a la nuit

Part 1: Questions

What if there was a stranger in your house?
What if it was a man?
What if it was the middle of the night? 3 am?
What if there were no lights?
What if it was a black man?
What if he woke you by his searching?
What if you were naked?
What if you were in Africa?

Even asking those questions makes me uncomfortable. Seeped in the unknown, the mysterious, the racial prejudices and wild fantasies, they present a clear picture of fear. After the events of a few days past, I have been wrestling with the idea of perception. The above questions are leading. They pull at your prejudice and seek to make you afraid, nervous and worried. But what is gained from them?

Further questions come to mind as I pace through events:

What if you discover that a troubled student is acting out?
What if your his teacher?
What if he shows signs of intelligence?
What if he acts out against you in class? at your home?
What if your work pays off with the improving of his grades?

Such questions stack up differently. They have a tinge of hope. We expect good to come from them, to see the edge of trouble and to bring him to a clearer, brighter future.

More questions:

What if you are being confronted? physically?
What if you have been handled roughly? bruised? cut?
What if you want revenge? to physically hurt? to disable?
What if you are given the power to determine justice?
What if no one will condemned you for taking that revenge?
What if they see it as truly just punishment?

So many questions just swirling and swirling. My head is full of them. A plethora of perception from a thousand persons. They pour and pour. So many questions. So many truths. Somehow, something has to be decided.

Part 2: Events

My students left my courtyard around 11 pm. They were tired and I was already falling asleep. I locked the courtyard gate, then turned off my outside light before setting up my bed just inside my door, spread out on the floor. The night breeze comes briefly through my screen door, adding a small relief from Burkina's sweltering heat. To bolster its force, i attached my fan to the small moto battery that was powering the lights and remove all my clothing to feel its effects, then lay down to finally sleep. A long day is past and the murmur of the fan follows me into my dreams.

I awake to a sense. Not a noise. Just a sense. It is confusing me but is urgent. I'm up, crouching as if i were hiding in a bush. The stance of a hunter or a frightened animal waiting to run. Something has changed but my head is too fuzzy to know what. Yet, the basics in me are awake, pulsing, gathering information, steadying me. I cannot see. The lights are long since gone and the night is complete, smothering in its darkness. Then I know its someone. In my hut.

The rush of him, his body frightened, is striking past me, desperate for the door. His flexed muscles silently broadcasting intent, pushing against me. He knows he is caught. No, just trapped. I am the barrier between him and the door. His only exit. His only obstacle.

There is no thought in my head. Action. Action leads and swallows all around me. It is all that exist in me. Intelligence is still sleeping quietly on the floor-sprawled mattress when his torso strikes my chin, my arms surround his body, grasping, sensing the collar of his shirt. They are gripping. Then there is a fierce ripping. I can feel the shudder as he slides away, his shirt torn in two, a lost cause in my hands.

The crouch becomes a spring, a motion that carries us both to the door. We are pushing, reacting, breathing desperately for opposite desires. Door opened. Door closed. It is the door that loses. With a broken hinge, it tilts then falls away.

My brain begins to awaken. I am watching myself turning the corner, pressing down on his heels. He is struggling. Wildly. The mud wall around my courtyard crumbles beneath his desperation and my sudden weight as a I reach to pull him down. The sweat of his body is my enemy. It seeps from him, oiling him against my grip, leaving only the momentum and force. It propels him beyond the half-crumbled wall and breaks him into ground. Then he is running. Arms flying. Running. Into the deeper night and anonymity. It catches him and breathes him in.

I am returned to my nakedness. I am aware of it. The warm night and the sweat sliding across my bare shoulders as I breath heavily. It stops me. I can chase. I can run. But, I am awakened and aware. I cry out "Voleur" before ducking back into my house for pants. Once on, I began to call "Husseini, Husseini" until I see my neighbor stumbling from his home, worry in his eyes.

There is nothing to be done but soon the entire compound is awake, whispering to me. I am looked over. Every scratch brings a gasp and tisk-tisk. Beneath their gaze, I start my collection. Facts. Events. Evidence. Injuries.

Nothing is gone. The struggle emptied what little he had had in his hands. The house is a wreck where it had only been a mess earlier in the evening. Computer, ipod, money and all had long been hidden, remaining unseen, beneath piles of ungraded papers and dirty collared shirts, discarded after class.

In the mixture is a torn shirt, a broken flashlight and discarded sandals. None of them are mine. All are his. Dropped or ripped from him. In my hands, they feel like a small piece of triumph and become a joke.

"Look, Husseini, he tried to steal from me and I ended as the thief. I should find him and give him back his stuff." Then a smile and laugh with a sigh of relief.

In the collection of it all, I call a friend then Peace Corps security. At 3 am, it is really only excitement, comfort and information being exchanged. I am lost in the adventure of it. My friend worrying for me about my safety. A worry lost in the adrenaline. I am grateful that someone else has taken on that burden. After all, I'm knee deep and happy to be there.

Part 3. Aftermath

The morning comes too quickly. It reaches for me before I can get to the snooze button. My first priority is getting my stove's tank refilled. I have been without gas for two days which means not being able to prepare anything at home. Reliance on market food in Rambo is poor living. Thus, at 6 am, I am standing beside a worn bus, paying a man to take my tank to Ouaga to refill it and a piece of me is keeping an eye to the sunrise.

It is my favorite time of day. The risen sun. A break into something new. How can one not fall head over heels for the color? It is invigorating, the boost of energy I need to get through the day. And it will be a long day, a good day.

Somewhere in the swirl of events and conversations, I decide that best place to start my one-man investigation is school. My students are the link that binds me to my community. They will know. Besides, my memory keeps wrapping around two ideas; that confronting body had to be of a young man and he knew my house enough to not try the gate (coming or going).

Thus, I pack up the torn shirt, flashlight and sandals along with graded papers. When I get to class, I realize that I have confused the days. My hour with my 6eme math class has already passed. Damn. Ok. I regroup then ask their professor if I can have a moment to talk to them. With a beaming smile, he says "Of course."

They stand to attention and I tell them to sit. It is routine. I apologize for missing class. They accept. I tell them I have a problem.

"It seems someone left a few things at my house last night. I don't know who they belong to," I proceed to pull out the shirt, sandals and flashlight. The class laughs. "Does anyone know who is the owner of these." It is a small village after all. A t-shirt is enough to identify someone.

There is a residual "no" in their whispering and eventually a full-blown version in their response. So, I change tactics. I relate the story of a 3 am visitor and turn the shirt around. This time they are roaring with laughter as they see the shirt is torn in two, all while being shocked at the idea of it. Yet, there is no spark of recognition. There is nothing to be gained. I reiterate how they can talk to me or any professor and that it is important. They are still sillily shocked.

Now comes my second class, 5eme math. I walk in and find them standing at attention. I tell them to sit, relax. I have a story. I tell them someone left somethings at my house. As I began to pull the shirt from my bag, I hear a resounding "Julien." Then comes the sandals. "JULIEN" Then comes the flashlight. "JULIEN!" The class is in a fit of laughter. I thank them then ask Julien to accompany me to the headmaster's office, the only office.

The headmaster is curious. I relate the tale. He begins to survey my student as you would a recovered egg from a dropped carton. He turns him. Lifts his shirt. Examines every mark. The marks around his neck bring the first questions. The scratches on his ribs more. His broken toe adds to the pile. Each question has a when aspect. Each answer has a yesterday aspect and a name of a witness.

The witnesses are called. The defendant hidden. There is no corroboration. The stories do not match. The student's roommate is called.

The story of Julien's absence becomes clear. He was out the night before. No injuries before. Bruises and scratches after. I am satisfied with the evidence but the headmaster pushes further. Does he own a shirt like this? Yes. Where is it? At the house. Then we shall go to the house to find his shirt.

It is a bike ride across the village. A hot bike ride. His compound is next to the church. The owner of the compound is the pastor there. My stomach aches when I think of possible ramifications in a muslim village. A worry unearned and unrealized thus far. We greet the pastor and ask questions of those around. Then comes a singular moment:

"Julien, I will ask you only once. Were you the person in my house last night?" It is met by a mumbled and hidden "no" that speaks more to his childish nature than his resolve. The fear in him is palpable.

He is led into his room in the compound and it is searched. Nothing is found. No shirt comes forth. His sandals are not there. It is telling. The headmaster is satisfied. His curiosity is squelched along with those of the village, he remarks. The situation is now in my hands.

Beneath a tree. In the pressing heat. Exhausted from the ride agains the wind. I find someone's fate in my hands. It is real power. Given power. Justified power. It is unbelievably heavy. Yet, the eyes do not turn from me. There is so much anticipation and waiting in this small corner of my village. I can only turn to Julien.

"We have two roads here. One, you admit to what you did and we go from there. Two, you do not admit it and we call the Peace Corps, who will demand the police." He shakes beneath my words and confesses. It is muffled along with a apology. A scared and childish apology.

I am not Pilate. I cannot wash my hands and let the kid go to the police and to some unknown fate. I have this power but I am looking at him. For the second time in my service, the burden of being the teacher weighs on me too heavy. I want to shake it off. To lay it down. But, I am the teacher.

"I have always found people in this country to be kind and honest. Isn't that the meaning of Burkina Faso? The 'land of upright men'? In the end, nothing was taken from me. This, here, was not against me. It was against that idea, the very name of all Burkinabe. Here, the apology should not go to me. Instead, I think Julien and I should go to each quarter around the village where he can apologize for having soiled their name and honor of our village and ask forgiveness. It is not me he needs to reconcile himself with but the people he has dishonored. Mister Headmaster, Mister Pastor is this fair?"

The heads of all the men were bobbing, nods of agreement perhaps relief. Where the idea came from, I do not know. It was all I could put together in the moment. Perhaps again my intelligence was sleeping though I knew enough to feel my heart beating heavy. Julien sunk lower.

***

The president of the teacher and parents association showed us to each quarter. There we met with the chiefs of each.

The first was a group of older men. Men I had never seen around village. Old. One was introduced as the Chief of the Ground, a sacred resource in Rambo. They listened to the story, the evidence, all. They looked me over, then lavished praise and thanks. Thanks for coming to help develop from so far. It was embarrassing and uplifting. I was awkward and torn. Part of me wanted to end all this and take Julien behind a tree, strap him to it then feel my fists break against his skull. I wanted to bruise his ribs. I want him to cry out his apology. To prove his repentance. But, it was all laced with guilt, leading the teacher in me to push through. I wanted to believe in Julien. To hide him from his consequences. To shelter him and show him a better path. To instill in him a higher sense, a better purpose, a respect. Then, the reality of lost causes damned my idealism. It was a war in my own heart in head, waging as these wise gentlemen laid down praise in their native tongue, always meeting me with their eyes. Their eyes full of knowing and that same relief.

The Chief of the Ground turned to young Julien and spoke firmly but gently. He spoke of grace and forgiveness but never forgetfulness. The ground would remember his deeds and if he repeated them, it would take his life in revenge. If he steals again, then he will find himself no longer a part of Rambo or life. He would be banished from Rambo and his body would be banished from this world.

The chief of my quarter echoed his words, though without the curse of death, adding his own calm rage. His entire body rising like a tree, towering over us and laying forth his disappointment and acceptance of the outcome. I asked only if this punishment was just and found myself embraced by his words. Again, praise and thanks pulled forth where fire and condemnation had been spewing forth. Those gathered around (so many of them my friends and neighbors) commenting, raging and applauding as they found themselves in and out of agreement.

Then came the mayor, the head of the region, the chiefs of other quarters and the grand imam (Islamic leader) of the village. Each added their disappointment, relief and praise. Had I been looking for an ego-boast, I could pick nothing better. Having been unexpected, it jolted me. I was unsure I deserved any of it. After all, what if I chose wrongly? What if he stole again? What he hurt someone, worse than the bruises that I received? Was I only prolonging a problem? Was I giving him no real consequence because I was relying on his conscience?

Their certainty shook mine. I was still raging inside but was growing happy that the situation would soon end. It would become a story to tell. A lesson of the past. A blog to be read. A report to be filed. Another moment in a life.

On one of our stops, we visited the 'Prefecteur' (also known as the head of the department). This was the only meeting not mostly in Moore, so the only one I could follow on my own (without a translator). I was thankful that I was able to listen to him as he laid out the consequences for burglary and assault to Julien. He talked about prison, the police and his removal from school. Stopping then to remark that it was a grace unearned that was afforded him. It was the lesson I hoped Julien would understand. We all make mistakes but there are real consequences to our actions. Consequences that he rightfully deserved. Yet, we all also deserve a second chance. What we do with that second chance is then up to us and no one, especially not a strange math teacher, can save us from those consequences.

At the time of this writing, only the apology to the school remains. After the holiday (for the birth of Mohamed), Julien will go from class to class admitting what he did and asking their forgiveness. Then, the world will turn as it always has.

Part 4: Thoughts

*Just this evening, I found out that Julien was seen near a teacher's house on a previous evening (possibly exiting). It was a suspicious moment but came to nothing. It makes me wonder if it is too late. Is he a lost cause? Did he need to be caught and fully punished? Or is the embarrassment and public apology sufficient? Will the social pressures of a tight-knit community work to his benefit?

*What was right or Right weighs heavy on me. Parts of me cry for blood. Other pieces are reminded of my own faults. There is no ultimate satisfaction in having done exactly right because I do not know what that is. Yet, I do feel the satisfaction of having done my best. One hopes that that is sufficient. There is a level of faith involved. Not religion. Just faith.

*It was a treat being able to meet and talk to every important person in the village, all in one morning. Volunteers often work hard to get an audience with their chefs. How lucky I was to stumble across such an opportunity. Even more so, as I watched their reactions. Heard their ideas of justice and reconciliation. How rare and important an experience. Seriously, luck.

*I realize now that this is a piece of this experience and part of what my countries asks of me. Standing before these chiefs with someone who had wronged me, I had represented my countrymen, our ideas of justice. It was bridge across two cultures. Whether I wanted it or not, they saw me as the embodiment of all that is America. I can only hope that I represented well who we are as a country to those of influence here.

*Julien is still in my class. He sits in the middle back. He can disappear if he wants. Honestly, class goes on. There is too much to do and too many students to hold anything back. I am his math teacher. I will be his math teacher.

*I am still sleeping in front of my door. I double check my screen door lock but that is all. I have been asked if I am afraid. I am not. I am just as willing to leave my key with my neighbor or sleep outside. There is nowhere I have as secure and safe in my person as this country.

*Black, African men coming to rob you is a cliche in older films and certain parts of American culture. A terrible stereotype in real life. And it has nothing to do with this situation. My student is African and is black but neither had anything to do with his entering my house. After all, it looks as if he had tried to enter the house of another teacher who is also African. Thus, I can only say that he is simply an individual that is working from his own ideas, however childish they are. He is a young man (17 years old) that thinks he is invisible and that life is without consequence. Time will prove him right or wrong. This is just one step in his life.

On that note, all those outraged, saddened and assisting in this situation were also African and black. I am the only light-skinned person in my village. Yet, I am not alone in my village. Race was not the issue here.

*This was one hell of an adventure. I am glad to have gone through it. Life is exciting. I dig that. I would not change a thing. All went as good as a bad thing can go. Minor bruises aside, no one was hurt. And I feel closer and happier to be in my village than ever.