Magtalahjar

I haven’t written a thing for almost another month, mostly because I’ve been here and there, on my way to site or not yet moved in to my house. Now that I’m in my house, my excuse for not writing is that I don’t have any energy left at the end of the day. How am I doing? I ‘m okay. This has all been much harder than I imagined. I’m grieving Chad – or the loss of my life and stability there - much more than I expected. Little things make me think of Bol and tears spring into my eyes. It’s like I keep comparing everything between the places. I’ve been so busy during the last month with practical stuff that it’s only now that I’ve had time to feel anything. The loss of the camaraderie between the Chad PCV’s has been very difficult, too. The PCV’s I’ve met here have been fun, but of course it’s not the same. I really feel the loss of that support group.

It’s also hard to be starting nearly all over culturally. At first I thought, “This is so similar! I’m not going to have any problems!” However, the similarities are deceptive and the many differences continue to treat me to frequent kicks to the ass.

I’m working so hard on language. I think I already know more here that I did in Chad. Hassaniya is an Arabic dialect, so a lot of it is similar to Chadian Arabic, but it’s different enough to make things TOUGH. I never had to feel like an idiot or a baby in Chad because I had enough French to function. Almost no one speaks French here. I can’t begin to describe how suffocating and exhausting it is to not be able to communicate. No fun. But it’s coming along. I carry a little notebook around and write down every new word I learn. Then every night I copy the new words into another notebook to study.

Maybe another thing is that I was already an old hand in Chad. Mentally, I was so far away from those first palpably difficult months. I knew what I was doing! People greeted me everywhere I went! And now here I am again, a strange stranger in a strange place.

But I’m here and I intend to be happy here. My town is called Magtalahjar. For the moment I have a site mate named Jordy, who is beloved by everyone in Peace Corps and the majority of Magtalahjarians. She is a great person and has been very inspirational and encouraging. She’ll be finishing her service in June.

The first of the challenges here has been my house. The PC assistant who did all the preparations for my arrival knew a friend who was moving out of his house, which seemed like perfect timing. I had misgivings from first sight. It’s big. Two rooms, a kitchen, toilet and bathroom and a biiig yard – all to myself! I’d made it clear that I’d prefer to be with a family but I didn’t want to be the squeaky wheel, so I signed the lease. My landlord, Saudi, has been so nice. He’s a policeman and reassured me many times that all the neighbors were his family and there are never any problems in Mauritania. At the beginning, he’d insist that I come eat lunch with his family, or come over for tea. He knew I was lonely, oooof, and lonely I was. I’d spend all day out visiting neighbors so I wouldn’t have to be alone, and then come home in the evening to my silent, dark, empty house. I also didn’t feel safe sleeping alone at night. The walls aren’t very high and I felt like anyone could peep (or jump) over. One night I awoke to a weird chewing sound. “Oh God,” I thought, “Some perv is peeping at me and grinding his teeth!” I sat bolt upright, and put on my glasses to see…3 big camels munching on my tree over the wall. It was a very weird moonlit Jurassic Park moment.

I made it clear to PC that I didn’t like or feel safe in the house, but I didn’t want to move out because Saudi had been so good to me and invested so much in repairs. It was Saudi who came up with the solution. He found a woman who was willing to move into the other room! She could only pay 2000 of the 9000 total rent, but she’d do all the housework and cooking to compensate.

And so, on the day before my birthday, Youma and 5-year-old Abdrahaman moved in with their goats, chickens and tent. Oh what a difference they’ve made in my Magtalahjar life! It’s so great to have them here. Youma is already calling herself my mom and won’t let me lift a finger. She’s funny and sassy and a very patient Hassaniya tutor. Abdrahaman is CUTE – he’s very dark skinned, which makes his teeth seem bright bright white when he flashes his little grin. Their goats have decimated the tree branches within their reach and poop everywhere, but that’s okay because now our yard smells like the Southern Iowa Fair, which is comforting. There’s a mama goat, pre-teen goat, and little bleating baby goat. None of them are gruff.

Big is beautiful in Mauritania. The white moor women do nothing but eat, drink whole milk and try to get as fat as possible. There are some supremely ugly white moor women. Damn. But because big is beautiful, the food is all prepared to lead one to that goal. The main meal is “marro”, which is rice and grease – sometimes with slivers of vegetables or goat meat. When visiting, I’m treated to Zrig (whole milk with sugar – tastes like the milk left over after a bowl of Frosted Flakes) and tea. My meals with Youma consist of some combination of rice, fresh goat milk, sour goat milk, and “bossi” – a grape nuts type grain that I think is actually millet. We occasionally have eggs from her chickens or fresh bread and on Fridays there is fish from Nouakchott in the market. I have long since relinquished my yearnings for fruits and veggies, so the grain, grease ‘n goat regime suits me okay.

Mauritanian tea is very different from Chadian tea. Rather than the “dump a cup of sugar, a little water, and a little tea in a pot” method that is so popular in Chad, tea here is a ritual. There are 3 rounds, which means that “staying for tea” is about an hour time commitment. There’s an elaborate ritual of pouring the tea back and forth between cups to create just the right amount of foam. The first cup is bitter, “like death”. The second cup is sweet “like love”. The third cup is a mixture of the bitter and the sweet, “like life.” It’s so good! It’s never syrupy sweet like in Chad and the fresh mint they use in each pot is just plain g-o-ood.

Magtalahjar stretches out along the smooth deliciously paved road that spans Mauritania. It is long but only a few blocks deep on either side, which means that is takes me 30 minutes to walk to the market, school, or Jordy’s house. Sand dunes roll to the north of town and flat desolation stretches as far as you can see to the south. My neighborhood has a few trees, but elsewhere in town, they’re rare. Almost every yard boasts a “khyme” or a “limbar.” Khymes are tents under which families spend most of their time. Life goes on under the khymes. A limbar is a sort of permanent khyme with a cement floor but tent top. Houses are made of cement, with tin roofs and seem to only be used in cold season.

I’ll be teaching at the middle school here. For the rest of this school year (which ends next week), I’m just observing. I’ll also be working with the Girls’ Mentoring Center, which Jordy and her Mauritanian counterpart, Limnaya started. I’m really excited about working there. On a typical workday, I wake up with the sun and eat bossi (the grape nuts stuff) and fresh goat milk with Youma. I head to school at 7 and get there at 7:30. I teach until 11:30 and then go visit someone (Limnaya, Saudi, or an acquaintance) and stay for lunch (rice ‘n grease with guaranteed zrig and tea). Then I either go back to school for afternoon classes or go to the Girls Center, which meets on weekends. On non-work days, I laze around and drink tea with Youma. Then I spend the morning visiting neighbors. I come home to eat lunch with Youma and Abdrahaman, and then rest through the heat of the day. I go visit more or sit and read in the afternoon. Dinner is usually more goat milk and grape nuts and I often make myself mint tea (mint, water, sugar – delicious). I go to sleep outside at 10 or so with Youma and Abdrahaman, sometimes under the stars, sometimes under the tent.

Mauritania is an Islamic Republic so the Islamic influence is much stronger here. There is not one woman in Magtalahjar (including me) who doesn’t wear a veil. If you’ll recall the photos of maman online (www.roekel.org), that’s what I’m wearing. It’s one long piece of fabric that wraps up and around. It covers everything but my face, hands and feet. I even wear it at home and have to wrap myself up if a man comes to visit. I wear it at all times. Skin is not in.

There’s almost no contact between men and women. Men and women don’t shake hands and can only touch if they were breast fed by the same woman. There’s a teacher at school (who I’ll describe more in a second) who, if he calls a girl to the board, will turn and face the wall until she’s done writing. Only when she’s sat back down with the other girls will he turn and look at what she’s written.

Magtalahjarians love to proselytize. Some people won’t look at me or greet me because I’m an infidel. People are constantly trying to convert me. Some will try and trick me into saying “La illah-ha illah-la, Mohammad ar-rasul-ah la,” which means “There’s no god but god and Mohammed is his prophet.” Don’t read it aloud or you’ll automatically be converted! The encounter usually goes something like this:

Fatimatou: “Hey! Say “la illah-ha illah-la, Mohammed arrasulah la”
Me: “I’m a Christian, we believe in the same god.”
Fatimatou: “C’mon, say it! Everyone will like you and give you pretty veils if you do!”
Me: “If Allah wills it, I’ll become a Muslim, pray for me. (Good stock
phrase that usually shuts them up).”
Fatimatou: “If you don’t say it, you’ll burn in hell and drink boiling water for eternity.”
Me: “You have your religion and I have mine.”
Fatamatou: “Sayitsayitsayitsayit!”

I’m very much the “Other” here - an American Christian woman. This had led to some…challenges. Jordy warned me when I first got here that Magtalahjar isn’t a very welcoming place and is very conservative. She’s had a really hard time because she was the first vol here since the 80’s. Early last week, I was confronted by an angry group of women who surrounded me and started going off in Hassaniya. I assumed they were women from one of Jordy’s coops and had mistaken me for Jordy. I gave my usual chipper, “I’m not Azaiaz, I’m Zahara! (We go by Mauritanian names, so I just kept my Chad name). I’m here to teach English! I like Mauritania! It’s good!” The women realized I wasn’t Jordy and stalked off. It turns out that the women had come straight from a town meeting at the big mosque where the topic of discussion had been how to get rid of the nasara infidels. The women were yelling at me to get out of town and I didn’t know it! Someone explained it to me afterwards.

I’ve been observing the other English teacher, who is a “black African” from the south. The first time I got up to teach, the boys averted their eyes and refused to look at me. “Okay, what’s going on?” I asked in French. “Your arms! Your hair!” cried the boys. My arms were visible when I gestured and my veil had slipped back on my head. I was upset and didn’t want to keep teaching if the boys couldn’t even look at me, so I asked Mr. Diallo to take back over. I went out and bought a “boodie,” which is a pair of sleeves – like sleeves without a shirt. In the afternoon class I wore the sleeves and a bandanna under the veil so that neither my arms nor my hair would be visible. There was no problem in the afternoon. The class was engaged and fun.

This morning when I taught the little ones again, they again averted their eyes. I thought it was weird, but kept on. Then in the afternoon class, not a single boy showed up. The girls said the boys had “research” to do for the civics teacher (the previously mentioned ultra-conservative), Cheikh Ahmed who has a fundy beard and nutty look in his eyes. After questioning from Mr. Diallo, the girls admitted that the boys were all boycotting the class because they didn’t want to be taught by an American woman infidel. Ouch. I was pissed and upset because in addition to the boys, the other teachers refused to greet me or look at me. I held my head high and my shoulders square as Diallo and the school director talked (they’re both on my side) but as soon as I got to Jordy’s, I sobbed. Man, I don’t think I’ve ever been in such a hostile, icy situation.

Everyone advised me to be “strong as iron” and not show any intimidation or weakness. After coming home from school and eating dinner with Youma, I felt like “You all can kiss my ass. I’ve got Youma and neighbors who like me!” I was calm and confident as I walked to school the next morning and ran into Mr. Diallo, who was walking with none other than Mr. Cheikh Ahmad. I greeted them and Mr. Conservative Wacko crossed the street without looking at me to walk on the other side. We arrived at school at about the same time. While I sat by myself in the school yard (no other teachers would talk to me), he had a powwow with the boys of the class I was about to teach. In class, the boys stared at their desks or shielded their eyes with their hands. One boy was covering his face with his hands and peeking at me through his fingers. It was hard not to be angry with them. But they’re so young (12-13-14) that clearly this isn’t all their idea. I mean, big people are behind it. Anyway, suppressing my hurt, I proceeded to teach to the girls and one boy who would participate. The lesson was “The Human Body” so they had to look at me and by the end even the boys were snapping their fingers (equivalent to hand-raising) and yelling “Me, teacher!’

The second class yesterday was pretty normal. Only the boys in the back wouldn’t look at me. But the big “oopsies!” on my part happened when I grabbed a bunch of girls’ notebooks to show “their.” The girls started screaming..”Teacher, Qua’ran! Qua’ran!” There was a Qua’ran in the stack and as a non-Muslim; I’m not allowed to touch it. So I hastily set the notebooks down. The girl removed the Qua’ran and I picked the notebooks up again, but I guess there was another Qua’ran in the stack because the girls yelled again. I gave up on the notebooks and switched to using pens as the example. During the lesson the girls kept motioning me to retuck my veil under my chin and told me to say “la illah-ha illah-la” at every opportunity. I can’t touch any of the students. The boys won’t take chalk from my hand. I have to drop it into their hand. I went to touch a girl and she jumped back with this look of shock and disgust.

I feel very unwelcome and unsettled and hurt by it all. Hopefully it will blow over by next school year. But I also feel content and safe in my neighborhood. It would be therapeutic to help Mr. Cheih Ahmad put a little “fun” in his fundamentalism by getting in his face and going, “I’m not touching you I’m not touching you I’m not touching you!” I’m trying to turn the other cheek…the one on my face. Though I ‘d like to tell some people what they can to do to the other set. I mean, my being defensive and hostile with people is only going to make the situation worse. I don’t know. It’s upsetting and hard, but I’m hanging in. These folks don’t know which American woman infidel they’re tangling with.