Remember

I’ve been back in the states for three months now, and my how things have changed.

For starters, what’s with everyone wearing Adidas? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m here for it, but it’s everywhere. And the palm tree fad? Let’s just say, I’m happy to have been on a tropical island the last few years because my Insta is on point. Also, it’s back in style to be PC –which I love. I want to thank God and Donald Trump for this glorious change. And some of this new music that’s coming out? I mean, most of it is depressing as hell, but it’s 100 emoji. I think I’m starting to get the hang of things, but it was a rocky transition.

My first day back, I remember sitting in the back of my grandparents car looking at all of the lights from houses and buildings on the drive home. It’s not that Comoros never had lights, but there were just so many on that ride. And street lamps, too. I flashbacked to a taxi ride I had only a few weeks before. A man was discussing America and religion and politics with me, and I remember worrying if I said the wrong thing he would hurt me.

I’m sure he wouldn’t have –Comoros tends to be very peaceful. But the last month of my time there was a time of political unrest –a violent protest broke right outside of my bedroom window. And only a few weeks before that, my good friend and fellow Peace Corps Volunteer, Bernice Heiderman, died of an unknown illness. Needless to say, death was on my mind.

We got to my grandparent’s house, and immediately were greeted by my grandma’s dog, Murphy. It had been nearly a year since I touched a dog last –they are haram, so none of my Comoran friends had one. Murphy’s wiry hair curled over my fingers as I combed them across his back.

Even though it was already 1am, I threw my clothing into the washer. I hadn’t had clean clothes in months because I’d gotten too lazy to hand wash them, and I felt uncomfortable paying $1 for my host sister to do it for me. Without a washboard, you have to use the palms of your hands to scrub clothes, and after so long, it really hurts. Not to mention lifting heavy wet cloth and squeezing the water out in a repetitive process that often took several hours.

So, my clothes were really dirty. We had to wash everything twice because, during the first wash, the water had turned black from all of the dirt and sweat and grime. And then I took a warm bath –the first I’d had in ages. And I put on fresh clean clothes and jumped into a bed with fresh, clean sheets. I remember taking deep breaths linen air, and rubbing the soft fabric against my skin.

It took a few weeks to set up counseling –the reason Peace Corps sent me home early– and I used those weeks trying to reacclimate to the United States. My twin and I went shopping for clothes at thrift stores, trying to replace the clothing that wasn’t worth saving. I remembered that I loved shopping for clothes, and was ready to regain some of my fashion sense.

And we ate donuts –a delicacy I had been craving since arriving in Comoros. But I found they were a little too sweet for my new tastes.

Every so often, too many people would be talking around me in a language I actually understood, and I needed some time to relearn ignoring words that weren’t directed at me. So, I would take a lot of walks alone.

The March Missouri weather was cold against my skin, but I reveled in it. I reminded my body of heavy jackets and breezes that chilled through them. I’d see squirrels running by, or the occasional deer. And so many hawks and crows. There was not a single bat. Not even one tropical bird. And no body of water as far as the eye could see. And part of me broke at this realization. And the other part of me felt at home.

When it finally did come time to talk to the counselor, and after some opening conversations, we talked about Bea. About how she died suddenly and completely out of the blue. How she and I hung out the week before, and she taught me how to fix my broken shoes that I still haven’t throw away despite buying replacements for them. How we all loved her dearly, and there was no good reason for her death –it just happened.

I talked about how we didn’t want to talk to strangers on the Comoran streets about the article they read in the paper that was secretly propaganda to get citizens to take their flu shots; about how I’d have to drive by her house every time I went to the capital, and every time on the way home, too; about my newfound anxiety that kept me from driving myself (which, if you know me, is a big deal –I love driving).

I don’t know how much counseling actually helped me. I mean, most of the things we discussed involving grief I’d already had an understanding of. Though, it was nice to be able to talk to someone about these things. As wonderful as my family is, they get very uncomfortable when talking about death and grief. I was alone at home, so I compartmentalized.

When my granny would ask why I was crying at a happy commercial on T.V., I’d just respond with a simple “I don’t know,” and not about the fact that I was thinking about Bea and her inability to do the things in the commercial. Or I’d be listening to podcast about the man whose wife was sucked out of the airplane window –he’d say the hardest part was telling his family, and I flashed back to the moment I told my family, and how much harder it would be if they’d actually known Bea.

I was sitting on my bed. The mosquito net was rolled up even though it was late at night. Zach, one of my best friends in Comoros, called me and asked if I was okay. I told him I was, and asked the same because I heard his voice crack. He told me I needed to call other Zack, the Peace Corps representative who was in charge of calling volunteers on my island to inform them of the news of Bea’s death.

I remember all I could say to Zack was “okay,” and to Zach, “I can’t believe it.” I called my parents –it took a few tries to get ahold of them– and they told me to get to a hotel and take a hot shower and try to sleep. I called Emily, my best friend, and asked if she would join me –she did. And then I climbed the hill to my host mother’s house, and told her I had something I needed to discuss in private.

Another woman from the village was helping cook in the unfinished kitchen. They were on the ground, frying breadfruit over a fire. My host mother could tell something was wrong, so she did as I asked, and informed her friend to stay there. In my broken Shingazidja, I asked her if she remembered Bea. She did. I told her what happened. I remember she let out a harsh breath and said, elongated, “masikini,” which means “I’m so sorry for you,” and she fell into a chair and cried. And I cried, too. Deep cries. Ugly cries.

She asked me what happened, and I said I didn’t know. Bea was just sick and she died. My mother and I embraced, and I told her I was leaving Sima, my village, to be with other Peace Corps volunteers –another jab into mom’s heart. I didn’t want to leave her, but I needed to leave Sima. I called my host brother and asked him to pick me up and take me to the capital. He did without hesitation. And I stayed in a hotel with friends for about three weeks.

We had Bea’s memorial service in her village, Salimani. And we planted a tree for her at her school –something she was hoping to do before she left. We all cried together, got angry together, laughed at stupid stories. It was a lot. Too much. Not enough.

And then I went home to Sima. And on the first day I returned to teaching, a violent protest broke out. I was sitting on my bed eating my lunch and watching shows from my hard drive. I heard noises outside, so I went to see what was happening. Some of my friends and neighbors were outside yelling at each other. I though it was a dispute about work or family. It turns out, they were yelling about what needed to be done to stop the Gendarmerie (Army meets SWAT) from getting into the town.

My roommate, Rona, ran toward everyone and started barking orders, including one at me to close the window. I did what he said. Then, through the glass, I watched as he pulled out a machete and a group of my neighbors started throwing rocks down the mountain at a truck carrying armed soldiers. I immediately called the Peace Corps and told them what was happening. They said to stay inside and lock all of my doors –I did.

But my curiosity got the best of me. I looked out the window and watched as the guards started beating my neighbors, including Rona. In fact, they knocked Rona out, and tossed (literally threw) him into the back of their truck. Eventually, they drove out of sight, and I snuck over to my host grandmother’s house behind me. There, Bea’s old headmaster, who happened to be visiting Sima, told me what was happening –the protest. We hugged, and she told me not to worry. But I couldn’t stop thinking about my roommate and the rest of my family.

I remember I ran another house away, and found my mom and grandmother, pacing and silent. I asked her if she was okay. She said she was, but she didn’t know where Fukridine (her middle son) and Houssine (her youngest) were. I gave her my phone to try and call them. After some time, my brother, Houssine came out of the forest behind the house, and snuck inside. My host mother told him to hide in the attic, and told me to forget he was there.

Soon, we heard rapid gunfire and a bomb or two –small sounding bombs, an attempt to scare, not kill. Mom asked if I could give her phone credit so she could call Fukridine, and we discovered he was among the fighting. Before I knew it, the Peace Corps had a car there to pick me up. I hugged and kissed my host mother goodbye and I was taken to a hotel for safe keeping.

On the drive down, there were stumps and rocks haphazardly tossed on the side of the road –a sign of barriers torn down. at one point, an entire tree had been cut down to block the Gendarmerie. It, obviously, failed. By the end of the day, I discovered Fukridine was in hiding in a village in the south, and Rona was in prison.

In Comoros, when someone is in prison, they are supposed to be fed by their family members. Since I was the only one in the capital (where the prison was), I was the family member expected to do it. So, I brought Rona a sandwich and drink. The next day, he escaped from prison and went into hiding somewhere in the north.

Peace Corps recommended I talk to a therapist. They provided me with one over the phone, and she recommended I return to the U.S. to treat my newly developed acute anxiety. Which, a 42 hour plane ride later, brought me to my American grandparents’ car in their city of lights. And which brought me here, to a Starbucks several months later.

I still cry all the time at stupid things. Whenever I head to Chicago (my city and the one Bea was going to show me her favorite places), I cry. Sometimes, while I am at work at Walmart, I get angry that I have to work for such little pay, and I remember that that would be a life changing opportunity for some of my family in Comoros. Or the song I played over and over again in the hotel after Bea died comes on, and I become silent. Or nothing happens and I cry anyway.

I can drive again. I even like it again. And I smile a lot because why not? And I look into the eyes of a stranger and remember that they are an entity looking back at me. I wonder what choices had brought them to that moment where we met. And then I give them their change, tell them to have a good day, and move onto the next customer.

I cry when I learn about the despairs of others, and I try not to tell them mine. And when I do tell them about mine, I don’t have the words.