My heart is tired. It has been pulled and stretched, tested and torn. Nikiondoka, nitalia sana. “When I leave, I will cry a lot”. I have been saying that to people time and time again over the last year. Now it has begun. The reality has started to settle in, and I cry after someone has said my name with just a little bit too much enthusiasm.
I awaken on a Saturday morning without an alarm and am immediately enveloped by the softness of the weekend. People walking by are either on the way to the farm, to fetch water, or to tie up their sheep to graze. A contrast from the usual boisterous students on their walk to school. How many Saturdays do I have left here? The ache in my chest rises. Not enough.
The act of leaving this country is not the same as it was to leave the United States. When I first left for the Peace Corps over two years ago, I knew that I would return again. It was a “goodbye”, but meshed together with a “see ya later”. To leave Tanzania however, there is no assurance of a return. It is just a final goodbye. These people—these beautiful people who have become my world—may never have contact with me again. The children who I have raced along the roadside with, practiced English with, and held art sessions with, I will not see grow up. I will not be here to witness the expansion of businesses and families. I will not be able to walk down the street at any time and share a meal with loved ones. I will not be told how nice I look just because I wrapped a kanga (decorated fabric) around my waist. I will not speak Swahili. I will not see people carrying machetes in flip flops. I will not snuggle my cat. The grief becomes too much at times. Because I feel similarities in a final farewell and in death. New experiences will not be had and all that will remain are the memories. It’s over. Yes, these kinds of fluctuations and changes are the pillars of life, but this is not just saying goodbye to a couple of things—it is saying goodbye to everything that I have been apart of for the past two years. It’s not just one chapter of my life coming to a close, but an entire part of my novel. Just after a few months living here I had written in my journal, “Tanzania is going to break my heart”. Oh how right I was.
I cope by making lists. Possessions to give away, applications to complete, homes to visit, paperwork to fill out. I must have over a dozen lists scattered about; in different notebooks, on my phone, on my laptop, written on the wall. A part of me believes that organizing and trying to make things seem more tangible will lessen the ache. It doesn’t really. I have sat down to write, I have meditated, I have spoken with friends—yet I still ache. I cry, I laugh, I push my body to its full physical exertion—yet I still ache. There cannot possibly be enough words that I can arrange in just the right formation to express everything that I have experienced and received from my time here. I try to focus on the perceived future and to get eager about what is to come—but my heart is still a tangled mess. I am filled with gratitude, sadness, relief, sorrow, anxiety, excitement, and everything else in between. I know that you do not “move on” from things. There is no such thing. You move forward. You grow and adapt and take what life has thrown at you in order to have something to build on into the future. I know that I must sit in this grief, as well as relish in these privileges I have had. Intellectually I am aware, but in practicality–I ache.
Today is Saturday. One of the three remaining that I will spend in the first house that I have ever lived in by myself. The sun is shining, people are laughing, my neighbor is calling the chickens in to eat. I have already completed my morning routine of yoga, exercise, breakfast, and podcasts. I will rise with my mangled heart and walk until I can no longer, exchanging greetings along the way. I will visit with one of my favorite elderly couples, and then eat dinner with my adopted family. I will still feel the ache, but I will also feel all of the other beautiful things that have allowed for the ache to form. I will embrace it. The future will wait–just as it always does–and my heart will beat on.
Raheli’s TZ Experience 