The land of dirt is in my veins.
I was just three when my feet
first touched the light beige soil.
I was three when I first saw
a leper, wearing rags and begging
in front of the western burger restaurant.
I stared at the remnant, dead tree at the zoo,
imagining the sandy desert stretching
thousands of kilometres with not one tree left.
As I played in the dirt with my brothers
and tobogganed down the dunes on the edge of the city,
I was mildly aware:
Of the women at the river
washing their clothes by hand,
carrying children on their backs
and loads of wood on their head,
pounding what little yam or millet they had
to feed their families.
At three, and four and five and six, I was curious
about why people washed in such a brown, dirty river
and what the beggar man ate for dinner.
I understood that I lived on the edge
of the biggest, driest desert on earth
and that growing plants was near impossible.
And I understood that when I contracted a disease
rarely experienced in the developed world,
I had the medicine to save my life
in a day.
The land of dirt is in my veins.
Thousands of kilometres away and comfortably cool,
my walls contain fabric pictures
from another world.
Mementos of a place far removed from this
green, humid land-
soapstone elephants and wooden bowls.
Photographs of mud brick temples and nomads on their camels
remind me of an existence
most around me will never know.
I am twelve. And I remember
the women on the banks of the river
with babies on the backs and loads of wood on their heads.
The land of dirt is in my veins.
Although I sit in a state-of-the-art university
I am transported to the dirt
by the film showing the women
and the disease the babies on their backs
are dying from.
The land of dirt
appears without hope, without help.
Stories of economy, of corruption, of debt,
complicate and obscure the obvious-
In the land of dirt
life is unfair, unjust,
people are hungry
and people die
at rates not seen anywhere else in the world.
I am moved to learn-
the economics, the corruption, the debt,
to un-complicate the hopelessness and
locate the hope for the women at the river
with babies on their backs and loads of wood on their heads.
It’s 2012 and the women
are on the front page of a far away newspaper.
My mind trades the comfort of Sydney
for the river banks of the river in Niamey.
The horrific statistics no longer shock me,
the images no longer make me sick,
I know the babies are dying
and the women have no food to feed their families.
In Niger there is a drought
there is famine
there is hopelessness.
But I remember the women at the river
with babies on the backs and loads of wood on their head.
And because the land of dirt is in my veins
I will tell their story.
----
The place of my childhood - Niger- is facing one of it's worst famines in the last century. It is land-locked country almost entirely made up of Sahara Desert. It is one of the most undeveloped nations in the world, frequently seen at the bottom of the UNDP index and with some of the most consistently terrible women and child health statistics.
Thankfully, it has begun to make it into our news in the past few weeks. But unfortunately the reality currently facing the country is not new and is the result of consistent neglect from the international community. The perfect storm of climate change-induced severe drought, rising food prices and poor aid and development responses to it's unique problems are causing widespread hunger and malnutrition.
This place holds a special place in my heart.
Here is a link to the story (including image gallery) from this weekend's Sydney Morning Herald that inspired the poem: A Tragedy in Niger
If you are interested in supporting any of the immediate relief efforts here are some links:
And for some further context, read this recent media release from Oxfam: Joint study finds Niger communities will run out of food before next harvest
Thank you for listening....
