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.

Back to reality

After a temporary hiatus from village life, I’m back in my dusty familiar home. Christmas and New Years was spent with other Peace Corps volunteers in Saint Louis, Senegal and in Mauritania, Nouakchott. I was very happy to find warm showers, toilets (with toilet paper!), beer and cheese waiting for me, but found myself itching to get back to my work here. Upon arriving I found the landowner’s family finally moved into my house. A mother and her five children have become part of my everyday life, which for me is awesome. They own a boutique attached to the house and I find it very useful to pop my head in and buy soap or phone credit from them when I need. They are a wonderful family and I’m excited to get to know them over the years.
The youngest girl, Mariem, is about 5 years old and slowly warming to me. She is still unsure of me and with good reason… I often joke with her and try and play little games – which for her, an adult willing to play with kids is unreal. I am reminded of my dad back home in Kansas City, who often has water fights, roller-blade races and secret snacks before dinner with our next door neighborhood kid Conrad. I take his cues and know that eventually I’ll be accepted as a worthy playmate.
My homecoming has been a little hectic, and a bit hilarious. Since the new family has moved in the house I live in has been under some reconstruction. They cleaned the yard, put more bricks on the wall and built stairs up to the roof. The house, which is all concrete, has 3 rooms and a salon. Fatou and I have two of the smaller rooms and the family has the salon and the big room. In Fatou’s room there is an indoor bathroom, which isn’t really much nicer than the one outside, but has the perk of not walking across the yard to the wooden outhouse. In her tiny bathroom there is a creaky faucet with a bucket underneath (the bathtub) and a hole in the ground (the toilet). I returned from Nouakchott with visions of showers in my head and sighed as I squatted down next to the faucet to fill my bucket with cold water to shower.
Now, before I continue, I must add that one of the renovations that the new family had was fixing the outdoor faucet, where they get all their water. Because of this the water switch which controls both faucets, which is a latch about 7 inches down in a dirt hole, was switched to On and buried and packed under the dirt. This resulted in a constant drip in the indoor faucet, which wasn’t a lot, but was enough to get my attention. As I finished filling my bucket I turned off the faucet and watched the water continue to drip drip drip. I decided that the best way to remedy this was to try to turn the faucet off as hard as I could… Guess what happened… Yes. It broke. And not only did it break, but water shot out with so much force I sat for a second with my mouth hanging open watching it blast against the opposite wall in the bathroom before I could process what had happened. On top of this disaster, Fatou was in Nouakchott visiting her family and it was about 11:30 at night. So the family in the other room was asleep and quiet as I sat alone in the bathroom with the water blasting, spraying and soaking everything in the small room. I ran outside to look for the water switch and found smooth dirt where the hole used to be and felt the panic creep up my spine. I went inside, soaking wet and wild eyed, knocked on the family’s door and was greeted by the sleepy eyed mother. In my broken Hassaniya I think I must have said something along the lines of “Much much water in room, I don’t know no turn off… - Help!”
The message must have been somewhat clear, because she looked at me with a slight shake of her head and called her 8 year old son over. She told him to go outside and dig for the switch. So that’s how I found myself dripping wet and digging frantically in the dirt at midnight with an 8 year old. Fatou returned home to find a piece of wood hammered into the faucet pipe, wrapped with rubber and she knew exactly who to call. Now our indoor faucet has a new, non-rusty, head and holds tight. I would say I’ve been more careful with Mauritanian products, but when I left with Fatou one night to eat at our friend’s house, I turned my key to lock my door and the whole lock fell out onto the floor. I stood shaking my head staring at the door while Fatou crumpled in laughter next to me. I told her that I guess I was just to strong for my own good, and she nodded and told me, through a half smile with crinkled tears in her eyes, that she would call someone tomorrow.
And so my story continues – fixed and better than ever.

She held, He said, She wondered

She held my hand and wouldn't let go.
I think she's seen me around and has been wanting to talk to me. She asks me the questions I can answer in Hassaniya and thinks I'm Bilani (White Moor - a way of saying I integrate well). I don't stop her. She shows me her house and lets me know i'm welcome anytime. Her mulafe is pink like her cheeks.
She held my hand and wouldn't let go.

He said he saw me and didn't know how to talk to me.
He has been in Aleg as long as I have and he struggles with Hassaniya. He does not know French, only English and his dialect from Ghana. His English is broken but he speaks in a genuine way. When I ask him about his past he says he doesn't know how to tell me. He falls silent with saddness in his eyes. His robe is white as a cloud.
He said he saw me and didn't know how to talk to me.

She wondered when I'd finally find her.
She is large and lays lazily in her botique. She gives me peanuts to eat and tells me I look Mauritanian. She asks me about my father. The mat on the floor is plastic and she gives me a pillow to lounge. She calls me an old friend. Her smile is as big as I remember. She tells me not to lose her again. Her hair is freshly braided.
She wondered when I'd finally find her.

The Intelligence Test

A fellow volunteer and I went to the local Jardin D'Enfants to check out a Mauritanian Preschool one sunny day. We wandered through the streets and followed directions and pointed fingers along the roads until we came upon a small, rather governmental looking compound. Upon entering our eyes fell upon what looked to be abandoned playground equipment. There was a swing-set with no swings, a unidentifiable metal frame, a rusty slide and a short metal jungle gym set up on the dirt and gravel ground. There were obvious attempts at making the swing-set an actual play thing. A black cord was strung to the top and swung down in a loop as a makeshift swing (tied and tied again from what looked to be many breakdowns). Our snooping was interrupted by the groundskeeper who welcomed us with a shy smile and offered us a seat on the steps as he prepared for the day. He mechanically laid out a mat on the dirt and began sweeping out the interior of the school.
We watched the metal door to the compound as children trickled in. The first were two young wide eyes boys brought by their teenage brother. They wandered in and stopped as they saw us, wondering what kind of people would interrupt their habitual morning. the groundskeeper herded them onto the mat where they sat quietly staring at nothing in particular. It continued as such, small children with curious faces taking seats on the mat outside. The teachers began to arrive, dressed in fantastic Pulaar clothes with grand head-wraps and bright smiles. They sat next to us on the steps and chatted as the kids continued to come in and take a place on the mat. There was one small girl who began to cry as her mom set her down, a typical response for a 2 year old. She ran to the door and her mother, one step ahead of the game, slipped sneakily out and closed it behind her. The teachers giggled at the ways of children and one woman went to sit with the traumatized toddler on the mat. One small girl, perhaps 4 years old, wandered in by herself, carrying a back-pack and a small bottle of water.
The director arrived with a flow of energy, her mulafe flowing behind her and business in her eyes. She greeted us and began to show us around. We stepped into the lobby and were greeted by the wonderful scent of stale urine. There were three rooms off the lobby, divided by 2-3, 3-4 and 4-5 year olds. The rooms were typical preschool, yet a bit more depressing. The only floor with a "carpet" was the youngest room, all others were small white rooms filled with small plastic kid-stained picnic tables. The walls were decorated with scribbles drawings and torn artwork from postcards and books. There were no toy shelves or counters filled with paper and crayons, only a chalkboard in the corner a drawing of a toothbrush and toothpaste. After a whirlwind tour she brought us to her office, just as a repetition song began, voices blending sweetly the way only children can achieve.
Once in her office she showed us cardboard boxes filled with a mess of wooden and plastic toys. With blocks, beads, and plastic pieces the torn box looked like the miscellaneous drawer everyone seems to have in a forgotten corner. She sat us at her desk and pulled out a large piece of cardboard with the edges cut out.
"An intelligence test," she said, motioning toward the wrinkled pieces "try it."
So we put the paper puzzle together (which, i might add, had us worried for a second). When she came back in she was delighted to see we were smarter than the average preschooler and quickly mumbled something about "velos". We were rushed into another room and slowly took in the mess of tricycle pieces on the floor.
"Can you put these together?" She asked.
Glancing at each other and checking the time, we agreed to take a look. We ended up back on the mat outside where the children sat in the morning with the tricycle parts to about 5 bikes lay scattered before us. The paper directions were torn and wrong, and we began to notice certain important parts were not present in the mess before us. The director came back out and handed us the tool she thought we would need.... a green and red plastic child's play hammer. I began to giggle at our situation. Sitting there with a tricycle puzzle in front of us, a bit harder than the cardboard pieces, and equip with a plastic preschool hammer. A little boy wandered out of the building and gazed at us for a while, wondering why were were having such problems when we had the best tool in the school.
After getting some of the bikes partially assembled we notified the director that while the hammer had helped a lot (we actually used it) that we had tools that would work better at our house and would return tomorrow to finish our work. We left the preschool as the children continued their rote learning repetition games. I could only wonder if we had really passed the intelligence test she had laid out before us, or if we would be forever failed in her mind - only achieving the initial cardboard stage of her tests.

A new view, an open eye

I hear the metal door to my compound pull open and I lift my head to the sound of rusty metal scrapping. I am sitting on the floor with papers and grammar books spread around me lesson planning for the following week. This group of lessons I’m trying to figure out the best way to tell my students about irregular present participles, a topic I know will be greeted with blank stares and squinted brows. Pausing, I gaze out the door of my house waiting to see who appears in the frame. I hear her before I see her.

“Ash-e-lee?” She calls, with excitement laced through her tone.

“Fatou! Je suis la – I’m right here.” I tell my friend.

She steps into my view with a huge smile plastered on her face. Opening her arms wide she shouts, “FELICITACIONS! Barack Obama – President United States!”

I laugh and stand up, immediately folded into her waiting arms while each cheek is excitedly kissed. She tells me she has been watching the news all night and that she was so happy for me – and so relieved that Americans “have chosen the right one”. I tell her about my lucky friends who were in Chicago for his acceptance speech and she agrees that they have witnessed a piece of history. We sit for a while chatting about change and hope, how the American presidential elections can touch the hearts of those in an obscure country called Mauritania.

The day after elections electricity pulsed through my veins. I stayed up the night before listening to the radio as the polls rolled in, gazing at the brilliant stars above me and willing the American people to show the world that they can change. I received calls throughout the night, from the U.S.A., from Belize and from Mauritania, all family and friends’ assuring me that the charged pulse I felt was not only pumping in my body. That morning as the cool night turned itself over to the African sun I sat with another volunteer listening to that Chicago speech, my eyes stinging with pride and relief washing over my body. I was humbled to realize that Americans weren’t the only ones who felt these emotions. I continuously greet people in the street who say in happy Hassaniya “Bush mshat! Obama President!” Their eyes are genuine and their handshakes hearty, I tell them “yes, Bush is gone, we are very happy. It is very good.” They are satisfied to know I’m pleased with the change as well and their smiles linger a little longer than usual. At times people only need to see me or my fellow Peace Corps Volunteers walking through the streets to shout “Obama!” and simply leave it at that. I have heard this from small children jumping up and down on rooftops and from small old men resting on the floors of boutiques.

Though, as in the USA, not everyone is pleased with the change. The stories of our past intertwine with so many. Our waters run together and one ripple or splash travels further than we can imagine. Considering the fact that America has its hands dug into the earth of so many nations it’s not surprising to find groups of people that have different views of American politics. Talking with a Pulaar, a black African Mauritanian, one will find a person that loves Bush and are sad to see him go. The reason is that for many years now Bush has supplied weapons to bring down those that called for the Arabization of the Middle East and other Muslim countries. Mauritania has had its own problems with identity and events in 1989 reveal a rather bloody boarder fight with Senegal as the country tried to define itself. Many of the black African’s, especially Pulaars who are a large culture in Senegal, were beaten and humiliated, expelled from their homes and sent across the border. During this time Bush was a friend who helped them – if not through the actual backhand passing of weapons for protection, then through support of their resistance.

Mauritania is still trying to create an identity. With so many groups of people (Pulaars, Sonike’s, Wolofs, Black and White Moors) and being a rather newly independent country (November 28, 1960) things like official language, government, politics and education are constantly debated. I see the backlash of such problems in my school, where Education Reforms call for Sciences to be taught in French and Humanities to be taught in Arabic. Teachers who have always taught in Arabic find their very professions at risk. Some of the best teachers resolve to lie about knowing a language to trick their way into teaching the subjects they know best. Mauritania is still a very fragile country. Still taking baby steps and learning from mistakes as an independent country.

Mauritania’s Independence Day is this Friday. It is a day to be celebrated and, maybe, a day to face many of the questions floating in the air. What does it mean to be Mauritanian? What does it mean to be free? What should be done about the inter-cultural tensions? Perhaps these questions will be considered. Or perhaps they will just dance…

Living in a country that is still trying to figure out Democracy, it is a good feeling to see the message Americans are sending out to the world. An example that Democracy can work, that people should have a voice, and that there are places where those voices are heard. At times it’s unreal to see that new respect and that lingering smile in the eyes of those who watch their own country struggle.