The Goodbyes of March

The end was fast and unexpected. It was so sudden, it numbed me. I didn’t feel anything for the first hours following the early Monday morning message that globally all Peace Corps volunteers were being evacuated. Maybe I was numb because I was exhausted from dealing with the tragedy that had, just a week earlier, struck my community. Maybe I was numb but my mind was running a mile-a-minute as I packed and said goodbye to the Togolese people who mean the most to me. Maybe I was numb because it all seemed so surreal, and I wasn’t ready to accept the reality and gravity of the situation.

Let me back up. On Tuesday, March 10 my village experienced heavy winds and rains, a signal of the rainy season’s commencement. The start of the rains is welcome. It begins the farming season and ends the cool and dusty dry season. Something that is normally celebrated was reviled that day. On Tuesday, March 10 the heavy winds and rains knocked down a cement wall at the elementary school, injuring six students and the school principal and killing a 10-year old girl. When the storm settled down around 3 p.m., I immediately walked to the clinic and found it flooded with people—a scene I had never witnessed before. I saw a young girl with a large gash across her head getting stitches and five other kids waiting to see the nurse. It was then that I heard the devastating news that a young girl had died.

I was able to sit with the girl whose head had been gashed, and I held her hand as she got stitches. I helped the other little kids feel as comfortable as they could during this disaster. Mostly, I felt powerless. I couldn’t help in any capacity except to comfort people. Later, the nurse asked me to accompany him to survey the scene at the elementary school and to greet the police who had already arrived. He asked me to help him photograph the wreckage as well as the dead student’s body. I was there so that he could keep as many health personnel at the clinic as possible. The next day, the mother of the young girl who got stitches kept thanking me. I had never been thanked by a Togolese person before, yet during this this tragedy, I was thanked for my presence and my care.

Through this event, the language barriers and cultural differences between the many ethnic groups in my village dissolved, and we all came together as one. On Thursday, we held a burial for the little girl who was killed. Many people from outside communities, as well as government officials, Muslims and Christians from all sects, came together. I grew with the community during this time and was accepted by the community in a way that I had never been before. I felt closer than ever to them. Little did I know that in less than a week I, too, would have to leave.

On Monday, March 16, I woke up to the announcement of the global suspension of all Peace Corps volunteer activities. I had less than 48 hours to pack up my whole house and say goodbye to the Togolese people whom I have come to love. Leaving them early was hard enough, but I was also leaving them without an understanding of why. COVID-19 wasn’t a serious risk yet in Togo, and they were confused as to why I was going home to a country where the virus was spreading fast. It was hard to explain to them that I was leaving due to all the border closings. Then they wondered why I couldn’t just stay in Togo until the borders opened up again, which is sound reasoning as far as I am concerned. But to the Peace Corps, the health and safety of volunteers is first. And though COVID-19 hadn’t become a threat yet in Togo, the border closings throughout the world limited volunteers’ access to adequate healthcare.

I was in Togo’s capital Lome on Wednesday, March 18 and flew out on Friday, March 20. I am home now. I am no longer numb. The anesthesia from this nightmare is slowly starting to wear off, and the emotions come in waves. I am starting to process it all—the isolation, the abandonment and the culture shock. It is awful, but it is also a beautiful thing. I am so lucky and so grateful that I found a family and community in Togo which made leaving my service there so difficult. Coming home with me are life-altering experiences and positive relationships. I truly could not ask for anything more. I wasn’t ready for this sudden evacuation, and yet I was so ready. Ironically, my service in the Peace Corps has prepared me best for all of this. Peace Corps has taught me to be resilient and embrace the isolation and unpredictability of new cultures and new experiences. I may be back at home in a culture I once knew, but this that I once “knew” has become the “new.”

Togo, you taught me to learn from and embrace the uncomfortable. You taught me to be patient, take a deep breath, and adapt. You showed me the true strength and inherent resilience of women. You taught me to be creative and find solutions to problems where there aren’t obvious answers. You taught me to be assertive. You taught me how to love even when I wanted to be angry and afraid. Thank you. As we say in Ewe: Mayi Mava Looo (I go and I come back).

Update: the day I left Togo, the country decided to shut down all the schools, universities, churches, mosques and public gatherings. There are about 30 confirmed cases in Togo, but I am guessing there are many more cases that are not confirmed due to the lack of adequate testing.

For more information, email me at: sofiahowson@gmail.com.


The sign for the village I lived in for almost two years, Kpessi.


The volunteers who came to Togo with me and left with me.


The staff and all the volunteers of Peace Corps Togo.