children

On my way to work today, already late, I was greeted by a group of children that ran up to me yelling "Ca va! Ca va!" The phrase "ca va," in this context, is usually a question, but with these kids represents the sum total of their French knowledge and is a mix between saying hello and general harassment. I stopped to shake the little hands that were held out to me. The bigger kids usually go first, brave as they are, followed by the more timid ones, and finally the children whose older brothers and sisters drag them close to me. These kids look at me, eyes wide with terror, before turning their heads, struggling with whatever older kid is holding them to run away.

Today, the normal order of things seemed off - and the whole mass of kids just ran straight up to me hands outstretched, grabbing both my left and right hands, and holding on. One little girl grabbed two of my fingers and began alternately tugging on them - as if to ensure that they were indeed attached. A little boy of about 9 years put his hands on my forearm, running them up and down, pinching and pulling at the skin. Another little girl simply held my wrist with both of her hands, looking up at me with big eyes, not entirely sure what to do next.

"Legiloo!" I said, the Zagahwa word for hello. "Legiloo! Legiloo! Legiloo!" they laughed, hysterical that I had managed even this much of their language. Having exhausted my Zaghawa, I switched to Arabic, "Isme Cristine." They repeated my name, but wouldn't tell me theirs. I am not entirely sure they understood my Arabic - or Arabic at all. I stood there with them for a few minutes while they talked to me and to each other. Their voices grew confident as they warmed to their subject - whatever it was - and they didn't seem to mind that I couldn't respond. Then I said, "Bye bye," and began to release my arms from their grips. One little girl followed me down the road for 20 meters or so, still attached to my arm. Then, finally having reached some invisible barrier, let go, smiled and said "Bye bye!"

The kids at the refugee camp are a bit different. There are still the kids that are terrified, that burst into tears at the site of me, that run and hide behind their mother's skirts, that won't have anything to do with me. But the other extreme is the children who love the camera. The crowd around me close, competing to take up any and all space around me. They put their faces close into my camera lens, then spend minutes dissecting each picture that I show to them. When they are done, they hand the camera back and demand another.

I was playing with a baby at one of the vaccination posts yesterday. The mother of the child asked me how many children I had. Zero, I responded. How old are you ? was the inevitable next question. I answered that and further explained, when asked that I was neither married nor engaged to be married. The woman seemed to pity me a bit after that. But still asked if I wanted to take her child back to America with me. "Sure," I said, "why not?" The woman smiled at me, and took her baby back, perhaps reconsidering the efficacy of giving a child to a woman who has, as of yet, been able to secure either a husband or children of her own.

Later, sitting with one of my Chadian friends, the subject came up again.

J: "so, you are 29 now, and you have 3 years left of school."
me: "yes, then at least 3 years of residency."
J: You will be 35 when you are finished?
me: Incha Allah.
J: Yes, Incha Allah. And then you will have 10 years until menopause.
me: ummm....
J: So, with proper spacing, you should have time for 2 children.
me: Not 3? I think 3 sounds good.
J: You will be too tired from your work. Who will watch over the children?
me: Maybe the man I marry will stay home with them.
J: (hysterical laughter) No, cristine, that is impossible.
me: No, it is possible, in America, it is possible.
J: And where do you find such a man?
me: I don't know... at market?
J: (more laughter) Oh, cristine, this is not the kind of man you want. He will just be marrying you for your money and he will not take care of the children properly.
me: well, i don't know. Maybe I just won't get married or have children.
J: (suddenly serious) Oh, Cristine, don't say things like that. Ever. Incha Allah, you will marry a good man who works, and you will have twins.
me: Incha Allah.