Santa's Lil Helper

Tis the season...
to be jolly. for family. for gifts. for trees. for lights. for snowman. for holiday cheer. and most importantly...for giving. It seems that from the end of Turkey Day till the last of the wrapping paper has been ripped off of the presants, we are overwhelmed with expectations and the sensation to give. We shop till we drop, searching for the perfect gifts for loved ones. Baking cookes for neighbors. Slipping spare change into the Salvation Army donation cans. It is part of what the "Spirit of Christmas" is all about, right?! Being in Senegal, I found myself reminiscing and recreating the holidays of yore. I miss the snow, being bombarded with images, lights, and constant Christmas music, the hustle and bustle of it all, but I have had a recent revelation. The good cheer, the peace on earth, good will to men, the giving-all the most important aspects of the holidays-are among me; especially here in Senegal.
I recently spent the afternoon at Daowda Fall's home. Daowda is a pharmacist. An intellectual. A father. A husband (of three wives!) A healer. A "man of all religions". A seer. Some say a "witchdoctor". Some just say doctor. I'm lucky enough to call him a friend, and most endearingly, he is a giver.
As we're sitting in his dimly lit room, and he is about to tell me what is in store for my future, a woman, a patient, comes in to say goodbye. Daowda, without hesitation, without prompting, pulls out money and slips it into her hand. I watch the transaction and he begins...
"You haven't been giving the sugar away on Fridays like I advised."
I was called out. A year ago I'd come and he told me that every Friday I needed to give sugar-no matter the amount or to whom-and I hadn't given it away for fear of seeming silly, or from simply forgetting.
"You see here, you have a lot of good things to come in your life but you have this barrier. The giving of sugar will take down that barrier and open all the doors. You know, we gain by giving. It is better to give than to receive."
This is a man who came to Arame with nothing and through the grace of something, he has created his clinic and home, studied abroad, owns a car, and at the same time is spreading his wealth. His office gives free consultations, and his natural medicines are free. People only pay for the western medication. People come from all over West Africa, and even as far as Italy, to wait and see him. Because of that, he opens his home, people stay the night (or week), and everyday he feeds those that are at his house. He advises everyone to give more, and to give something (sugar, dates, etc) one day a week. His giving is so effortless and truly has been 10-fold for him. The more he gives, the more he receives.
In fact, as a whole, over the past two years, I have discovered that giving is Senegalese. Not a day goes by that I don't profit from the generosity of someone. My friend inviting me into her home for lunch, my favorite banana lady slipping me a few extra, the stranger in the car buying me a cold creme during a long ride. Not a meal goes by that I am not asked to join, and everyone else in the proximity of the food, is invited as well. Nor do we not give to the young talibe boys that come to beg for food everyday. And this giving is just so ingrained. There is no complaint, no question...if you have it, why would you not give and share it with someone else?? It is so incredible and such a beautiful aspect of my life here. It can make it like Christmas everyday!! There is no snow in Africa this Christmas. There is no hot chocolate. No fat, jolly man in a red suit. There is noone ringing a little bell incessantly to remind one to give that extra buck, but, luckily, I do have Daowda Fall as my constant reminder of what I aspire to be, and to give some sugar to make life a little sweeter.

I should have known that it wasn’t going to be good when we opened the door to find three men standing there. It was evening, and I was visiting the other volunteers in my village, two Brazilian girls. I was on my way out, in fact, when the knock came. Being that they were three men, and that my Pulaar language skills are a little better, I agreed to stay…power in numbers. The men asked to come in, and we treated them with Senegalese hospitality. Cushions, cold water, “Bismilah!”
It became obvious that they were there with a purpose. They began asking about the soccer class that the Brazilians have in town. I was relieved! “Maybe they want to collaborate!” I thought. The girls explained that Ibrahima, the boy volunteer, has a class for boys, and that they have one for girls. Expecting to hear interest or praise, we were taken aback when they wanted to know why they were handing out books on Jesus at the soccer class.

“Books on Jesus??! I assure you, sir, we have not given out books on Jesus!”

“But you are missionaries? You are Christians? What do you do here??”

“Yes, we are Christians,” Crisea calmly explained. “And I have never given out material, but if someone asks me about my religion or beliefs, I answer honestly.”

And then it became evident why these men were here…

“Well, these young girls are very impressionable. It’s better if you don’t discuss those things with them. They may start to get ideas. And also, it is not a womans place to be playing soccer. To wear pants. Etc. She should be at the house, doing her work there.”

[WHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAT?! Did I really just hear that?!]

Again, calmly, she says, “I assure you I have never given anything. I will continue to speak honestly with whomever asks me. That’s my right. And as far as soccer, we have permission from the parents of the girls. And it’s open, anyone can come watch.”

“There are people that don’t really know Islam. And we want you to know that if it were up to us three, girls would not be participating…,” he said.

As this man continued, I could barely believe my ears! In a year and a half, this was the first time anyone had blatantly said that a woman’s role is in the home, body covered, working, not playing. I had noticed inequality amongst men and women, but I had never heard it come from someone’s mouth directly! I was shocked! And more so that these men had the nerve to “put us in our place.” Till this point, I had been actively listening, but I could stay silent no longer when he began speaking of an old Peace Corps volunteer that had been in Medina Ndiathbe…

“After she left, we discovered that really she had been trying to convert people. She wouldn’t let anyone-not even her family!-in her room!”

At this point, I had to jump in. I explained that I was also a volunteer of the Peace Corps. I explained the goals of the Peace Corps: to aid in development, to gain knowledge of another culture, and to spread knowledge about America...and that it is not religiously affiliated.

He looks at me, dead serious, and says…
“What have we gained by her being here?”

[a dagger went straight to my heart.]

I stumbled over my thoughts…
“she had a garden, she did paintings, etc.” but instead what comes out is…
“What have you lost, by her being here??”

I, and many volunteers I know, struggle constantly with reassuring ourselves that we are doing good by being here. And while at times I think that people think I don’t do anything, I had never felt that they disliked the idea of me being there altogether. Is my presence, the presence of a foreigner, that unwanted?

“Well you come here and you learn all about us, and our culture, and live our lifestyle, and then you leave. We know nothing of you. This is just another way for America to dominate the world.”

[Another stab with the dagger.]

I was flooded with emotions. How do you respond to that? I have never had someone express such dislike for me. I felt attacked. More than that, I felt unliked for no real reason.

As the mosque called for the evening prayer, the three men got up, excused themselves, and left. As the door shut, we three girls began to cry and evaluate what had just happened. Had we been told to “know our role”? Were we not wanted here? Did everyone feel this way?? And to say that they are losing by my being here, was perhaps the most hurtful. I don’t do well with people not liking me, and not to “toot my own horn” but I usually don’t have that problem, so to have someone express such distaste, it really stunned me. All night long I thought and thought and thought about what the three men had said. I was shocked that they didn’t think it appropriate for girls to play soccer. I was appalled that they had the audacity to approach us. I was hurt that they thought my presence brought nothing to their community. And then I became rational. Who were these three men? They weren’t sent by the chief (whom I live with). They aren’t anyone official. I hadn’t even seen them before. The fact that three men, out of a town of thousands, don’t like me or want to like me, should not get to me. There are lots of people that like me, and downright love and enjoy me, and that is what matters, and what I have to remind myself. If after two years, people of Medina Ndiathbe can say,
“Oh yes, there was an American girl here. She was so nice.”
I will be content…even if they don’t know exactly what I do here.

Future Farmer of...Africa??

For all of you who knew me back at EHS and may have scoffed when I became a member of the FFA, I have news for you…never did I ever think those Ag classes would come in handy, but, in fact, FFA (for me) no longer stands for Future Farmers of America. I have decided to change it to Future Farmers of Africa. That is right; I’ve been hittin the fields, and let me tell you, I have a whole new appreciation for farming, especially farming in Senegal.
For the past month and a half, my normal solitary early morning run has been interrupted by throngs of “Medinanaabe” going to work in the fields. The rains have ended and the once flooded area past the bridge (the waalo) is being transformed into millet fields. As I run to keep up an exercise routine, I encounter people exercising as well: carrying their tools, water, and whatever else they may need, the 5km walk to their fields where they will spend the day. I’m greeted and most people call out to me,
“Come help in the fields!!”
“Come on!! Help plant!”
And while I know they are mostly kidding, I have a guilty feeling they are not. I think that they think I am unable to work in their fields, or that I am “above” working in the fields. And it is not just the strangers in the road; even my host family teases me,
“Salimata, tomorrow we are going to the fields. You’re going to plant. Early morning! No stopping till lunch!”
But when I respond with,
“Okay! I want to go!!”
they just laugh and say
“A waawaa” (you can’t) or,
“So Allah jaabi,” (if Allah agrees).
So last week when they told me I was going, I told them I would go and made it certain that they knew I was serious. I wanted to see what it was like, help my house plant their fields, and participate in what everyone else in my town was doing. I woke up early, went running, and as I came back, the charet was leaving me, so I ran after them and jumped on the horse drawn cart. We had passed up those walking and those already in the fields working away and 5km out we stopped at our fields.
Now…my house has three fields. The boys had already gotten the land ready to plant, which is when the women help out. We started in, quickly forming an “assembly line.” Bending, swinging, planting, bending, straightening…Heading it was a boy with a hoe to create a divot. Next, a girl with a long stick with a point at the end that she stabs into the ground to form a hole (Loude). Next (the hardest job of all! The job any idiot, or Toubab, can do!) came Salimata, to bend and drop 4 or 5 seeds into that hole (Awde). And finally someone to put dirt in the holes that I had just dropped seeds. There were four girls in total, and 6 boys, so we rotated every two lines. I had tried to “loude” but my arm strength and hand and eye coordination slowed us down, so I resigned to putting the seeds. Time passed quickly considering the actual pace of our work. Between the singing of the man in the nearby field, water breaks and the never ending jokes of my sister, Ramata, line after line we planted the millet by hand, and by the time we ended, we had only finished about 3/4ths of one plot. I couldn’t believe the amount of work that goes into farming here, and how slow it seems to take! They asked me,
“Salimata, do people plant fields in your country?”
And I felt guilty replying,
“Yes, but we have machines that do the planting, and fewer people have fields, but their fields are larger.”
I looked around at the fields, and the households out to farm; literally doing back breaking work, so that they will have millet for the next year. I saw it as exhausting: sun on your back, bending, straightening, line after line. But I found it cool to be a part of it. I felt a part of my community and my home. It was time well spent with my host brothers and sisters. And it was nice to yell across the fields to neighbors when they greeted me
“AH! Salimata Touak! You came to work in the fields today!!”
I felt it has given me a little bond with people, and I plan to go back out when the harvest comes to give my family a hand, and because you reap what you sow, and the seeds I have planted of millet and friendship, will be bountiful.