On the outside looking in

 I live in a working class neighborhood.  That means dirt and uneven roads mostly with the random cement brick apartment building among the mudbrick homes that dominate the landscape.  When you take a taxi anywhere in the city, the easiest way to indicate your destination is to name the closest school.  Oddly enough, some neighborhoods here take the name of the school and not the other way around.  My place holder is École Amed Barrry - an elementary school with mudbrick walls and green painted wooden shutters that have been feeding generations of termites since they were first attached to the glassless window frames in 1995. 

Each morning, the tradition is reborn. Old women position themselves at the entrance to the school sitting on small wooden stools, they arrange their assortments of dried fruit, peanuts, and fried sweet dough for sale to the kids whose parents did not have time to feed them before they left home. It is a swift and apparently lucrative business. On more than one occassion, I have seen two women bickering over who arrived first, pushing their small round platters as close as possible to the rickety rusted gate that you have to lift to close.  Little kids crowd around, fingering the precious 5 cents that will bring a tasty treat before school starts. Others finish their breakfast before entering.  French baguettes with some form of spread inside is the usual fare.  It is amazing to watch these tiny 4 or 5 year old kids finish off a foot-long baguette on their own.

On days when I am running late, the commotion in front of the school has all but vanished and left behind are idle boys or girls standing on their tippy toes trying to see what is happning inside.  Are they the odd sibling that was not allowed to go to school or are they looking for an accomplice for a day off?  I remember how jealous I was when my sister first went to school.  We were inseparable at home but somehow she was able to tear herself away to go to school?  That just did not seem fair.  Or even conceivable.  Watching these kids linger just outside the reach of an education makes me conjure an entire story around each one.  Yesterday I stopped to share a small pouch of peanuts and asked why he was not going in?  "Oh, I go to another school," came the reply. Then why aren't you there? "I like this school better.  I am not a little kid." Je suis pas une gosse he insisted.  So we sat there finishing the pouch and watching the taxis and wagons roll down the only really smooth street in the city.  His name is Emmanuel.  And I am not sure if he ever made to his school at that morning.  But he sure gave me the desire to skip work, just for one day. 

I am sorry to miss so many days with you all. About two weeks ago the blogosphere collapsed and I was not able to upload any new stories.  Then when I WAS able to log on, I had fallen out of practice.  

On April 27, the director of my unit called me to inform me that they were having thoughts about shutting down my unit or perhaps just phasing out my position since the nature of the program had changed and they could no longer really justify someone with my expertise (and pay level).  The conversation was polite and considerate.  Since I started this program, none of the senior staff has had any experience or training in peacebuilding or conflict work at all.  My component therefore has been the hardest to sell and poorly represented when senior staff met with the donor or the general public.  It has been an uphill battle and one that, it seemed, would soon come to an end.  "Your notice letter is just about ready.  You should be receiving it soon," she said with kind consderation for my predicament.  

Well, soon is now a month later.  And I have no idea if another month will roll by before I have a clearer idea of my status.  At least I am guaranteed 4-weeks notice and I will be able to use that time to prepare my replacement who I assume will be a host country national. Work has picked up tremendously and I am enjoying the challenges of everyday meetings with civil society, local authorities, and chance encounters with rebel representatives hoping for some sign that we are still on board.  In the meantime, I am enjoying bouncing through town on my bicycle. 

Each time I survive a nasty pothole or a plane of sharp rocks my thoughts and thanks go to Scott in Mishawaka who promised me that the tires would be all but imprenetrable.  You were right Scott.  Wish you were here to celebrate your feat of invincibility with me. Scott passed away a few days ago due to complications with MS.  He was an amazing giving man.  Rest in peace Scott.  You will be missed.