Reflection: Vice Verses

Since we’re nearing the end of our service this summer, James and I have recently been reflecting quite a bit on the time we’ve spent here and the lessons we’ve learned, wondering what we had yet to share with our blog readers. While joking around about all the epic adventures we’ve been through, I decided that if we were to choose a soundtrack to these past two years, I would choose Switchfoot’s  newest album “Vice Verses.” Not only is it our favorite band to rock out to while we’re doing laundry by hand or biking to and from work, but almost every song has either inspired us or comforted us in a particularly difficult time in Mali. Thus, its in the context of this album, that I reflect on our service.

The somewhat melancholy album describes the duality of life -- striving for a reconciliation of the pain and suffering in the world with hope and the desire to do something about it. 

“I know there is meaning to it all…..a little resurrection every time I fall, You’ve got your babies, I’ve got my hearses, every blessing comes with its set of curses, I’ve got my vices, you’ve got your vice verses.”

Likewise, our life in Mali is often full of opposites, contradictions, highs, and lows. Its probably a combination of the nature of development work, the mood-swinging side effects of Mefloquine malaria prophylaxis medication, and the extreme heat, but I’m pretty sure that we’ve never felt so bipolar in our feelings and moods on a day to day basis. Indeed, when we reflect on our service we realize that some of the best and worst days of our lives have come packaged in one week. This past set of weeks has been a particularly extreme example.

“I want to thrive, not just survive. I get so down, but I won’t give up.”

After returning from the Segou Music Festival, we reached our village and were thrilled to find that the school walls were finished and that one of my (Joye) best friends, Nana, had just given birth to a healthy and beautiful baby girl. As I held the day-old baby in my arms and she gave me a big toothless grin, it was hard to hold back tears. I’ve certainly held babies before, including lots of babies in my village, but this was the child of a woman who has been my close friend for over 20 months, someone who constantly seeks and listens to my advice on nutrition, sanitation etc. I was ecstatic that I could share such an important moment with a friend who is so culturally different from me. I  thanked God that he had blessed this little girl with good health and a mother who cared enough to educate herself and her children.

“Deep down there’s a hope inside, you’ve got wings, but you’re scared to fly”

However, when we reached our host family’s house the next day and began chatting, we discovered that February had not been so kind to most families in Kongodugu. Six families had lost children under 5 years old during the short time we were gone, and many were our close friends:  the head mason for my classroom construction project, the head mason’s apprentice, and our next door neighbor the Imam’s son.

“This air is strange to me, feeling like a tragedy, I take a deep breath and close my eyes. We were born into a fight, but I’m not sentimental, this skin and bones is a rental… still looking for a home in a world where I belong, where the weak are finally strong.”

It was a lot to swallow, but Malians only allow themselves a 1-2 days to grieve before going back to their daily lives. The way they see it, death is too common here to waste large amounts of energy and feelings on it. We asked around and found out that many of the deaths were malaria or flu related –  completely treatable if the children were not so severely malnourished to begin with. Malnutrition: a problem we’d been trying to educate people on all last year through teaching the 3 food groups and planting Moringa trees. Maybe we’d been helpful, but, it seemed, it wasn’t enough.

“Feels like we’re just waiting, while our hearts are just breaking. Feels like we’ve been fighting against the tide. I want to see the earth start shaking, to see a generation waking.”

Still, we had work to do, and good work, too. So we threw ourselves into planning the PLASA tree-planting training for which James had received a USAID grant. We recorded 2 radio shows and trained people from 10 villages to plant trees in the dry season that would live long and produce leaves or fruit that would provide essential vitamins and nutrients to their diet. James was extremely satisfied with the results, as trainees repeatedly thanked him for organizing this workshop. They seemed reenergized about planting trees in their communities. Though exhausted, we couldn’t help but comment to each other how this is the kind of work we were excited to be here in Mali for, work that we couldn’t do from the US but was equipping people to make changes in their own communities.

“At last completed and complete, where tired and tears and pain subside, and laughter drinks them dry.”

Returning to village, I walked around and greeted everyone with a smile, happily boasting that we had just finished our tree-planting training in Duguba. My neighbor Miriam listened contently while I chatted away and then quietly mentioned that her 3 year old daughter Sanata had passed away. The news hit me like a brick wall. It wasn’t exactly surprising. I’d been trying to convince Miriam give her malnourished and sickly daughter protein rich foods for over a year now. But it hurt all the more because it had been one of my first mini-goals, to make her healthy.  I used to stop and play with her every time I walked through her compound (once/day) , reminding her mom to take her to Baby Weighing sessions in Duguba and add peanut powder to her food.  It was a heart wrenching reminder to both James and I of our limitations and of how hard development really is. We both struggled with the news. But in Mali, you have one good cry, take a deep breath, and keep going.

“It feels so typical, guess I’m looking for a miracle. Rise Above it.  Hear our voices rise, hear our battle cry. We will rise, like the tides. Let’s rise above it.”

That news has convinced me that nutrition should be my focus for the rest of my time here. And I’ve had some great days since, teaching women to make nutritious baby food and planning more trainings on easy solutions to malnutrition, like Moringa. 

We still have a lot of ups and a lot of downs. Some days people listen, others they are too busy to give us their time.  The days here ebb and flow. We have successes, frustrations,  and heartbreaks.  We learn and we adapt. And though this is not always cheery, it is part of the experience. Life is a two sided coin, full of joy and sorrow. We hope that recording it here will help you understand a little more about our lives and the lives of our villagers here in Mali. 

“Here’s to your bright eyes, shining like fireflies. These are my souvenirs, a memory of a lifetime. So I close my eyes, and we’re back in time. 

We were so young, we had no fears. We were so young, we had no idea. We had just begun, a song we knew but had never sung, that burned like fire in our lungs. And life was just happening.

I wouldn’t trade it for anything.  My souvenirs.”

- Joye (and James)