I’ve been waiting for such stories to surface in Mali. Here we have it, some proof, a human story from Timbuktu exposing the fact that Malian people in the North did exhibit peaceful resistance to the fundamentalist soldiers that occupied their town in Mali. Journalists, please keep these stories coming. Give these people a voice….
“Well,” Ramon said, “the old gang made its millions; now a new gang wants to rob us. You know, it will be the same for us whoever wins. We are completely forgotten here in Rio Verde.”
I nonchelantly greeted her as I passed. She looked up at me in surprise, with her one remaining front tooth clearly visible in that huge smile. I remember she wore a pink sweater. She greeted me in return, and I could see the embarrassment begin to settle on her humble face, though she tried to hide it, at having a white westerner see her scavenging.
Just when I think I am getting a handle on the situation in northern Mali, comments like this appear in news articles.
He said, “if everyone says they can’t fight because they have a wife and children, then what will happen to our country?
Brave little American. Were you thinking with your melon at all? Did it just slip out of your mouth? A buddy I worked along side of in Ivory Coast is vacationing here on Prince Edward Island and the last few years we have been taking a few days together on the Motorcycles. Well, scooters, he…
“They love the soil which makes their graves, but have no sympathy with the spirit which may still animate their clay.” (Thoreau. Walden)
“I laid on my belly on the floor of my room for almost two weeks with nothing to eat, only water. I was sprawled on the floor like a lizzard. Just when you thought it might be safe to get up, you would hear the pow, pow, pow (AK47) again. ” Those were the words I heard from a young Nigerian who eventually evacuated from Timbuktu, to Sikasso.
I remember the smile of a Malian man who became the proud owner of his first bicycle. Yes, the bicycle with smooth balding tires, torn seat, two broken pedals with only the steel spikes to pedal with, a frame welded back together in several places, and a set of Malian feet shod with worn flip-flops. But it is his bike.
When you are trying to teach a community new skills, one often gets overwhelmingly tired of repeating oneself.
Some question had been put in me, about West Africa, my life there. But it’s lost, for now.
As a humanitarian worker in such a challenging place as rural Mali,
People assume that we must be out trying to change the world. Like, bull roar….
I wish, but I will not leave even a dent nor scratch in Mali, and I know it.