As my time in Senegal comes to an end, there are so many emotions I’m experiencing I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster at Six-Flags. One moment I’m craving American food and a washing machine so much that I can’t wait to get home. The following moment I feel so numb to the whole goodbye process that I seriously contemplate the “Irish goodbye” of just sneaking away in the dead of night. Then before I know it, my host brother is sitting on my lap and it takes everything in me not to burst out in tears and beg YAGM to let me stay. My last month in country will be filled to the brim with end of the year parties, celebrations, weddings, tearful goodbyes, and our closing retreat. The nasty tricks of time will work their magic, and before I know it, it will be July 1st and I’ll be forced to look at my host family and community and say the hardest goodbyes I can imagine. Sneaking away in the dead of night is not an option, I’ve asked.
Pastor Kristin, our country coordinator, has filled our Google Drive with many “leaving well” documents and PDF files to help navigate us through this last month of service. But for some reason, none of those neatly outlined pages seem to give clarity to the daunting task that lays ahead of me. How do I make this less messy? How do I say goodbye to the people who have welcomed me into their homes and their families and treated me like one of their own? How do I navigate the question of when I’m coming back to visit? But the most pressing question of all: How do I keep my heart from breaking? Unfortunately, I don’t think there is an answer to this last one. No matter how I look it, this last month will be equal parts painful and beautiful.
When I agreed to do this YAGM year last April, my only concerns were of how I’d manage to live in a country where I didn’t know the culture or the language. I was worried about surviving. It never occurred to me to worry about the pain and the loss I’d feel at the end of this journey. I was more concerned about my wardrobe and whether I packed enough anti-diarrhea pills and tampons. I knew this year would be an amazing experience, but what I’ve found is that the relationships I’ve created have exceeded all my expectations. I never imagined that I’d come to see my host community as my actual family.
I’ve been given the opportunity to be a big sister, when I’ve only ever been the youngest sibling. I think about how in one month there won’t be any more Ndour family dance parties. I won’t get another running hug from my littlest host brother after I come home from work. Never again will I hear the chuckles of amusement from my host mom as she watches my attempts at hand washing my laundry. The thought of eating my last meal around the bowl with the group of people who started off as strangers, only to become my family, shakes me to my core. I’ve built a life here with these incredible people. And no amount of “leaving well” emails will prepare me for having to say goodbye to them.
As close as I’ve become to my host family, my YAGM cohort has transformed into a shelter I can turn to for support to weather any storm. Tossing together six people who didn’t know each other, came from completely different backgrounds and then asking them to embark on the most life changing experience together seems crazy, no? Somehow, against all odds, the five other people that make up my cohort have become my lifeline.
We became a family when the meaning of that word was becoming completely redefined. I know that without them I never would have made it through this year. They’ve been there for all the late night rants about the patriarchy, and patiently listened and debated with me through my faith transformation. They’ve reminded me about empathy and compassion when I felt furthest from the virtues. They’ve been my constant book club and cheerleading squad. Theirs is a goodbye that I truly dread, but one that I know won’t be forever.
But there is one goodbye that I’m dreading the most. It is the one to Diboor Ndour. When I first came to Senegal I didn’t understand why we needed new names. In the beginning I was a little reluctant. I had just moved halfway across the world to live and work in a country I had barely heard of, knowing I wouldn’t be able to communicate. Why on top of all of that did I need to be stripped of my name too? Once I got to my site placement, Fatick, I realized how important names are to Senegalese culture. I wouldn’t have been truly accepted into the community if I held onto my American name. I began to accept my role as Diboor Ndour, Dib, to my friends. I started to enjoy the laughs I got when introducing myself with a Senegalese name. The look on people’s faces when a toubab (foreigner) shared their name is priceless. There are two other Diboor Ndours at the Women’s center where I work. Sharing names is incredibly common here.
As time went on, my acceptance swelled to pride. I love being apart of my Ndour family. Even saying “present” when my name is announced for roll call during class brings a smile to my face. I love that walking down the streets of my village I can hear people shout “Aye Diboor!” My host dad has jokingly dubbed me Chief of Fatick because of how many people shout my name as we drive through town. For all of these reasons and more, I feel like this goodbye will be the hardest of all.
I don’t want to say goodbye to Diboor Ndour. I have become a new person since I stepped off the plane in Dakar almost 10 months ago. I’ve become stronger, more resilient, more trusting, more patient, more compassionate and more unapologetically myself than I ever imagined possible. I’ve woken up to issues that I’m unable and unwilling to go back to ignoring. I’ve experienced realities that I can’t close my eyes to anymore. I’ve become a person that I am finally able to say that I’m proud of. And to be completely honest, I’m terrified to leave Senegal on the chance that I can’t bring Diboor Ndour through U.S customs.
It’s easy to be a feminist here when the patriarchy blatantly slaps me in the face every morning. It’s easy to acknowledge the engrained racism of the world when the consequences and fall outs of colonialism are everywhere I look. The effects of climate change are impossible to ignore when the rising sea levels are eroding the coast where your family lives and the water that comes from the spigot is undrinkable because of the salinity levels. It’s simple to trust people and to be vulnerable when you have no other way to communicate or get by. But these are all things that aren’t so easy once I get back home. I won’t need to rely on other people anymore. All these virtues and traits that I’ve cultivated the past year will be alien when I go home to a country that prides itself on independence, capitalism, and “being strong”. Vulnerability and community, the virtues I’ve dedicated all year to practicing are not valued characteristics in American society. Especially not now during this incredibly polarized political climate to which I’ll be returning. So how do I reconcile this? Unfortunately, none of our “leaving well” documents address this disparity.
I am not the same person I was when I left Seattle in August, and for that I’m proud. But I’m nervous that my friends and family may not like the traces of Diboor Ndour that I bring home. I’ve learned to ditch the façade of “nice” in exchange for authenticity. I no longer shy away from challenging conversations. I’ve realized that this tendency for avoidance only allowed me to scratch the surface of what true relationships can be. This year has taught me the importance of living a life I’m proud of rather than a life that follows societal norms. I’ve learned that there are things worth getting angry and frustrated about. I don’t need to hide those feelings of anger when I witness injustices just to “keep the peace.” What I’ve discovered is that oftentimes “keeping the peace” is synonymous with having the privilege to stay ignorant. Diboor Ndour spent this year committed to rejecting that privilege and refusing to sit idly by “keeping the peace.” She found her voice and isn’t afraid to say her truth, even when it is difficult to hear. I just hope Rachel Heckroth can have the same sort of courage.