Dust Settles.

Things can change quick. Day to night. Health to sickness. Hot to Cold. Wet to Dry. Plans change. Peace changes to lack of it. Discontent changes to anger. And anger to violence.

This morning I find myself sitting in the yard with a change of plans. Yesterday began like any other Monday. Wake up. Set the table. Cut the bread. Prepare the eggs. Eat. Lesson Plan. Get dressed. Bike to school. Saluer my colleagues. Print exercises. **yelling and shouting in the street** **students running in a cloud of dust** **get inside** **shut the doors and lock the windows** **rocks, fists, and rage hit the building** Dust settles. Close the school. Leave the bikes. Rides with friends on motos. Get home.

What began as a typical, busy, school week is now a week with three days off. All schools in Moundou have been shut down until Thursday because of the student riots that happened yesterday.

In the French school system all students must pass the baccalaureate exam...or more simply, the bac...before the end of their schooling. Without it...you can’t do anything. Yesterday at “Lycee Abdou Douala,” the biggest high school in Moundou, the list of students to take the bac this year was posted. Many students did not find their name.

It’s hard to get a straight story. Everyone has their own version of the events...and why a list of names can turn into a violent “manifestation.” But somehow it’s a combination of corruption and politics and miscommunication. Students who had already paid the fee were being told to pay again...an exorbitant amount...that they don’t have...and so the riots began.

I heard stories of students jumping out of windows, jumping over walls, fleeing from the sudden outbreak of violence. I witnessed a friend and co-worker instinctively and worriedly shut and lock doors and windows, and I read the concern on a University student’s face as she hid inside the office with Rose and I. I’m told that this year the “manifestation” is not too bad...that the last time this happened, people died.

Here I find myself in the company of people who have lived through war....people who have an instinctive reaction to violence. Time after time the subject of war comes up in English class. “Write a dialogue” ends with “where will you go when the war starts?” “I will go to Cameroon.” And “write about a childhood memory” recounts the time that a student hid in the bush with his family for a year because it was not safe to be in town. And yet life goes on. Today really feels no different than yesterday or the day before. Life happens and continues to happen. The dust settles.

But the dust can rise again. And one person’s anger can set it off. Mob mentality can prevail. And anger can change to violence. And the inequality and inaccessibility of resources...or in this case, opportunity...will teach children that one only gets what one can take. And so people will continue to take. And we will take until we are taken from. And violence will break out again.

OR--

“Do not resist an evil person. If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if someone wants to sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well.” We can seek peace in the face of violence...give when we are taken from.

“Do not store up for yourself treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” We can put a check on our amassing of resources and greed...our contribution to unequal opportunity...even if sometimes the repercussions happen halfway around the world.

And we can pray for peace.

Things can change quick. Night to Day. Sickness to Health. Cold to Hot. Dry to Wet. Plans change. Dust settles. Discontent changes to thankfulness. And anger to joy.

A Birthday Party.

On December 31, 2010, I celebrated my 23^rd birthday. Twenty-three still sounds too old to me. Not that the age itself is old in the grand scheme of things...but that I am twenty-three. I feel like I’ve finally made it to the age where I am a 20-something. Not 20, 21, 22...but a 20-something...like this is the point where you kind of stop counting...it’s all the same until 30, then 40. The years are moving quickly but I don’t think I’ve been paying enough attention to check them off as they go by. I think I measure in broad time chunks rather than years...and my chunks haven’t quite made it to 23 yet. Maybe I’ll just feel young forever...I don’t think I would really mind that...

I hadn’t really planned on making a big deal about my birthday. I thought maybe I’d mention it the day before or the day of...maybe have a coca to celebrate...but it had come up a few months ago and my host family remembered. That’s the thing about having a birthday in the midst of the holidays...people remember, they’re free, and in the celebrating mood...so celebrating just kind of happens. The first mention of my birthday came from my host mom. About a week before she asked me, “so what are you going to cook for your birthday?” To which I responded... “je ne sais pas!” A few days later she informed me, “you are going to make Chebudjen” To which I responded, “what’s that?” And she told me, “you will see.” A few days later she asked me, “You are going to invite people aren’t you?” To which I responded, “I should invite people?” Then she told me who to invite.

The guest list: Pastor Sem (my boss) and his wife Eunice, Dr. Regis (a family relative and my student) and his wife, Benedicte (my older married host sister) and family, Rose’s host parents, two friends from the choir, and of course...the guy that my host family seems to want me to marry...a young Uncle of the family...Uncle Ben... as I call him.

The 31^st arrived, Rose came over early in the morning, and we kicked off the day with some birthday pancakes. It’s always fun to cook American food for my host family for two reasons...it’s something new, from my culture, for them to try...and it helps to show that I am not completely incompetent in the kitchen...I just don’t know how to make Chadian food! So we made some pancakes. Half plain, half with the dried blueberries Rose had received in a package. They were delicious...other than the fact that they tasted a lot like Nido (the powdered milk we used in the batter.)

After breakfast we started cooking. My host sister busted out the BIG kettle and got to work preparing three chickens, a massive assortment of vegetables and potatoes, and enough rice to feed an army. I helped as much I could. Cooking for me means a lot of sitting around...I cut up vegetables and helped with small things but I am very incompetent at cooking Chadian style. That’s the thing...Chadian girls grow up in the kitchen...everything there is very second nature, and everyone cooks the same foods the same way. So, it’s hard to realize that, for me, everything is completely different....from the types of food right down to the method of preparation. I would love to help, but I need to be shown how. In time. So we cooked the repas.

The party was supposed to begin at 14:00. So naturally everyone showed up at 15:00. I welcomed everyone, passed around some cocas, fantas, and tops, and to my surprise...opened presents! Now, I don’t think birthday celebrations and birthday presents are really a cultural thing...but TV changes everything...and western images of presents, cakes, and candles have made it here to the heart of Africa. I received four new dresses (and ironically the dress from Uncle Ben came wrapped in “congratulations on your marriage” wrapping paper), some jewelry, and some beautiful decorative wooden spoons.

The day was very special. That’s really all I can say. It’s a hard thing to describe...but being so far away from friends, family, and “normal” life makes small things even more meaningful. Each text message, card, e-mail or wall post is a treasure...so a whole birthday party, from people I’ve known for less than five months, is almost overwhelming. I was and am still very grateful to find myself here among people who make me feel loved each day.

Thank you to everyone who wished me a happy birthday from the states via card, facebook, text, e-mail...you are all very special to me and I love you so much!

*Just a note*

I do have one Christmas/birthday wish. I would love a visitor from the states. You know who you are, Dad! But the plane ticket is expensive. So we can all pray that he finds the means, or comes to his senses and decides it’s worth it to visit his only daughter the whole way over here in Tchad!