My eyes saturate with tears. Empathy is an odd thing. I do not understand why sometimes it overwhelms me to my core, and other times it passes right by me, leaving me feeling nothing.
Her story does not come close to some of the horrifying injustices I have witnessed or hear of, but for some reason, it strikes me deep down.
I ask Mariyama her age, she says she does not know. Most people in my village don't. We reason out that she had her first child when she was 15 years old, and he is now 8. Her other children are 5, 2, and 1. That makes her 23 years old. The same age as me.
What if I was born here, in this village? A different life flashes before my eyes. Marriage to a much older man in my early teens. The terror as I anticipate sleeping with this man for the first time. It isn't rape, is it? He is my husband. I do not fight it. But I do not like it. The strain on my body, bearing children as soon as I am biologically ready. Being forced to drop out of school, if I have not already. Never learning to read or write. Maybe I am the third wife. My husband rotates between which wife he beds each night. But he pays special attention to me, because I am the newest. Now I have four children. I am 23 years old. I am hardened.
This fleeting memory of another life hits me like a brick the moment I deduce that Mariyama and I are the same age. My eyes saturate with tears.
* I do not mean to villanize Senegalese men, or claim that all Senegalese couples do not marry for love. My host parents certainly love each other, but I do not know if that happened before their marriage, or grew over the years. Every marriage I have seen in the past year has been the archetype of the young teen marrying the much older man she barely knows. Recently, this was the case with my beautiful 14 year old cousin Diuma. I'm not sure if I feel guilt for inaction, or just general sadness, but every time I think about it, it makes me queasy.
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| My host cousin Diuma |
A stranger from another village asks to marry Diuma. Her and her family accept, but a couple days later, she changes her mind. She is scared and she doesn't want to leave her family and her village. And she is 14 years old. She barely even knows this man. This shames her family. She is a good daughter, and does not want to shame her family. So she marries him.
I tell my host mother that this is wrong, and makes me feel deeply sad. She says there is nothing I can do.
Should I have done more? Could I have? I almost feel like I have betrayed a friend. I have not seen her since.
Sometimes, I feel utterly helpless. Writing down and sharing my feelings helps me sort through my thoughts.
On a lighter note... Mangrove Reforestation
Mangroves are unique species that thrive where fresh water meets salt water in the Sine Saloum Delta in Senegal. They provide essential habitat to many wildlife species, combat erosion, and bolster soil fertility. Mangrove reforestation efforts have also been suggested to fight climate change.
We travel by shaky boat across deep blue water to the island.
We push in unison to remove the incredibly heavy beached boat with our 120,000 mangrove propogules from the sand.
We lazily float in the cool salty delta as the crimson sun begins to set.
We wake at the crack of dawn, working together in a massive assembly line to unload the propogules, then carry them what seems like miles on our heads to the reforestation site.
We wade barefoot through the muddy ankle deep marshes, destroying our feet on the upturned shells.
The sun glistens off the sandy marshes creating a metallic sea as we finish planting seemingly endless propogules with help from over 100 Peace Corps Volunteers, staff, and local villagers.
It is beautiful and satisfying.
Playing With Lions: less frightening than it probably should have been.
