5/13/05

One of my students, a young woman named Bibi, wants to make up a missed test, and brings me an excused-absence form after class this morning. This in itself is surprising enough, as most students don't bother, and couldn't care less if they miss an assignment. She gives it to me to sign, and as I look it over, I notice the reason.

"Cause d'Absence: Mort de son enfant." Death of her child. Suddenly my missing class due to Giardia or a headache feels pretty insignificant. This young woman, who I'm guessing is no more than 19 years old, has just had to bury her baby, and she's concerned about missing an English test? I quickly sign the form, make an arrangement for her to retake the test, and she heads off– meanwhile I find myself shaking my head yet again at the extraordinary resiliency of the Chadian people.

It sounds callous, but the reality here is that it's more or less expected that a family will lose a child or two. In a society where statistically one in five won't make it to the age of five, and the average family has 7-10 children, it really isn't so much a question of if one will die, but who, and when. From Malaria to contaminated food and water, worms and insects, untreated infections, or simple things like dehydration and malnutrition, this is a tough place, and even the kids who do make it have to face the same challenges throughout their lives. Such simple things, all of which have been more or less eradicated in the developed world, are major causes of death here. Once again, it reminds me of all the advantages I have simply because of my birthplace and economic background. My family is by no means rich, but growing up, I was always able to see a doctor when necessary, eat well, and be educated. Bibi, my student, may be getting some sort of limited education, but as for the other two, she has a chronically malnourished look, and although I don't know the details, I imagine that with proper medical care there would have been no reason that her baby had to die.

Malnourished or not, Bibi is hardly along here in terms of being a young mother who's lost a child. In Gounou-Gaya (and the rest of Chad, probably the rest of Sub-Saharan Africa as a whole), teenage pregnancy is the rule, not the exception. Women typically marry at around 16 here, with the first of what is usually five, six, or more kids arriving shortly afterward. Like the majority of Chadians, most of these young women have subsistence farmers for husbands, meaning that there is little to no money for proper food and medical care for anyone. In the States, and much more so in Europe, particularly Scandinavia, there's some sort of social welfare safety net to assist young mothers. Here, that sort of thing is completely nonexistent, for obvious reasons. The lives that people live here are so incredibly difficult, and to do it without any sort of support speaks volumes about the resiliency and adaptability of people here.

Another one of my students brings her baby with her to school almost every day. At the end of every class, and at the mid-morning break I see her rush out to a tree in front of the school, where her younger sister sits with the baby on a grass mat. She nurses it quickly for a few minutes, and when the old wheel frame that serves as the school's bell is hammered a few moments later, she rushes back to Physics, History/Geography, English, or whatever else is next on the schedule. One day I hear her baby crying outside as I'm teaching, and I can see her squirming- a moment later, she gets up and asks, "Please may I go out?" in a barely audible voice. I want to say, "God, yes, why are you even asking?" but I restrain myself and simply nod. To try and continue an education as a young mother in such a desperately poor place with so little opportunity is tough enough, and I certainly don't see any reason to make it tougher. The fact that she, Bibi, and the handful of female students in each of my classes are there at all proves their desire to advance, to learn, to do something in their lives besides pound millet and make babies. In addition to all the burdens my male students face, these young women have the added struggle of being part of a society where educating girls and women is often seen as a pointless exercise. "They're just going to get married and have babies anyway," seems to be the attitude, and those who do get somewhere in life have their own perseverance to thank for it. I, for one, stand in admiration of what they do– in so many ways, they're so much stronger than I'll ever be.

Back to Peace Corps Writings