Silence is Golden

Remember that incessant ad in movie theatres that reminds theatre-goers to silence their phones because “silence is golden”? Well, that saying feels like my life in Togo right now. I have been here for two months, and even with my improving French and beginner’s level Ewe (the local language), I still find most of my time spent in silence. Right now, I write to you in silence, in my two-room home (with electricity and internet!) in my site for my next two years. I have been assigned to a small village in the Plateaux region of Togo, the second southernmost region. I am here now because, as Peace Corps trainees, we have a two-week site visit before we swear-in as volunteers in August.

The silence I am experiencing at my site and I had experienced with my host family is not necessarily due to the language barrier but is rather intentional. The silence I experience is not the lonely kind but a social silence. This silence is something that Peace Corps Togo has pushed us to discover—a “psychology of sitting,” as described by Andreas Fuglesang: “In villages all over the world, sitting is an important social activity. Sitting is not a ‘waste of time’ nor is it a manifestation of laziness. Sitting is having time together, time to cultivate social relations.” The silence that I’ve come to love here isn’t just something that pushes the boundaries of my comfort zone, but rather is its own language—a language that presents no barrier and is shared between me and others. This language—silence—is my key to building relationships and rapport with my community.

I went to the Mosque in my community for the first time this past Friday. It was my first time going to a Mosque in my village, in Togo, and well, my first time ever. I went with my community counterpart in the village because he is Muslim, but I had a lot of fears about whether I would be welcome there, fears about how to pray, and fears about the length of service. Before entering the Mosque, with the aid of my counterpart, I faced the mountains, rolled up my sleeves, took off my shoes, and washed my hands, mouth, nose, face, ears, arms, and feet three times each. I put on a borrowed hijab and walked into the back of the mosque where all the women were sitting. Between the mix of Arabic and local language spoken, I had no idea what was going on. I sat there, confused, in silence. I was watched, and I followed my neighbors when they bowed to pray. If I made a mistake, they were sure to correct me. After the service ended, I felt the sense of comfort that belonging brings. I felt that I just made a step of progress towards my integration. Many women came up to me in silence, without saying anything, to shake my hand and give me the nod of approval. I chose silence. I chose to go to the Mosque and bear the fear, rather than escape the silence to the comfort of my phone or my home.

Just like my experience at the Mosque, I have spent many moments in Togo in silence. I eat in silence as silence during meals is a sign of respect. I observe at the clinic in silence, and I pass time with others in silence. I’ve come to love and enjoy this silence. This is a non-awkward and welcoming silence. I have learned to embrace this silence to meditate on the little challenges that are bothering me, like the bat that’s living in my bedroom or my bug-infested latrine. Silence isn’t empty space or wasted time spent with others—on the contrary, it’s quite powerful. Something ignored in the states—something that is literally silenced and squelched there—is privileged here, and I am excited to explore the true density and power of silence.

The view from my back window