Anti-Americanism in Agadez

By Alexis Sathre Wolff
This article was printed in Abroad View magazine fall 2004

“F*ck America! Sh*t America! Sh*t your father!”

Kate, Mitch and I were at the market in central Agadez—a former trading post situated on the edge of the Sahara desert, and today Niger’s biggest tourist site— where we had ventured for a vacation from our classes in Niamey, the capital city.

We were browsing boubous (long, brightly-colored traditional robes) when a man in his thirties, in a blue turban, ran up behind us screaming obscenities about our country. He was followed by a few less vocal tagalongs.

“Sh*t America! F*ck Bush! Bush sh*tted Iraq!”

Mitch and I pretended to concentrate on the goods in the nearest shop, while Kate, the only budding Hausa speaker among us, responded in the local language. I didn’t know what she was saying, but she was saying it between giggles and with a smile on her face, and I knew that wasn’t smart.

“What is she doing?” I asked Mitch in horror. In my head I heard a refrain of some Morgan Freeman-like character saying: “We do not negotiate with terrorists.” I had visions of the blue-turban-wearing America hater pulling out a knife, or a gun or a bomb.

A bit dramatic maybe, but still I maintain that the situation called for some degree of panic.
We wove in and out of market aisles, the man and his posse tailing us. We eventually lost them, sat down on a curb, and ate grapefruit grown in a desert oasis as we reflected on our experience.
“That was so funny,” laughed Kate. I rolled my eyes. I didn’t think so. Maybe the guy hadn’t pulled a gun, but I didn’t care. As far as I was concerned, he could have, and egging him on only increased the possibility.

Apparently, Kate had been telling him that Bush was bad, but all Americans were not. I agreed. And I agreed that it’s important for Americans to express this to the international community, but when a man is tailing you, screaming obscenities with hate-filled eyes, it’s really not the time to attempt a warm and fuzzy moment of breaking down cultural stereotypes.

As we sat there, eating our grapefruits, I drifted off into my own world of anti-American memories. This had been a lingering threat since I arrived in Niger. Osama bin Laden paraphernalia was everywhere—on buttons for sale in the markets, on posters hung in the home of Amberura’s chief. Five-year-old Halima, one of my neighborhood friends, often wore her orange “Osama bin Laden is a hero” T-shirt and shorts set. She obviously didn’t realize the significance, and judging by their warmth toward me, neither did the adult members of her family, who likely purchased the shirt.
Up until that point, the only people who had hassled me about my country had either wanted me to get them a watch or a visa. But, like I said, the threat was lingering. You couldn’t walk by photographs of Osama bin Laden’s face every day and think otherwise.

I wasn’t surprised that the threat materialized. In fact, I was surprised that it had taken so long. Nevertheless, when it happened, I was scared. I was also stupid and selfish, though, and since this was my last day in Agadez, and since I wanted souvenirs, I ventured back into the market.

“F*ck B*sh! Sh*t America!”
Before I knew it, we were cornered again. I saw those familiar, hate-filled eyes glaring out from the blue turban. An older man ushered us into his shop and tried, unsuccessfully, to shoo the aggressor away. It was weird how angry I was becoming. I had never been particularly patriotic before. In a less extreme and less radical way, I even agreed with a lot of what the blue- turban-wearing man was saying, yet I was angry to hear him say it. (It reminded me of the little sister phenomenon: I can pick on her all I want, but you better not dare.) Half way across the world, I was realizing that I respected my country after all.

Maybe this is why Kate tried to reason with the man again. Maybe it was out of defense. I don’t know. All I know is that when she started to reason, I heard the Morgan Freeman-like voice in my head again, this time shouting: “For the love of God, run!”

And so I did. I slipped out a side door and saved myself. I had warned Kate once, but this time she was on her own. Mitch too.

Nothing happened, of course—but if it would have, I had left my friends. Walking back to my hotel, it occurred to me that maybe my independent, selfish action represented everything about America that the man in the blue turban hated. AV

Alexis Sathre Wolff is from Marshall, IL. She was a senior at Yale University, where she majored in African studies at the time this article was written. She spent the fall 2003 semester in Niger with Boston University’s Language and Liberal Arts Program.