I wake up and look at my phone to check the time. It’s 3:50. Just minutes before the first prayer call will echo through the town. I pull up my sheet and roll over to fall asleep, but notice that the wind is a little strong. Standing up, I gaze at the quiet town below from my rooftop. Squinting into the distance I see what I dreaded. Sandstorm. A dark blanket of dirt is descending upon us. Sighing I fold up my foam mattress and blanket and make my way down the stairs. Fatou and Dedehi’s family are gathering up their things as well, and we all make the exodus inside. Our mats are laid out in the verandah in a row, we close the doors and sleepily rub our eyes. The sandstorm makes way for the rain and one of the kids stands up and opens the door, letting the humid wind cool the house that is a sauna. “It’s so hot!” Dedehi grumbles. “Tomorrow is going to be bad.” Fatou adds. At this time we are a house of women and children (the father, Ahmedou is in Nouakchott) so we all strip down to minimal clothing and wish for a cool breeze. There we lay, a row of cultural diversity, our completely different pasts leading us to this sweaty moment of solidarity. I close my eyes and fall asleep to the sounds of rhythmic breathing surrounding me.
I walk down the street and greet a woman selling vegetables outside a boutique. A customer squats next to her checking out her supply. A child sitting next to her sees me walk by and calls “Nassaraniya!”, trying her hardest to get my attention. I mentally roll my eyes and ignore it. It’s a way to get foreigners attention, calling out “Hey Christian!” or something along those lines. I hear her mom hush her and say “Hey… her name is Jamila.” I secretly smile, happy that she knows my local name. “What is her name?” Asks the child. “Jamila.” She responds. “Hey Jamila!” She calls out. I turn and wave to them, and they smile at me and wave back. I feel the warmth of familiarity settling into my chest. I take pride in the fact that the people of Aleg are accepting me as a person with a name, rather than just a foreigner.
My classroom is buzzing with activity. I have borrowed books from the Girls Mentoring Center and I’m having my students work on an assignment where they have to find the answers to various questions in the books. I am walking around the classroom answering the endless questions. “Teacher, Teacher! What is “location?”, “Teacher! I don’t understand question 4.”, “Teacher, Teacher! Is this good?”. I make my way to one of my students, Aziza, and when she asks me her question I look at her and say “Are you serious?”. It’s a questions I just spent 5 minutes explaining to them and don’t want to go over it again. “Yes teacher, I don’t understand…” She says with a sly smile. The student next to her giggles and I look at them both, realizing mischief is at hand. The student slowly points to Aziza’s head and I look down, noticing immediately that my sunglasses are on her head. “Hey!” I say, grabbing them and putting them on my own head. “Teacher you dropped them.” Aziza tells me. I laugh and tell her I didn’t even notice they were gone. I continue class with a lighter step, enjoying Aziza’s silly joke.
“I’m going to buy meat.” Dedehi announces. “Can you stay with Siyad?” I look up from my stool, where I sit scrubbing my clothes in buckets – today is laundry day. “Sure.” I say looking at Siyad who is sitting on the ground with a piece of bread. Dedehi leaves and we hear the door to our compound shut. Siyad stands and wobbles over to the door, gazing after his mother. “She went to the market.” I tell him. Siyad wanders toward me and offers me the carcass of his bread, which I gladly accept. You see, Siyad and I are a bread eating team. He only likes the inside of bread, and I love the crispy outside, so life is better when we can eat it together. I stuff the crispy baked shell into my mouth and continue washing my clothes. Siyad squats next to me and looks with big bright eyes. “Washing clothes – can you say it? Yiqsil Labass.” I prompt him in Hassaniya. “Caaaa.” He responds. He is just starting to make attempts at talking, and his words usually involve one consonant and a few syllables. He picks up some of my clothes and mimics my movements. I laugh at his actions and silently thank God that he is o.k. Just weeks before Siyad was pounds lighter and could only stare at me with dim lit eyes. He had some sort of stomach issue, maybe a worm or virus, and to make it worse he was already malnourished. I remember holding him in my lap and feeling his lightness, seeing the pained look in his mothers eyes as she lifted his boney calf. After many visits to various local doctors and advice from too many people to count, Siyad slowly started to regain his health. He now gets powdered vitamins snuck into his system by a clever mother and a can of milk. He is back at a more decent weight (still tiny though) and jabbering more than before. It was interesting to see how sickness is dealt with in Mauritania – and I witnessed some intense ceremonies by traditional healers, struggles with money and new discoveries about local remedies. Siyad now has a green string tied around his waist from a man who used the length to count how many Koran verses to recite. He also has a small burn mark on his chest, from a match lit inside a small tea glass sucked onto his skin. Siyad looks at me and gives me his killer smile – “Good job Siyad.” I tell him squishing the water out of a skirt. “Anne Niqsil labass ma’ Siyad.” He looks over and says “Taa.” With a small confident shake of his head.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
The Almost-Horror Stories
Tock, tock, tock. A sound like the quick steady beat of a drum. If you hear this noise walking at night in Mauritania you better run for cover, for that is the noise that precedes a deadly animal. I sat with Fatou and M’Bourel after dinner one night chatting about scary stories and they definitely delivered. Fatou, who loves to talk, had a serious face as she told the tale of the “tocking” noise.
“If you see it, it will kill you. And it moves very fast, so you have to run from the sound and hide.” She said.
“Well, what is it!?” I asked, waiting for a monstrous description.
“A one-legged white horse.” She responded.
“………what?” I asked, feeling a flutter of laughter and confusion fill my chest.
“NO!” She said, seeing the smile on my face. “It’s so scary!”
I have to admit that it is slightly creepy; a one-legged horse hopping through the streets, killing those who witness its miraculous movements. I now wonder, observing the dead silence of a Mauritanian night in my village, if these kinds of stories scare people into their houses. Fatou said that she has known this story since she was a child, and has other stories as well. Most of the stories have a lesson at the end – which seems to be “Do not, for God’s sake, walk around alone at night”. Another story she added to this fabulous collection was one of a chicken. If you are walking alone at night and no one else is around (see…) and come across a chicken sitting in dust, that chicken will kill you. Do I see a theme?
But, not all Mauritanian horror stories involve chickens and one-legged horses. I went to Nouakchott with Fatou and got to meet her amazing family. One sister in particular stuck out to me – Salla. She is my age, 24, and is one of the few Mauritanians that has passed the BAC and continued onto University. She studies in the English Department and has a dream to be a journalist, reporting news on TV. I sat with her one night as she cooked, holding a flashlight because the power in their house was cut. Her bright smile alone was enough to light the room. She worked the mortar and pestle in rhythmic tocks and told me about her life. Salla has a beautiful soul. She genuinely cares for people and gives her personal best for others. She has been married for two years, yet, hasn’t seen her husband for at least a year and a half. He is currently in France, working at a hotel. She talks to him rarely, so rarely in fact she’s too embarrassed to say. She told me of a conversation with him a year ago, where he instructed her to quit her job and focus on her studies. There was a tint of jealousy for her husband mixed into this request. Salla was working at a hotel at that time in Nouakchott and he didn’t like the idea of having her “displayed” at the desk for all to see. “He was right,” she told me. “I did need to focus on studies, but I loved my job – and it was money for the family. He promised me he would send money from France, but... I have yet to see it.” She motioned toward the light-bulb above, cold and dark.
She told me that in Mauritania, marriage is a very difficult thing. Marriage very young is not uncommon, mostly because people want to respect their religion and marry before sex, but as a result the rates of separation and divorce are tremendous. The rules of relationships are not as strict for men, and courting others shortly after a first marriage is rather normal. Salla told me that polygamy (Muslims are able to take 4 wives) just doesn’t work in this time. It is difficult nowadays to support just one family – to feed, clothe and nurture children from several families is close to impossible. Men still take their opportunity, and too often one family is left with bare bones. Salla is afraid of this happening. She is afraid that her husband will find another wife and refuse to divorce her. Now she must deal with the emptiness and loneliness independently. Marriage problems are subjects that aren’t talked about. “My mom doesn’t even know how I feel...” She told me, stirring a pot of stewing tomatoes. “And if my friends ask if I have talked to him recently, I have to say yes. I have to convince people everything is ok. It’s just the culture.” She told me that she is already judged all the time for not having a child yet. “It’s really frustrating, you know.” She growled shaking her spoon in the air. “I’m sorry… I’m saying too much – you don’t want to know all this. I just haven’t talked to anyone about it.”
I helped her finish up in the kitchen nook and ate her delicious food. When I left the next day I made a mental note to call her to check in once in a while. She promised to take me by the University next time I’m in Nouakchott to see what it’s like. “It’s not,” She said with a laugh. “Like your American schools, but it’s the best… and only one we have.” As I hugged her goodbye and gave her an extra squeeze and looked her in the eye and told her I thought she was doing a great job. It’s sad see such a beautiful soul so stretched by cultural norms. That’s horror enough for me.
Back in Aleg, I walked back to my house one night after visiting friends to find the family beginning to set up their sleeping mats on the ground outside. I walked in to greet Fatou and peeked into her room.
“You walked back by yourself? Alone? At night?” She asked, eyes slightly widened.
“Yes, but don’t worry Fatou, no chickens in the road tonight.” I said.
She smiled as she welcomed me into her room.
“If you see it, it will kill you. And it moves very fast, so you have to run from the sound and hide.” She said.
“Well, what is it!?” I asked, waiting for a monstrous description.
“A one-legged white horse.” She responded.
“………what?” I asked, feeling a flutter of laughter and confusion fill my chest.
“NO!” She said, seeing the smile on my face. “It’s so scary!”
I have to admit that it is slightly creepy; a one-legged horse hopping through the streets, killing those who witness its miraculous movements. I now wonder, observing the dead silence of a Mauritanian night in my village, if these kinds of stories scare people into their houses. Fatou said that she has known this story since she was a child, and has other stories as well. Most of the stories have a lesson at the end – which seems to be “Do not, for God’s sake, walk around alone at night”. Another story she added to this fabulous collection was one of a chicken. If you are walking alone at night and no one else is around (see…) and come across a chicken sitting in dust, that chicken will kill you. Do I see a theme?
But, not all Mauritanian horror stories involve chickens and one-legged horses. I went to Nouakchott with Fatou and got to meet her amazing family. One sister in particular stuck out to me – Salla. She is my age, 24, and is one of the few Mauritanians that has passed the BAC and continued onto University. She studies in the English Department and has a dream to be a journalist, reporting news on TV. I sat with her one night as she cooked, holding a flashlight because the power in their house was cut. Her bright smile alone was enough to light the room. She worked the mortar and pestle in rhythmic tocks and told me about her life. Salla has a beautiful soul. She genuinely cares for people and gives her personal best for others. She has been married for two years, yet, hasn’t seen her husband for at least a year and a half. He is currently in France, working at a hotel. She talks to him rarely, so rarely in fact she’s too embarrassed to say. She told me of a conversation with him a year ago, where he instructed her to quit her job and focus on her studies. There was a tint of jealousy for her husband mixed into this request. Salla was working at a hotel at that time in Nouakchott and he didn’t like the idea of having her “displayed” at the desk for all to see. “He was right,” she told me. “I did need to focus on studies, but I loved my job – and it was money for the family. He promised me he would send money from France, but... I have yet to see it.” She motioned toward the light-bulb above, cold and dark.
She told me that in Mauritania, marriage is a very difficult thing. Marriage very young is not uncommon, mostly because people want to respect their religion and marry before sex, but as a result the rates of separation and divorce are tremendous. The rules of relationships are not as strict for men, and courting others shortly after a first marriage is rather normal. Salla told me that polygamy (Muslims are able to take 4 wives) just doesn’t work in this time. It is difficult nowadays to support just one family – to feed, clothe and nurture children from several families is close to impossible. Men still take their opportunity, and too often one family is left with bare bones. Salla is afraid of this happening. She is afraid that her husband will find another wife and refuse to divorce her. Now she must deal with the emptiness and loneliness independently. Marriage problems are subjects that aren’t talked about. “My mom doesn’t even know how I feel...” She told me, stirring a pot of stewing tomatoes. “And if my friends ask if I have talked to him recently, I have to say yes. I have to convince people everything is ok. It’s just the culture.” She told me that she is already judged all the time for not having a child yet. “It’s really frustrating, you know.” She growled shaking her spoon in the air. “I’m sorry… I’m saying too much – you don’t want to know all this. I just haven’t talked to anyone about it.”
I helped her finish up in the kitchen nook and ate her delicious food. When I left the next day I made a mental note to call her to check in once in a while. She promised to take me by the University next time I’m in Nouakchott to see what it’s like. “It’s not,” She said with a laugh. “Like your American schools, but it’s the best… and only one we have.” As I hugged her goodbye and gave her an extra squeeze and looked her in the eye and told her I thought she was doing a great job. It’s sad see such a beautiful soul so stretched by cultural norms. That’s horror enough for me.
Back in Aleg, I walked back to my house one night after visiting friends to find the family beginning to set up their sleeping mats on the ground outside. I walked in to greet Fatou and peeked into her room.
“You walked back by yourself? Alone? At night?” She asked, eyes slightly widened.
“Yes, but don’t worry Fatou, no chickens in the road tonight.” I said.
She smiled as she welcomed me into her room.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Retrospect
I stood underneath the night sky speckled with stars. A bright almost full moon glowed above me, shaded by slowly moving clouds. And I laughed. Amanda and I had just returned from having dinner with a favorite Pulaar family and as we reached our parting path we laughed into the quiet night. We weren’t laughing at a joke, nor at each-other (which we so often do), but rather, at ourselves. On our walk home that particular night we discussed how much we’ve changed, and what has stayed the same – and in retrospect, how ridiculous we feel at times. That night we took a step out of our bodies and looked down. There we were. Standing in draping mulafes lightly flapping in the wind, our feet dirty from walking through the rocky, dusty streets and our tongues automatically clicking in agreement with truthful statements. Donkeys, goats and cows meandered past, a broken stone house crumbled to our right, and soft-spoken Hassaniya floated from dark houses. We couldn’t help but think about what kind of lives our friends and families were having right now; studying, writing papers, working, getting married, having babies, interviewing and auditioning. We imagined them going to coffee shops and movie theaters, bars and restaurants, supermarkets and bookstores. In Mauritania, we backed away from scary-looking cows, ate grilled meat in tents from carcasses splayed before us, and took pride in choosing what “sheet” (a mulafe is a glorified sheet) to wear that day.
We laughed at how at home we felt in this strange land. We laughed at how our days are spent and the mistakes we make. Our rules and precautions were through the looking glass, and our habits continue to become more and more outlandish. Our tastes (including a new obsession with liver) have changed and our minds have opened to this culture we walk in every day. There are moments, when watching a movie on a computer or checking the internet that one can forget about the world outside the cracked wooden door. When the credits begin to roll or you click the sign out button reality comes rushing back. There are people to visit, there is tea to drink, projects to complete and languages to study. Sometimes it hits you at odd moments - the silliness of it all is countered by absolute realness. That reflection erupts in bubbling laughter. Especially when you think about situations you get in that would never happen in the states.
The other night I walked into my room and was greeted by the leftover African heat trapped in my room like a stove. Hell naw, I said to myself. I could not sleep in that oven. I had to switch my sleeping plans or I would wake up in the middle of the night sweat soaked and cranky. I walked outside where Fatou, Dedehi and their kids were sitting on a mat.
“My room is too hot.” I told them, “I’m sleeping up there.”
Their gazes followed my finger and landed on the roof.
“You want to sleep on the roof!” Fatou said.
“Yes! My room is sooo hot!” I responded.
“She is right, it is very hot inside now. The roof is a good place to sleep.” Dedehi commented.
“Well, let’s go look.” Fatou suggested.
We all (even the kids) climbed the horribly built uneven stairs to the roof to find it littered with rusty old tools, bent nails and homeless keys. We cleared a spot and discussed my mosquito net.
“Well, she doesn’t need a mosquito net up here – there are no mosquitoes up high.” Dedehi said.
“No, no… That’s ridiculous. She needs a net – Go get your net.” Fatou said.
I went and got my net and we began to search for things to help us set it up. I told Muneia, one of the girls, to help me look for nails. We found two and I connected one side of my net to the small wall around the roof. We then stood and looked around, how would we get the other side to stand up? I found a stick and stuck it in a metal contraption and tied the other side of my net to that. Examining the work, which was now in a triangle shape, there were clicks of disapproval.
“Here, do this.” Dedehi said as she took another stick, feed it through the loops of the net and then tied the two sticks together. Genius. Though a little wobbly, it was a nice rectangular net. Now we all stood and looked at the odd set up put together with scraps. Meriem, about 5-years-old, began a little jumping clapping dance, excited about the prospect of me sleeping in the roof.
“You won’t be scared?” Dedehi asked.
“Yeah – It will be scary. I would sleep up here, but Amadou is congested, maybe in a month I’ll come up here with you.” Fatou said.
“Nope. I won’t be scared. It will be peaceful AND cool.” I said.
We all stood around a little while longer, proudly observing out work. I went to sleep that night feeling grateful for the family I was living with - how concerned they were about me, and how willing to help. The wind blew and rustled the net, threatening the “very sturdy” set up, but it never fell.
It is situations like these that make me laugh into the night like the one with Amanda. I’ll take my unique experiences here and hold on to them forever. Sleeping on the roof in a wobbly net, the clothes I wear, the things I eat, learning and being taught – these are things I know I’ll look back upon with a smile.
We laughed at how at home we felt in this strange land. We laughed at how our days are spent and the mistakes we make. Our rules and precautions were through the looking glass, and our habits continue to become more and more outlandish. Our tastes (including a new obsession with liver) have changed and our minds have opened to this culture we walk in every day. There are moments, when watching a movie on a computer or checking the internet that one can forget about the world outside the cracked wooden door. When the credits begin to roll or you click the sign out button reality comes rushing back. There are people to visit, there is tea to drink, projects to complete and languages to study. Sometimes it hits you at odd moments - the silliness of it all is countered by absolute realness. That reflection erupts in bubbling laughter. Especially when you think about situations you get in that would never happen in the states.
The other night I walked into my room and was greeted by the leftover African heat trapped in my room like a stove. Hell naw, I said to myself. I could not sleep in that oven. I had to switch my sleeping plans or I would wake up in the middle of the night sweat soaked and cranky. I walked outside where Fatou, Dedehi and their kids were sitting on a mat.
“My room is too hot.” I told them, “I’m sleeping up there.”
Their gazes followed my finger and landed on the roof.
“You want to sleep on the roof!” Fatou said.
“Yes! My room is sooo hot!” I responded.
“She is right, it is very hot inside now. The roof is a good place to sleep.” Dedehi commented.
“Well, let’s go look.” Fatou suggested.
We all (even the kids) climbed the horribly built uneven stairs to the roof to find it littered with rusty old tools, bent nails and homeless keys. We cleared a spot and discussed my mosquito net.
“Well, she doesn’t need a mosquito net up here – there are no mosquitoes up high.” Dedehi said.
“No, no… That’s ridiculous. She needs a net – Go get your net.” Fatou said.
I went and got my net and we began to search for things to help us set it up. I told Muneia, one of the girls, to help me look for nails. We found two and I connected one side of my net to the small wall around the roof. We then stood and looked around, how would we get the other side to stand up? I found a stick and stuck it in a metal contraption and tied the other side of my net to that. Examining the work, which was now in a triangle shape, there were clicks of disapproval.
“Here, do this.” Dedehi said as she took another stick, feed it through the loops of the net and then tied the two sticks together. Genius. Though a little wobbly, it was a nice rectangular net. Now we all stood and looked at the odd set up put together with scraps. Meriem, about 5-years-old, began a little jumping clapping dance, excited about the prospect of me sleeping in the roof.
“You won’t be scared?” Dedehi asked.
“Yeah – It will be scary. I would sleep up here, but Amadou is congested, maybe in a month I’ll come up here with you.” Fatou said.
“Nope. I won’t be scared. It will be peaceful AND cool.” I said.
We all stood around a little while longer, proudly observing out work. I went to sleep that night feeling grateful for the family I was living with - how concerned they were about me, and how willing to help. The wind blew and rustled the net, threatening the “very sturdy” set up, but it never fell.
It is situations like these that make me laugh into the night like the one with Amanda. I’ll take my unique experiences here and hold on to them forever. Sleeping on the roof in a wobbly net, the clothes I wear, the things I eat, learning and being taught – these are things I know I’ll look back upon with a smile.
Friday, February 27, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, February 23, 2009
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.
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.
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