End of homestay

Today I said goodbye to my homestay family, possibly for good. Yesterday, we had a going away party outside my house as I donned the beautiful Malian dress my family gave me the night before. As much as I was burning to get away from the streets that flooded with rivers of sewage, smoldering trash piles and the incessant “Je-ne-ba!” (my Malian name) screams echoing wherever I went, it was surprisingly difficult to leave them. Amidst the chaos of bags and water filters this morning as all of us PCVs met at my concession for our pickup, I sat with my family as they told me how much they would miss me. Last night my brother Allou told me how I had “shown him the kindness of humanity,” and that he “now believes that people can work to do good.” He told me that he always thought of the white man as arrogant, violent and greedy, but that I have been an example of “true equality.” It was heartfelt and touching. This morning my mother Jeneba (my namesake) sat tearing – even with the few phrases I had strewn together in our sporadic conversations, we shared a wordless bond. My host sister Fatoumata hugged me as she ripped off all her jewelry and placed it on me, joking that I was going to take her adorable baby Abdul with me (I was tempted). I was really blown away by the openness and gratitude of these people who had bathed and fed me these past two months. This is truly a culture of endless, uncompromising affection. But I think when everyone is struggling to fill their babies bellies, there is no need for callous walls.