Of Pants and Chickens

The other day I witnessed a funny scene that went as follows:

The morning is nice and cool and I'm sitting by a small charcoal grill-like thing with the mom (Dedehi) of my family. We are sitting on a woven mat in the dirt yard while she grills a fish on the charcoal. There is a chicken and about 7 chicks running around the yard, as well as a goat wandering around. Some of the kids are at school, and the ones at home are popping in and out of the concrete house.
"Where did the chicken come from?" I ask.
"Oh - Mohamed brought it home." She says.
We watch for a second as the chicken runs around pecking incessantly at the ground.
"What's wrong with that chick?" I ask, referring to a small one limping around, supporting itself by puffy wing.
"It has a bad leg... poor chick." She says.
"Poor chick." I agree.
We talk a little more about grilling fish verses grilling goat meat, and how both are pretty delicious. She finishes the fish and we begin to pick it apart with our hands and eat it with bread. We look at the door and the 2-year-old Siyad walks out.
"Come here and eat some fish." She says as she beckons him over.
Siyad adorably waddles over in a little shirt with no pants, eyes wide and observing. As he passes the chicken he stops for a second, looking at it skeptically. Being skeptical was good, because in the next second the chicken jumped at him and pecked his unprotected pecker. Siyad screamed in well-deserved horror and danced in place, covering his injured crotch. Dedehi jumped up and ran shouting "Yasser Amer-ack!!" (May god shorten your life - a very common insult in Hassaniya) at the chicken and scooping bewildered Siyad into her arms. I on the other hand am laughing so hard tears are forming in my eyes. Dedehi throws a rock at the chicken, which sqwaks and ruffles it's feathers. She returns to the mat next to me and now she is laughing too.
"That's why you need to wear pants!" She says, giggling and rocking Siyad back and forth.
The other kids come outside to see what the commotion was and also fall into stints of laughter, smiles wide and bright, as their mom recounts the story. She makes one of the kids bring little Siyad some cotton pants and puts them on his small body. He stands in the yard with a tear-stained face looking at the chicken angrily. When the chicken takes a turn and comes toward him he screams in fear and runs back to his mothers side.
"Scared of a chicken!" She bellows, laughing deep from the belly.

****** fast forward to later that evening

We are sitting in a room and one of the kids is making tea. The weather's slightly steamy and a cool breeze blows through the window. Dedehi and her friend sit chatting while I lean on a pillow grading some papers.
"Am I saying this right?" I ask her, reciting a line in Hassaniya.
"It;s better to say it like this..." She says, giving me an example.
As we sip our glasses of tea, Siyad wanders into the room, pant-less once again.
"Look at him!" She tells me, shaking her head. "Where are your pants!" She asks Siyad.
He looks at her and waves his little hand nonchalantly in the direction of the other room.
"Tsk tsk... I'm gonna get that chicken. Heeeere chicken, come here chicken!" She jokes.
Siyad looks at us and immediately covers himself, eyes slightly widened. We all burst out laughing at the site of a poor 2-year-old holding himself in fear of a chicken. He then gets his pants and brings them to his mom, who helps him put them on. We agree that this is a good way to get Siyad to start wearing pants more often - Chicken Threat.

*****The Next Day

I walk in the yard to see the chicken tied with some cloth to a broken wooden box in the corner of the yard. Pant-less Siyad is playing with his brother by the house. Looks like little Siyad won this battle. That is until those little chicks grow up...

I can't help but wonder how many pant-less kids are victim to this kind of attack in Aleg - because there are a LOT of pant-less kids in these streets. Though, now when I see them, I'm gonna chuckle to myself as I recall Siyad's scene in the yard that day.

My Feet are Tied

In my village of Aleg people let their animals, mostly goats and sheep, roam free. To keep these animals from roaming too far they have adopted the method of tying various extremities to each other, leaving the animal with short awkward steps – a kind of animal insurance. Sometimes the two front legs are tied close together with a rope, or for more creative Mauritanians, the right front leg and left back leg. It is interesting to watch these animals adapt. Maybe for a day or so, they will stand in one spot and belt out their sorrows, but eventually they learn to walk with their legs tied. They develop a hop, strut, or quick two-step, refusing to be contained by twine. I have been amazing at the speed of a passing goat hopping down the street joyfully to the rhythm of its binds. Observing these animals, I couldn’t help but draw a connection to myself here in this village. I have been tied. I have been culturally bound. And I’m finding my rhythm, walking differently than before, maybe more awkwardly or perhaps slower, but I am walking forward.
The other day I went to my classroom with supplies. My bare-wall classroom with broken desks and chipped chalkboard isn’t a stimulating learning environment for these kids at the public high-school. I have become “that teacher”; the crazy eccentric one that tries new ideas and is maybe viewed as a bit nutso. English is so difficult to learn here anyway, I figure I might as well make it as interesting as possible so they walk away with some sort of knowledge. This particular day I had a large map and several pieces of paper cut out with Arabic words written in green. As I taped up the map on the wall my students looked curiously on, wondering what I had this time. I was doing a lesson on geography and location using prepositions. I wanted them to be able to describe the location of a country, region or capital. I wrote English words on the board and they matched them to the Arabic words. Then I had various activities, such as giving each student a country to find on the map and writing its location (Belize is next to Guatemala… ect.). The activity flowed as the students chattered softly and worked with squinted brows and ticking minds. All was going well until one student snapped his fingers and raised his hand.
“Teacher! Palestine not here – look! This map not correct.” He said.
I looked at my students, now turned toward me with questions in their eyes. I felt the cultural rope tighten and knew my pace was slowed.
“Palestine is country. Where is Palestine?” He said, searching the area with scornful eyes.
I took a couple awkward steps forward.
“Well Muhammad… This map is old, but also, Palestine’s borders are still being decided. There is a lot of fighting happening right now, but maybe one day it will be on the map.” I said.
My mouth felt dry, as I knew how sensitive of a subject this was to these students. Mauritania is very much in solidarity with Palestine, and many protests and arguments have broken out. One of the reasons many Mauritanians do not like Americans is because our country supports Israel.
“Here,” I said. “Take this pen, write Palestine where it should be, then lets continue.”
Muhammad proudly wrote Palestine in small letters within the borders of a broken country. The class continued without any strife, taking in the world and new vocabulary.
As I walked to my next class, perhaps it was because I realized again the restraints of my cultural ropes, or perhaps it was because of the wind blowing my Mulafe and map in the sandy air, I made a rather grave mistake. I did not pay attention to where I was going and walked through a small corner of the prayer area. This area is blocked off by bricks on the ground, creating a small outdoor mosque space. The boundaries are open on all sides and about one inch off the ground, so to see it you have to pay attention. I felt my heart stop as I realized I was standing in the corner of a holy space. Here I am, a foreigner, a WOMAN, and I just walked through my student’s prayer area.
I looked up horrified, knowing that this was a major sign of disrespect and saw only a few students standing by me. They clicked their tongues and told me “that is not good…” in Hassaniya. I apologized and told them I was very sorry, that I hadn’t seen where I was going. They only shook their heads at me.
The rest of my next class passed smoothly, only disturbed by the beating of my anxiety wretched heart. I had a break before my final class and went into the teachers lounge. I didn’t know if those students who had seen me went to the director tell him of my wrongdoings, but I was prepared to deal with any consequences. The bell rang for my final class and as I approached the room I saw a large group of girls sitting on the desks. They usually didn’t gather up like this, so I sucked in a breath and got ready to explain myself to them. But, instead of hateful stares, I was greeted with warm smiles.
“Teacher! They want to see the map. Show them.” My students said.
Several girls asked me questions about what I was doing that day, and looked at my Arabic scrawl, telling me how to improve my writing.
“Ok. My class is starting.” I told them. I began my class after the onlookers trickled out, and felt some of the unease leak out of my system.
“Here is Palestine!” Said a girl, pointing to the words Muhammad had written earlier that day.
Class ended and as I collected my papers, my students took down the map and words taped to the chalkboard. They helped me fold up and pack away my things and said they would see me next class.
I walked away that day feeling like the goat I had seen earlier. It was just tied and kept falling on a knee as it marched along. I had surely taken some stumbles that day, but I think my determination and genuineness showed my students that I was only trying to walk with tied feet. Some times has passed since that day and I have picked up my pace a little more, but it’s good to know that every once in a while, a falter is forgivable.