It is hot. Yes, it is a severe, harsh, almost authoritarian heat that is bearing down on us.
With that in mind, I suddenly tear off my clothes, wrap a towel around my waist, and head straight for the shower.
I remember that during this season, when the heat hits us with full force, we have a terrible water shortage here in the Fouta, in Thillé Boubacar. In that frame of mind, I start complaining and blaming the government for all my troubles.
Instead, I settle for a kettle of water and let myself surrender to the rhythm of the gentle water running over my body, swearing that I will seek a transfer to a place where the climate and living conditions are more accommodating.
Then, all of a sudden, my thoughts turn to her. I come back to my senses and immediately regret my complaints.
In truth, when I compare myself to others, should I really be complaining? I ask myself. Because yes, at least I have hands with which to wash myself. At least I have all my physical and mental faculties.
Although I often see myself in her because of my own disability—my stutter—it must be said that mine is insignificant compared with hers, which she carries like a burden.
At that very moment, providence brings me back to my senses, reminding me not to continue complaining about the limitations she lives with and faces, even when it comes to meeting her most basic needs, such as washing herself without anyone’s assistance.
Along the same lines, I cannot get the image of her mother out of my mind, surrounded by caregivers helping her get out of bed. This painful reality immediately takes hold of my thoughts, breaks my heart, and tears me apart inside.
Watching the people around her take turns helping her sit up, wash herself, or even attend to her most basic bodily needs was, without a doubt, a profound lesson in humility for the rest of us mere mortals.
Élan - Hope Yakaar catalog
Focus - Hope Yakaar catalog
Espoir - Hope Yakaar catalog
Yédia - Hope Yakaar catalog
On the other hand, I also think about the special and selfless way in which Auntie Coumba had plans for her. Yes, this courageous woman wanted nothing more than to help Yedia learn how to cope with and navigate life with her disability. Sadly, this would remain a dream forever, one that would never come true.
Yedia passed away just three days after our visit. She left us forever, taking a hope with her. She departed, seemingly extinguishing our dream of seeing her thrive despite her limited mobility. Therefore, our only comfort is that she left this world relieved of all her suffering.
Because yes, as a believer, I hold the conviction that, in the hereafter at least, she will regain the use of her limbs. I imagine her soaring into the sky, her wheelchair—so imposing, just like her—adorned with roses, symbolically representing her veil, as though preventing people from seeing anything other than tenderness and grace.
Goodbye, little flower Yedia.
Although the death of this beautiful soul was a painful and traumatic experience, it also opened a door for us—one that allowed us to bring this initiative to life. In this way, she became our source of inspiration.
Through our art, we wanted to offer hope to every person living with a disability. From that moment on, this solemn exhibition, filled with emotion and lessons, should be seen as our first step in a long-term commitment to solidarity, support, and advocacy for people with disabilities.
With this spirit, we want to nurture in them the hope of a better life. Through this project, we hope that people living with disabilities will gain the conviction and confidence that they can live, work, and be happy, while turning their disability into a source of strength within a system of constant struggle—one in which resilience is essential in the face of challenges of all kinds and in every form.
OUMAR CISSE
Visual Artist
