It started at a bar with beers and a football game and it ended at a bar with beers and a football game.

The last American beer I drank was in an airport bar in Philadelphia. It was during the semi-finals of the World Cup, when Spain was matched up against Germany. We were hours away from leaving the country and many of us crammed into the far side of the bar to watch the game and enjoy one more barely drink, or more appropriately, one more good one. I drank two Boulevards and began to make conversations with these people I met the day before. At the time, the faces seemed unfamiliar but I knew this was the beginning of something I’ve never experienced before. We were not the only people in that bar, but it felt like it. This was our little group and we were on our way to a place that would change us.

Seven months later, some of us — not all from that first day — gathered in a smoky, and somewhat seedy, bar in Rabat, Morocco. A large number of our group had left five days earlier and then next few days were a trickle of goodbyes. Each time, we’d declared our hatred for goodbyes, especially these ones that came months too early.

We decided drinks were the most appropriate activity for our last night. We ordered Flags, a beer we found tolerable in Niger, as a game played on TVs in the background, the Asian Cup. We paid little attention to the game; the social icebreaker athletics can often led wasn’t needed this time. Now, we were a family. We reminisced about the last few months, telling jokes and repeating stories. The future came up, each of us headed on a different path, but it was quickly disregarded because we knew what would have to come first.

I took in each face around the table on our last outing together and thought about the others that marked my six months in Niger. I never thought I’d loved or depend on these people so much. I also never thought it end like this.

Sure, it’s cliché to say that my stagmates and the members of Team Zinder were my family, but I am not sure how else to describe them. They did and do understand every feeling I’ve had since the moment I received my invitation to Niger and, between the death of a friend and an evacuation, we’ve seen each other through rough times. Just like the Nigeriens I grew close to, they taught me to love and appreciate life in whole new ways.

Our evacuation can be summed up in three phases: Goodbye to Niger, Choosing the Next Step and the Disintegration of Our Family. This is the final step in what has amounted to my most traumatic experience. This part, thankfully, isn’t as definite as the other two.

Strong friendships know no borders or time. They hang on as if nothing has changed. Some of us will continue with Peace Corps and some of us will return to America, but none of that will change that for six glorious months we were Peace Corps Volunteers in Niger together.

I said goodbye today knowing it’s not final, because with these types of bonds it never is. There will be another day and another time. We may not know when or where, but it will come. The world is full of bars, beer and football games.

Morocco is a different Africa from the one I know.

Street noise of passing cars and horns sound like that in any major U.S. city. Women and men in tight jeans with scarves and pea coats give makes it feel more like Europe. Rolling green land and chiseled mountains seem as foreign as working toilets and healthy children.

To me, Morocco is not Africa.

My Africa is hot and dusty. There is immense poverty and nothing but tan and brown. The people are a rich brown and ask about your family even if they don’t know you.

I do see hints of my Africa in small shops along the streets and kind strangers and I try to find the reassurance that I once hand in a small mud hut looking up at the stars but it isn’t there.

While here, I’ve stayed mostly in Rabat and took a day trip to Fes. Both cities are truly lovely and charming, but I can’t enjoy them.

My mind drifts to the fact that now I am homeless and jobless without a life plan. I think about my dwindling bank account and the fact that I don’t have a car, phone or even proper winter shoes for when South Dakota’s grueling winter greets me. I am nervous that I will feel out of place in America and that a deep loneliness will set in. I am terrified that all the good changes I’ve made in my life will suddenly give away to bad habits and I fall back into the misery I left behind seven months ago.

But deeper than these worries is a stronger, harder to control feeling — longing for a place I can’t go back to. I miss my mud hut. I miss my bed made out of sticks and wire. I miss waking up to the prayer call. I miss my morning walk to the CEG. I miss the feel of the warm sun. I miss having tea with fadas. I miss greeting people by asking about their health, work and tiredness. I miss hearing several tiny voices yell out “Hassia.” I miss being called Hassia. I miss the smiling faces that welcomed me each day. I miss laughing with my family. I miss sitting with people knowing it’s OK if I don’t say anything and that my presence is enough. I miss those people who became my family in three shorts months. I miss Dantchiao and I miss Niger.

All of these thoughts swim through my head as I try to absorb the scenic beauty of Morocco, but each time I find a piece of sincerity, my mind screams “I want to go home.” To my Nigerien home.

My friend Metasabia told me it was OK to miss Niger and that what we all do and that it’s normal to be nervous about returning to the States. She also told me to go after what I wan, because Niger and this experience taught her that no day is given. I try to find solace in that idea as I look to what will happen next in my life, but I am not sure I am ready for that phase. This loss is like a death and I am grieving. Right now, I’m depressed and I’m sure anger will eventually come and even acceptance, in sha Allah.

I hope some of these emotions will reside when I leave Morocco. It’s a beautiful country with a lot to offer, but I see it as the place my dreams died. I try to look beyond that, but I am not strong enough. All I can do is have faith that one day that instead of a graveyard and I will see Morocco as a gateway to something much grander.

About a year ago, a documentary came out called “Lemonade” which was based on the old adage “when life hands you a lemon, you make lemonade.” The film tells the story of people who lost their jobs and decided to follow their hearts and found their purpose.

Well, life has handed me a lemon. Actually, a couple.

In a few short days, I had to figure out my next move after I leave Morocco. My initial plan was to try for a direct transfer, knowing those were limited, then they told us about a new option. Expedite return to service (ERS) would allow us to come for a few weeks then immediately restart our service in another country. A third option was to re-enroll and the fourth to be done with Peace Corps and start another path.

After discussions with friends, I decided I wasn’t ready to be done with Peace Corps so I wanted to direct transfer or ERS, but when the less than 30 positions were posted on Wednesday afternoon, I wasn’t hopeful. I realized a direct transfer may not be a good fit for me because I need a bit a breather after all that has happened, so I put my name in for the one ERS I was qualified for but wasn’t hopeful.

Wednesday evening I looked at the other two options. Again, I already knew I wanted to continue with PC so that left re-enrolling. Re-enrollment works to our benefit because we can basically chose our programs and our locations and start training sometime between April and June. However, I have a personal obligation in October (that I had intended to fly from Niger home for) so if I want to attend the event I can’t go until after October because of Peace Corp’s mandatory rule about being at site for the first three months for integration. So, I started to work on my plan B and I decided to go to travel a bit, re-enroll and work on my writing.

The next day, I was told that I was one of the few people to be selected for a direct transfer or ERS position. I had been told I was going to continue on the with the process for an ERS position to Namibia as a health education volunteer working on HIV/AIDS awareness.

The news hit me in a weird way. Before I saw my name on the list, I had met with a counselor and decided that my plan A and B were pretty good and I would go with either. I began to look more at the Namibia spot and the country in general and because very excited about the work. I decided my stars were aligning, as they told they would have to in order to continue on at this point.

This morning, I went to a meeting and was told I’d be on a plane home tonight for a few weeks in South Dakota before reporting to staging on Feb. 18. After the meeting, I hugged the two other volunteers who were to go to Namibia with me and told them we were in this together.

Then, one of the directors pulled me aside.

“You need to take a deep breath,” she said. “You are not going to Namibia.”

Apparently, there is something in my medical history that prevents me from serving Namibia. Countries can’t take volunteers with certain conditions and something in my past, not obtained while I was in Niger, doesn’t comply with what services Namibia can offer. The PCMO (PC medical officer) in Morocco actually called the PCMO there to ask if they would be willing to take some with my status and she said they just couldn’t if something was to happen to me.

In seconds, I diverted to plan C. I was still able to cancel my flight for the night and take cash instead and got an extra night in the hotel to figure things. After a good hour of crying and working out my options, I found some friends and devised out another plan.

So, what I am going to do? I am going to make lemonade.

After college, I went straight into a career and my life has always seemed to have path from there, albeit not always paved. I’ve never been in limbo, but as I sat at my office desk of my paying job I craved the unknown. Now, I have it.

Saturday, I am no longer under Peace Corps’ eye, so I will travel from here. I plan to hang out in Morocco  for a few days with other volunteers and then a group of four of us will go to Cairo. When I hit stateside, I’ll go to New York City and slowly make my way to South Dakota by bus, stopping to see friends a long the way.

Once I am settled, I am going to look at some writing work and start another dream chase. My networks at home and with the Peace Corps have been so encouraging about my writing that I’ve decided to keep going with it. I am going to look at reporting jobs and freelance work as well reshaping some of my blog entries.

I also plan to re-enroll, but to take this time to find some clarity. We’ve been told not to make big decisions while upset so I am gonna let things be.

It’s true that I am a mess right now but all I can do is look forward and have faith in the path. It may seem hokey but that’s all I have for my sanity.

Before I go on, I want to thank all of you have been incredibly supportive as I try to move on after this traumatic event. Of course, leaving Niger was really hard and then deciding what to do next has been extremely stressful. It will continue to get hard over the next 24 hours as I have to say goodbye to the people who were my family the last six months. My friends and family at home have been so amazing and I thank you all for everything you’ve given me in the last week and six months.

What will happen to me next, I am not sure. All I know is that I am gonna go with it and have faith.

Tondi, the training director, stood at the front of the shade hangar that was the defining place of our first three months in Niger. We had meetings, sessions and classes there. We laughed, argued and danced under that millet stock.  It was the most familiar part of Niger and where this country became clearer. After three months in our individual villages, we gathered at this same place to learn more so we could do more. Coming back to that place was the end of the beginning and the start of our real Nigerien lives.

It was our third day of in-service training and our morning sessions had been canceled because staff was called to an emergency meeting in Niamey. We were given group assignments to occupy ourselves but our thoughts strayed to what could be happening in that meeting.

Four days earlier, I woke up in the Zinder hostel after a late night out a club with other volunteers. I groggily walked into the living room and joined a few others sitting on couches eating breakfast.

“So, there’s been another kidnapping,” Sean said.

I spun around and squeaked out a “what.” The others filled me in with facts they had obtained from a BBC report. Two French men were taken from a Niamey restaurant at gunpoint. Since the Internet was down, I called my mother to scan the web for more details but she could only obtain what I already knew. Outside a little shop, waiting for egg sandwiches, Mark, a fellow volunteer, and I talked about the incident in English. Hausa men understood us and reassured us it wasn’t al-Qaeda or another terrorist group but just a lover’s quarrel — one of the French men was to marry a Nigerien woman that day and her fellow country men were not happy about it.

Peace Corps Niger sent out messages of concern and information about the upcoming IST. We’d still go to Niamey but there was now a curfew, we were to avoid places frequented by westerners and standfast (no travel), which was already scheduled for an upcoming election, was still on. But we were going to the Peace Corps site in, outside of Niamey, and things would be safer there.

Not much was shared about the kidnappings or security situation besides the fact that we probably wouldn’t spend weekends in Niamey like originally planned. We continued on with IST, sharing stories and potential projects ideas as our motivation for our work took on a new excitement level.

We went into the third day with no concern that it would be a day that everything changed. Tondi told us he would return before lunch. Some people expressed nerves and anticipations, but I played the calm card. “Nothing will happen to us,” I said. I wanted believe that and I did.

At 11:22, Tondi rang the bell to alert us he was back on site and it was time for a meeting. We gathered together, trying to find the hints in his facial expressions. He gripped a piece of white paper as if it was worth gold. Before he started, I looked at Vida and asked her to hold my hand. The truth was coming and I wasn’t sure if I would like it.

During the second sentence of the printed statement, Tondi revealed that all Peace Corps Niger volunteers were being evacuated because of security reasons. Immediately cries and shrieks were emitted around me. Hot, burnings tears came out of my eyes and I began to shake. Mackenzie left her seat so we could hold each other as Tondi continued on with the statement. He stopped several times because the truth of those words changed his world, the one where he spent 20 years working for Peace Corps Niger, more than they did ours. He stared off into the distance with a deep sadness that I only seen from him once, at Stephanie’s memorial.

He couldn’t finish it all, but we couldn’t hear anymore. We had less than an hour to pack our bags to head Niamey. We were done with the Peace Corps site, he said. As we packed, he told the staff, who are now out of jobs, about the decision. Their faces crumpled into their hands, giving more emotion than most Nigerien men ever show. As I walked by a group of them trying to process what this meant, I said they only Hausa phrase that I know: “Allah shi bada hankuri” “May God give patience.”

I did what I always do when my life falls apart: I called my mom. I couldn’t stop shaking or believe it was real. I had little information about what was going to happen except one major fact. I was leaving Niger.

On the bus ride to Niamey, Lindsay and I talked about what this means. We both had to look away during the conversation because tears had swelled in our eyes. It hit me that I would never see my Nigerien mother or sisters again. She told me how lucky we were to experience this place, how people would never understand Niger the way we do. That, she told me, is the blessing.

Another meeting was held at the Peace Corps bureau in the afternoon and small amounts of information were released. The staff told us the plan as they decided on it. We went to the hostel and waited for more information. Volunteers in the nearest two regions loaded buses to go back to village, pack and say goodbye.

Team Zinder decided chocolate and beer were needed so we made a quick trip to the grocery story. Indulging was all we could think of doing and all we wanted to do. As the other team joined us, we ate and drank too much, easing the pain we all had in our hearts. We discussed how hard it would be say goodbye and how we would do it. We talked about the logistics of getting back to villagers and the surprise that we were even getting the chance to do so. We wondered about what would happen next and how to continue on after Niger.

I hesitated for a long time to tell any one from my village. Text messages didn’t appropriate and I would explain it all when I said my goodbye. I called and texted other members of Team Z and they seemed as miserable as myself. Still, I needed to tell someone from my village and only one person made sense — Mustapha. He called me and I told him what I knew. He told me to let him know as soon as I got to Zinder and we would come to see me. Saying goodbye to him, and his family, who are essentially my family, will be the worst part of departing this country.

The next day, Thursday, Zinder and Mardi volunteers were flown to their respective regions to close out their villages. Some of us had a night, others only an hour. Unfortunately, I was part of the later group.

The trip to Dantchiao usually takes five hours one way by bush taxi, but with a Peace Corps car, we were able to get there, packed up and back in four. We pulled up to my concession a bit before 8 a.m. and any of the daily chores began. Immediately, my host father and SG, Habau, came to greet me. I started to tell him about the security and he interrupted me.

“Oh, I know,” he said in French. “That’s why I called Bawa (my program director) to make sure you go to Niamey OK.”

He did do that because my safety was always a concern for my villagers. I thanked him and continued on with the statement. He just said OK. I then delivered the news to his wife and children, my mother and siblings. They too just nodded.

I returned to my house and packed as much as I could into a suitcase. I left behind clothes, letters from home, furniture, food and different mementos of my time in Niger because my suitcase had a weight limit to make. The rest would become possessions of my villagers.

Once my bag was in the car, I took a deep breath and prepared for what was next. I walked over to my family’s house, trembling. I told them I needed to go and they should take the things out of my house. My mother broke down, needing a wall to help keep her standing. My sister Basira’s eyes flooded with large tears and she kept saying my name over and over. They walked me to my house while I repeated that they could have everything in my house. The tears escaped my eyes and I tried to remember to soak up the last moments in this special place that brought out the best of me.

At the driver’s urging, I got in the car and he was patient enough to let me stop a few times to tell people that I was leaving. The last stop was the CEG. I found the headmaster and English teacher, but it was all that I had time for. As I bawled while talking Hadiza, the English teacher and my best friend in village, she told me not to cry and that God would provide. When I turned to head back to the car, dozens of little voices came from one of the classrooms, saying “Goodbye Hassia.” I never got to say goodbye to all the students, or to my sister Fassimou, who was my rock on the very rough days, because she was in class.

On the way back to Zinder, the headmaster sent me text messages that told me I would be missed, they were crying in my absence and to tell people in American that I am now one of them. He called my program director a few days later for reconfirmation that this event was indeed real.

In Zinder, we prepared another goodbye, making a giant feast for our hostel guard, bureau guard, driver, janitor and the owner of a small shop that has been a partner with Peace Corps for eight years. We get to leave for somewhere better, but these people lose their jobs and our support. They lose friends and family, just like we do. We departed the next day, again with tears, still wondering if this is real.

I saw Mustapha twice before I left. He told me I’d forget him and about Dantchiao and I promised him that I never would, that I couldn’t. His face that night is etched in my mind and I plan to keep my word and contact him when I have a landing place. He was my first friend, my first rock in a foreign place.

Once we were out of Zinder, I was ready to finish the evacuation and leave the country: the hard goodbyes were now over and I wanted to be at the next step. Two days later, at 5:30 a.m. on Monday, we said goodbye to Niger, probably for forever.

During a session at IST session I told my stagmates that Niger has brought out the best version of myself. During our small therapy session on the bus, Lindsay reminded me how much Niger gave me in such a short time. I’ll always have that and these last six months have changed me for the good. Niger is a part of my make up, like South Dakota and Idaho.

No matter the struggles, this place has the sweetest, most caring people I’ve ever met and they showed me what it truly means to be a good person. Soon, I’ll say those goodbyes and it’s likely I’ll never see them again. But, I once had them and I once had this experience. Hassia will always reign in my heart. She’ll never die because Heather can’t live without her.

Answers are still unknown and my life has been flipped upside down. Hard, big decisions await me this week, but no matter how angry or upset I am I do understand the blessing that I have. Being in Niger, living in Dantchiao, is something that I’ll never forget and I hope to take the lessons from villagers on to the next level. My service ended 21 months too early, but no one can take those six months from me, and for that, I am truly blessed.