something i wrote at site, long before the actual evacuation. if anyone still reads this and wants to see why it's been so hard for me, i think this kind of explains it.
Last night, after preparing a Mexican feast (guacamole mixed with mashed up beans and tortillas). I turned on “Focus on Africa” as I do every night at 6. Of course, every night, the top story isn’t an attempted coup in the country where I live. Bring cell phone to Kizitot to charge since had actually turned on the generator for the first time in a month or so (it stayed on about 10 minutes before dying again), I asked him if he’d heard the news. He hadn’t but a group of neighborhood men who had just come over for the evening’s causerie had. Finally, they could confirm that I wasn’t hallucinating, that as our lives went on without change, someone out there was trying to take us over. Not that I (or anyone else) didn’t know the country is unstable, but the rebel situation hadn’t made the news in a few months, and then all of the sudden, “attempted coup d’état.” And as much as there aren’t many people who are fans of President Deby (well there’s my host father who has explained to me repeatedly that he can have any job he wants because he belongs to the “partie de pouvoir.” I never ask him what he’s going to do when that party isn’t in power anymore), no one wants a coup.
“If there’s a coup, we well suffer,” says the surveillant of the lycée where I teach, one of the men who have gathered in our yard. I want to remind him that earlier today he and the other teachers explained to me that they were suffering in a conversation about hunger. But I know the answer so I don’t ask. There is suffering, and there is suffering. Hunger, thirst, disease come and go, but war is another thing. And I can’t possibly understand this like they do. I’ve never been hungry or thirsty. I’ve never been slapped in the face by death. And I’m constantly judging Chadians for being aggressive, petty, and corrupt, but maybe I would be that way too if it was all I knew, if it were necessary for my survival.
I tell the men if there’s a coup that I might have to leave. That, they don’t understand: “Il faut rester ici.” The impersonal structure of that comment makes me realize that they aren’t just talking about me. We all must stay here. This will pass like it all passes. They joke that we will have to go fight, me too, they’ll give me a gun and I’ll go to the border to keep the rebels out. And if Chadians laugh at me now, I can’t imagine how much they’ll laugh at me dressed up in camouflage, toting an AK47.
This morning, I do what I do every Thursday morning. I sweep my yard. I turn on the radio, a rarity in the morning, itching for more news. The government has shut down cell phone service in N’Djamena (and the whole country is the rumor later at school.) Our cell phone tower hasn’t worked for approaching two months. N’Djamena loses service for two days, and its world news. If I had service, I’d call up the BBC: “Our top bulletin, the Kumeur antenna has been broken for six weeks. Becca Silverstein, her friends and family, and whole lot of Chadians would really appreciate it if Celtel got their asses down here to fix it. Thank you.” So, all I can do is wait. The situation doesn’t seem that serious. Hopefully, they’ll turn the network back on because I was planning to go to Kélo to call home this weekend. I’m sure my parents are more worried about this than I am.
Here, life just goes on. Kids still show up to school to learn and at my house to ask for candy. This afternoon, we’ll play soccer. There was a much larger crowd than normal outside the Mayor’s office today. I thought maybe there was an important communiqué from the government. But no, just the normal prosecution of a sorcerer. Nobody’s glued to 24 hour a day CNN, nobody’s stocking up on toilet paper and bottled water. They couldn’t if they wanted to, and what good would it do? So, I’ll just go to the market because I have to eat. I may not be hungry, but I sure feel like I am.
