When a Devastating Famine Hit the Nigerian Village Where I Volunteered, I Felt Powerless. Then I Read This Book (Exclusive) Lizz Schumer, Janet Rich EdwardsDecember 1, 2025 at 5:30 AM 0 Courtesy of Janet Rich Edwards Photos from Janet Rich Edward's time in Niger as a Peace Corps Volunteer, 1982 It was 1984, and I was 22, flying to my post as a Peace Corps volunteer. I was glued to the window as we crossed the Sahara, awed by the barren expanse that was shrouded in red haze to the horizon. When I pressed my hand to the pane, it came back warm.
- - When a Devastating Famine Hit the Nigerian Village Where I Volunteered, I Felt Powerless. Then I Read This Book (Exclusive)
Lizz Schumer, Janet Rich EdwardsDecember 1, 2025 at 5:30 AM
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Courtesy of Janet Rich Edwards
Photos from Janet Rich Edward's time in Niger as a Peace Corps Volunteer, 1982
It was 1984, and I was 22, flying to my post as a Peace Corps volunteer. I was glued to the window as we crossed the Sahara, awed by the barren expanse that was shrouded in red haze to the horizon. When I pressed my hand to the pane, it came back warm. I remember thinking it would green up as we approached Niger, which I knew was dry, but not desert desert. I'd grown up in the Cuyahoga Valley, splashing through brooks and pressing autumn leaves between wax paper sheets on my mother's ironing board. Only as we descended to the Niamey airport did I make out any trees. They were spindly, unfamiliar. It felt like we were landing on the moon.
My assignment was as a "nutritionist" in a maternal and infant clinic in the village of Torodi. In practice, that meant doing well-baby checkups, mixing up a homemade version of Pedialyte, and lecturing mothers on the value of a balanced diet, which was kind of absurd, given the difficulty of growing vegetables in sand. As out-of-place as I felt, I came to love the work and my colleagues, especially Djulde, the tiny, sharp-witted traditional midwife who taught me jokes in the local language and how to dance to the drums. I held the lantern for her while she delivered babies.
Courtesy of Janet Rich Edwards
Djulde and Janet
My favorite part of the job was riding my bicycle out to remote hamlets to check on the children. Toddlers would hide behind their mothers' skirts, thinking I was a ghost. More often than not, I'd return with a live chicken dangling by its feet from my handlebars. I'd learned not to protest the gift; that generosity was the lifeblood of Niger. By the end of the first year, I thought I had my feet under me. But I had no idea what was coming.
If you're old enough, you'll recall the song, "Feed the World," the Band Aid anthem for the Ethiopian famine. Its lyrics were cringey even then, but it was meant as a heartfelt fundraiser for food aid. The song was on a mix tape that a friend sent me, sandwiched between "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" and "What's Love Got to Do With It?" I danced my heart out to that tape, behind the closed door of my hut so my neighbors couldn't see my awkward moves. The Ethiopian drought felt far off. But by 1985, the whole desert belt of Africa was running out of food.
The U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) sent us food aid in bulk packages, including dried soup, which I taught the mothers to pronounce: "MIN–UH–STRO–NEE ZOOP." We laughed together. But the laughter couldn't disguise what was happening. Children were dying. When we lost our first newborn at the clinic, I stepped outside, blinking back tears. Djulde strode up to me and slapped my face — sharp, quick. "Don't you dare cry," she said. "If you do, how will the mother feel?"
Courtesy of Janet Rich Edwards
Janet teaching the villagers how to make minestrone soup
I had no knowledge of death. I'd grown up sheltered, losing only grandparents we visited once a year. In Niger, death was suddenly everywhere — even the tough lizards that scampered over the mud walls of my compound were dying. I felt an impotence so deep it verged on despair. Raised vaguely Christian, I had, at best, a wary relationship with God. While I could see that the villagers around me drew great comfort from their faith, the oft-murmured phrase "Insh'Allah "— "God willing" — rang hollow to me.
Then, one day, an army duffel bag of paperbacks arrived from my mother. Inside was Huston Smith's The Religions of Man. I was so hungry for spiritual guidance, I devoured that book. I recall being struck by how similar the great faiths were, each describing something true and eternal, something far larger than us. To be sure, they used different words and parables, but they all seemed to be pointing toward some fundamental truth.
That was the thread that led me to the medieval mystics. For roughly 400 years, from 1100 to about 1500, a series of remarkable women claimed to communicate directly with God, receiving what they called "showings." They were Catholic, but they sounded remarkably similar to modern-day Buddhists. And they were women who sounded like, well, women. Writing from centuries plagued by war and plague and famine, they spoke of divine love. Their words rang with passion, urgency, clarity. The anchoress Julian of Norwich, who probably lost her entire family to the Black Death, was still able to write, "All is well, and all is well, and all manner of things shall be well." When I first read it, I laughed. It sounded naïve.
Courtesy of Janet Rich Edwards
Janet (second from right) with her clinic colleagues
But then something happened that I'll never forget. It was late afternoon in the clinic, and the call to prayer had just echoed from the mosque. Our last patient was a toddler who was so sick, his body so wasted, it was obvious he wouldn't last the night. My heart ached for him and his mother, who held him tightly. The little boy raised his head to look at me and suddenly everything fell away. His gaze was direct and his eyes were frank. He seemed to know he was dying. I felt that I was looking into the eyes of someone who had already seen ahead, and I somehow knew — I knew — that something in him would live on. I can't explain how I knew, nor can I expect anyone to believe me. He died that night. But in the morning, alongside the pain, I felt a strange peace. Nothing was well. Everything was well. Both were true. Somehow, in the eyes of that child, I'd glimpsed a mystery.
That paradox stayed with me. I came home, fell in love, got married, had children and a career. It wasn't until later, after my daughters left home, while attending a lecture about medieval nuns who crafted illuminated manuscripts, that I knew I wanted to write about a mystic. I had wondered so long about the brave women who dared to speak their experience. They were as likely to be branded heretic as they were to be recognized as messengers of God. As a young woman, I'd been struck by their words. As I grew older, I grew more curious about their lives. That's why I wrote Canticle, a novel about a headstrong mystic and the sisterhood that shelters her. It's a story with roots in a famine, a book, a child, and the mystery that still makes me wonder.
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'Canticle' by Janet Rich Edwards
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Canticle by Janet Rich Edwards comes out Dec. 2 and is available for preorder now, wherever books are sold.
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Source: Entertainment
Published: December 01, 2025 at 03:45PM on Source: MARIO MAG
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