Eid el-Fitr

Hello there and early Happy Halloween to all!

I have a great idea for a Halloween costume. I’ll get dressed up in a fur coat and give myself a little beard, sneak into my own yard, and then eat the tiny little tufts of vegetables that have just started to pop up in my garden. Fun, huh? If there are any goats reading this: I hate you.

We’ve been partying hard here in Magtalahjar, celebrating Eid el-Fitr, the end of Ramadan. Moors celebrate by eating as much meat as they can and nothing that wasn’t white or brown has passed my lips for about a week. It was fun helping Limnaya cook and sitting around with visiters, but I found myself being very nostalgic for last year’s Eid el-Fitr. Last year, I sat in the kitchen hut with my sisters, watching them wrap intestines into little braids to be fried. I took photos of Kaka and AlHadj, and of all their neighbor boys joking around with the sheep’s head. I spent the afternoon at Mary’s with the Togolese. This time last year, rebels in Chad were threatening to attack the oil fields, and they actually did attack a police post. This Thursday, another wave of rebels advanced to within 90 kilometers of N’Djamena, fired at a French plane, and then…disappeared. This is according to the BBC, though, and political news in Chad is always full of rumor and hearsay. Really, no one ever really knows what’s going on. That’s part of Chad’s charm.

How to describe what I felt when I heard? Sad. Disgusted. Angry. I started thinking of all our old Peace Corps staff friends – the chauffers, the bureau secretary, the training manager – all in N’Djamena. I pictured teenage rebels in missmatching fatigues striding through Pops’ and the family’s neighborhood. Part of the anger is directed at Chad – why can’t they get their act together? Why do they have to fight each other all the time? Part of it was directed at the rest of the world – why are people still dying in Darfour? Who sold these guys guns in the first place? As far as I know, the Chadian arms production is limited to a couple of blacksmiths in the market making daggers…And part was directed at myself – I was there, supposedly sharing life with these people, and then at the first sign of trouble, Uncle Sam swooped down and carried (or rather, floated) me to safety. What privilege. No, of course, I don’t wish I was there. I’m very glad to be safe. But that doesn’t really help the guilt I feel. In fact, in kind of compounds it.