2006-01-13 - 4:55 p.m.

I have new pictures on my picture site: http://keither.smugmug.com

As I have said before, children are the reason I stay here. They give meaning to the work I do and inspiration to continue. Children, however can be the largest enemies of a foreigner living in this country. Northern children are taught early on that white people are different and should be treated so. Nassara (Christians) are either a source of money or the target of ridicule. When I first moved here, I had a bad experience with a 9 year old that would continually harass me on the way to and from my house. He would call me names and throw rocks at me, then demand that I give him money. Imagine his fright when on the first day of class I was introduced as part of the new teaching staff. I walked up and down the isle during class and stopped to squeeze his shoulder and give him a wink. He nearly pissed himself. Being an elementary school teacher and working with children has minimized the amount of harassment I get personally. Most kids see me as a friend and treat me with respect. The other volunteers, however, are generally treated as outsiders. Jessica has had rocks thrown at her on more than one occasion. Alison is sexually harassed by 10 year olds, and Luis got bit one time. It is therefore hard to always be the compassionate westerner when we see the horrible way in which these children must live.

Students come to the director’s office without fail every recess. The general complaint is that another student pushed them, or stole a piece of their bread, or called them a bad name. The director’s response varies on the severity of the complaint. For those students exhibiting no outward emotions other than general anger, the director tells them to tell the offending person that they are impolite. If the complaint is simple and there are moderate tears involved the director will break off a piece of his own bread, pat the child on the head and tell them everything will be ok. If there are excessive tears, which usually accompany an egregious charge, then the director will get up and find the offending student to give proper reprimand.

Last year I noticed that certain students would create repeated moderate offences every recess so that they could receive a piece of bread from the director. A lot of them are poorer students whose parents won’t give their children 5 ougiyas (2 cents) to buy a piece of bread at 10 O’clock. Others are just children that want more bread than their allotted one piece. The most frequent offender was and still is a boy named Omar. He is in his second year of school now, maybe 6 or 7 years old. He constantly has a runny nose, and is generally dressed in filthy rags. He is black and non-pulaar, which means he comes from a family that is either currently enslaved to a white moor family or was in the recent past. At first I found him annoying. Everyday he came to the door with a different problem. After he had gotten down the routine there were days he would show up with no tears in his eyes at all to get his bread hunk from the director. He had money each day to get bread of his own, which he purchased and consumed. After he would hit the director up for seconds. I became curious about Omar this year. The back of his head is partially bald covered by three long scars as if he had been burned by a red-hot piece of rebar.

One day I asked Touree about Omar: «Why does Omar always find problems? What is wrong with him?” It took me a while to get Touree to understand which kid I was talking about, but after he agreed that the boy came to the office everyday with a different complaint. I repeated my question and he said,
“The children pick on the kids that let them. Omar can’t fight back because he is too small. When he cries it makes the other kids treat him worse.” I started watching Omar in the courtyard during recess. Yes, he did get picked on an excessive amount, but a lot of his problems were self motivated: hitting older kids when they’re backs were turned or trying to get bread from others before they were finished. He didn’t have friends. Causing problems was the only way he knew to get people to interact with him, and that usually resulted in him getting hurt.

I’ve gotten in the habit of patting kids on the head here. It is what older people do to great younger. You aren’t really supposed to be talking to children because they are lower than you. During staj they tell us not to talk to kids because we will lose respect in the community. I have since determined this as a load of b.s. But bypass any uncertainty using the head pat and maintaining a level of aloofness. Additionally I was no longer shaking the poop-covered hands of 6 year olds (See entry I have amoebas). My general indicator of a good kid is one who doesn’t throw rocks at me, call me Nassarani, or immediately ask me for a present. One day I saw Omar on the street. I came up behind him and held his head.
“Omar, how are you today.” He smiled back at me. I don’t think I had ever seen him smile before. It broke my heart. He said, “Fine thanks.” He walked with me for a bit after that, not saying anything. When we had gone a ways he turned off onto a different road and waved goodbye. I was enough to win me over for life.

The other day I was on my way to school. I’ve been rolling in lately around 9. School starts at 8, but there’s nothing I can do for the first hour. On my way I saw Omar shuffling along, late for school as well. He was in his usual dirty get up, sleep in his eyes, flies covering his face and the normal crusty snot caked to his nose. I wiped the flies away as best I could and used a tissue to clean his face.
“Omar, are you going to school?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“You’re late, you had better come with me so you don’t get in trouble.” He shuffled along next to me for a while then looked up to me.
“Are they going to have bread there?” At first I was confused, but then I noticed the 5 ougiyas clutch in his dirty hand. He was already ready for the 10 O’clock break to get his bread. At school I got him past the guard and saved him a beating for the day. I was almost in tears during the break when he came to the director’s door crying because another student had thrown his bread in the sand. He had the sand covered morsel in his hand as evidence. The director of course gave him his own piece and Omar took it willingly sucking up his tears and chewing on his snack replacement.

I told this story to Alison the other day and her response was this “It’s amazing how full of ourselves we get. When the DVD player doesn’t work ort he freezer is on the fritz we act like it’s the end of the world. Little Omar is out there with flies on his eyes wondering if he is going to get his scrap of bread for recess.” One of the hardest parts of living here is knowing where my role ends. Whenever I see Omar in the street alone I will walk him where he’s going so he doesn’t find trouble on the way. I’ve noticed he has changed his route home so that he can pass by my house to say hello everyday. I feel good because I have become his friend, but I don’t feel I am doing enough. Everynight I go home to a warm meal and a soft mat to sleep on. Omar probably doesn’t get much to eat and sleeps on the ground.

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