft awe at the scene where we would set aside the daily challenges of our immersion experience and work life, to reflect, in serenity, on the past few months.

We spent the mornings in training sessions on Foreign Aid and Local Development, the Girl Effect, and Cross-cultural Leadership. The Global Citizen Year staff and experts from the region led the training sessions. A highlight of the training was a field trip to a cacao project funded by the United States Agency for International Development (USAID), where we learned about the role of US taxpayers’ dollars in supporting local cacao farmers to conserve their forests. We also enjoyed getting our hands dirty in one of the cacao nurseries that USAID supports.

A group of seven Fellows impressed us when they took the lead in one of the trainings to reflect on the Fellows’ achievements during the past few months. The leaders of this session did an excellent job at keeping the rest of the Fellows and staff engaged with fun and interactive activities that led to meaningful reflection and discussions about our personal journeys this year.

Fellow Welcome Dundas during the Fellow led session

In the afternoons we had free time to relax and enjoy the beach and each other’s company. Swimming in the ocean and in the pool on top of the cliff were popular afternoon activities.  Beach Frisbee and friendly sand wrestling came in second.  A group of Fellows got their hair braided by local artisans, while others braved the waves in a small boat. At dusk, everyone watched the sun drop into the waves and, of course, took pictures.

At night, we ate coconut shrimp and other famous Ecuadorian sea-food dishes. Games of ping-pong and pool were also prominent while other Fellows played the guitar and sang by a fire, toasting marshmallows. On one occasion, we all danced to the beat of the Afro-Ecuadorian traditional music – marimba (ballaphone), presented by a local band that came to play. The Fellows also bravely participated in an impromptu talent show.

From the staff perspective, our mid-term retreat was a complete success. Not only was it a relaxing and fun event, but it also gave the Fellows the opportunity to complement their field experiences with outside information and perspectives on development and their role within it. Critically, the retreat also gave the Fellows the space to share experiences and bond to form a more cohesive team.

Personally, I left the retreat feeling more energized than ever before. I was inspired by how well the Fellows had adapted to their individual Ecuadorian experiences. Their increased self-confidence and sense of possibility were palpable in a way that I had not sensed so far this year. It was clear that most of the Fellows were hitting their stride and were eager to make the most of the last three months of their time in-country. And the mid-term retreat allowed all of us – including the Fellows and staff – to take stock of how far we had come in this collective journey.

EQUATORIAL PACIFIC SUNSET

“You have no idea, but you came at exactly the right moment. I don’t think you realize, but you have helped me today much more than I have helped you. You’ve helped me much more than you’ll ever truly know.”

10:00 PM and we were just leaving the office. My incessant questions and confusion about simple tasks had amounted to more than twelve hours of work in one day. But not the type of work you’d expect in a development apprenticeship. Instead of working in the field, planting cacao; or in the classroom, managing a room full of mischievous kids; or in a health center, catering to the needs of an underserved population, I had spent all day in a beautiful, well-lit, thoughtfully decorated office working with the latest graphic design programs on the newest version of a Mac desktop. Needless to say, I had been comfortable.

Early that morning, I had left my hometown of Tena to work with the designer of our office’s publications in a neighboring town located about two hours away. I had met our designer once before, but I still didn’t know him well. From the first impression, he seemed to be “buena gente”—pensive, patient, intelligent. Definitely living in a more comfortable economic class than others I have encountered in my time here. We spent all day conversing, getting to know each other, working. Which is why when we left the office that night at 10:00 PM, his words caught me completely off guard. I looked at him in surprise, my face reflecting the questions racing through my mind. As I opened my mouth to respond, to try to deflect the comment, he continued, “You see, things haven’t been going so well. Honestly, I haven’t been in the office lately. I haven’t been working. When you called me this morning to ask about the address of my office, I didn’t know what day it was. I had forgotten you were coming, but when you called, I pulled together all the strength I had to try to put forward my best effort. For the past couple months, things have been pretty rough. I’ve had a lot of problems. But today, finding out that you were a Christian, that we share the same faith, that I could have something so uniquely distinct in common with someone who comes from so far away has been one of the biggest comforts I’ve had in a long time.”

I continued to stare at him in disbelief, as I tried to remember how he even knew what faith I held. Suddenly, it hit me. A five minute exchange we had had that morning was sparking this confession. He had asked me what type of music I liked to listen to, and followed that question by asking me to classify the genre of music he was playing at the time. After he defined it as the product of Christian artists, he confirmed that he listened to this genre because he also shared the same faith. Excitedly, I extended the commonality of our faith, but this camaraderie was quickly pushed to the side as heaps of design questions and decisions shoved their way into the center of our attention.

Still reeling in the weight of his words, I was so shocked. Taken aback. Honored. Blessed. It’s very easy to forget that simply because people do not live in poverty does not mean that they are problem-free. No matter where you are, who you are, or what you do, we all struggle, we all prosper. We fail, we succeed, we learn.

He continued, “It’s hard to live this life sometimes. It can be lonely.” Immediately, the prior feelings of self-significance diminished as I looked at him timidly and softly shared my agreement. Remembering the responsibility my self-proclaimed label entails, it weighed on me that the past year has definitely pushed my faith. However, this singular experience reminded me why I still believe. It is so easy to see only what you want to see in others. To believe the façade of equanimity that so many have perfected. To be oblivious to pain. But more often than we’d like to admit, it’s right there and very badly hidden. The only problem is that no one takes the time to see it.

As a very dear friend said to me in response to this encounter, “Some people need saving, and some people need to save someone.” I’m not quite sure which role I played that night. All I know is that somewhere in the midst of all that saving, I was shown exactly why I still believe.

The Senegalese Go on Strike!!

January 27^th will be the defining moment in Senegalese politics, of this decade. It seems like every time you turn on the TV someone, somewhere is protesting, going on strike, and/or launching complaints at the current administration. Teachers have gone on strike at least twice since the school year started in November, students are going on strike because the teachers are on strike. There has even been a country wide public transportation strike, protesting the high gas prices.

Political unrest grows with each day as we get closer to the 27^th. Lately peaceful demonstrations have turned into full-fledged riots and now people are threatening to resort to violence if their complaints aren’t addressed. Everyone agrees that they want change and that Senegal needs change as a whole, but can all openly admit that they doubt that actual change will occur.

As it stands there are currently 14 possible candidates for the upcoming presidential election. Among them is the incumbent Abdoulaye Wade, the source of the controversy. Not only is he 84 years old, but also he has reached his 2 term limit.  The meeting of the constitutional committee on the 27^th will validate or reject his candidacy. If it is approved it is speculated that it would be nearly impossible for another candidate to win. They lack the resources, political capital, and influence. There is no single opposition party, causing the vote to be split and their being no clear majority.

As for me I’m just in awe of it all. I find myself eavesdropping on conversations and pulling out my camera at the hint of excitement. The closest I’ve come to experiencing anything remotely close to this was a failed attempt at a walk out in my sociology class after my teacher assigned a 20-page bookwork assignment. Meanwhile the students of Senegal are organizing by the thousands and standing up for their rights.

The next days and weeks to come will ultimately shape the destiny of the Senegalese people. Only time will tell what the future holds.

Well, yesterday was my second class.  After spending the whole day preparing for this class, writing the plans, and printing worksheets, the whole nine yards… I had a great class.  We started with a dialog.  The students were in two lines: one A, the other B.  Then, they talked, and I watched.  You should have seen it!  They talked back and forth, and I would help when they asked for it.  The truth is that I did not have to do much of anything.  The students did it all.  They talked, and they helped each other.  Those who knew it helped and encouraged those who didn’t.  I never expected this, that being a teacher sometimes means letting the students teach themselves.  It was the most amazing thing.  I stood in awe.  I guess that I am not such a bad teacher after all.

I now understand why teachers are teachers.  It is not because they get a great pay check or because they like to give homework and make life difficult. No, the reason is to see the success of the students, to watch them grow and learn.