I don't know if anyone is reading this anymore now that I am home, but I had the need to get some thoughts down on electronic paper. Here you go. Look for more to come.
**Warning Melodrama, but Sincere Melodrama, Below**
I've been home for over a week now. It's strange to be back. Strange in a good way, but strange nonetheless. When I was in Africa, every day went by in survival mode. Perhaps that's why it felt like it went so quickly--I was just trying to make it through the day. Now, it feels like Africa was just a dream. It's nice to be able to talk to Amy about it, because otherwise it might have really been a dream.
One thought I have had much trouble getting rid of after leaving is a sense of guilt. Guilt for being American, guilt for being privileged, guilt for not being able to give more. In my life I have felt many emotions regarding my nationality. I have loved being American; I have mocked being American. I have denied my Americanness; on occasion, I have flaunted my Americanness. Never before I have I felt true guilt for being American.
Guilt, you might think, sounds strange in this situation. People talk about White Guilt, but this is more than White Guilt. It's American Guilt. Guilt in the sense for what it represents. To the people that we worked with, who were rather well off by Ivorian standards, we represented help, wealth, prosperity, health, and salvation. There is a lot of weight that comes with being American. But the idea of help is what stuck with me.
I love being helpful, I really do. But, I could not help the Ivorians in a way that I wanted. I could take the stories with me and put them in a report to give to USAID and other American organizations, but I could not help them. I could report, but that was all. I could help them apply for grants, but not actually give them what they need. I have never felt so helpless as when one of our participants asked for a scholarship to continue her studies and I had nothing to tell her. I spent 18 months of my life doing nothing but help students find scholarships and I could not help the one woman who truly needed it. It was a terrible feeling.
However, when I returned to the States and read the interviews, I knew that I was not simply someone exploiting a country's plight. I was a part of something important and the people knew it. As I translated the interviews from the West of the country, amongst all of the stories of women being raped the second they leave the main cities I read over one interview in which the informant told the interviewer "Thank you." He said, more or less, "Thank you for speaking with us. We now know that was are not forgotten. Please tell the world that we are here as servants for the message of peace." I'm paraphrasing terribly because I can't remember the direct quote, but that's the gist. We are the messengers of peace and that the world cares about their problems. That, despite the terrible guilt and feelings of selfishness, has helped me remember what we went to Africa for: to help understand the conflict and help find solutions.
