1.22.09

I made a hat. yea.

1.22.2009

Don't judge me, but, I cried my first tears in Senegal several nights ago. They were not tears of physical pain. They were not tears of cultural frustration. They were not tears of 'why can't you speak english!?' They were not tears of 'please don't make me eat rice and fish again'. They were tears of longing; Longing to be with those I love at home. Don't get me wrong, I love living here. But there are times when all I can do is think back to my family and friends in America. Sometimes it's even thoughts of food in America that get to me. 

Anyway, the other night I met my sister, Ashley, online to have a video chat. (Technology has definitely helped me with missing home. When you can see the person you are talking to live, it makes all the difference.) We were talking when she told me that she had just received an email from our sister Corey. I checked my email and had also received one. The email was an autobiographical narrative that she had to write for her english class. I opened the document and began reading aloud to Ashley via Skype. The story was about our last Christmas with all the family together. It told of a hilarious experience that had occurred late one night in the kitchen. As I read, I couldn't stop laughing out loud. The laughter eventually blurred my vision with tears and I had to stop reading. When I tried to start again, I realized that my tears of laughter had taken on a different form. I was crying because I missed my family. It was a startling realization because I was unaware of the transition between the two. Ashley was able to finish reading the story for me and we both talked about how much we missed home. Though the tears lasted for a short time, it was nice to have experienced them with Ashley rather than alone. 

Corey, thank you for sending me the story. It was beautifully written and I felt like I was re-living the hilarity. 

Random fact: As I sat writing this blog, three street kids sat on my floor looking at my magazines playing some sort of game they invented. They would throw a magazine in the air, catch it, and open to a random page. Then they would count how many people were in the photos on that page. The number of people quickly turned into how many times they were allowed to slap each others arms. Random. Funny. 

1.14.09

Again, shame on me for not updating in awhile. Especially since I have my computer back. Well, there is tons to talk about and many stories to share, but as promised, I've decided to post an entry from my journal about the passing of my host father. It is an old journal entry but it was a significant experience that I still want to share. The Journal entry also talks a bit about the holidays of Ramadan and Korite.

journal entry 10.10.08

I’ve been wanting to put words down on these pages for the past week, but I think I might have been avoiding it. My thoughts have been painfully lodged in my brain and I’ve been trying as hard as I can to ignore them. The events of the past two weeks have left my heart in the strangest of states; An emotional juxtaposition of sorts. The whole month of September I have been busy preparing for this training I’m in charge of. The month has also been Ramadan, which makes getting things done even more difficult. The days of the training came and though I was nervous, they went really well. The day following the training was Korite and while I really wanted to spend it in Thieneba, I stayed in Dakar. I received several phone calls from my siblings in Thieneba telling me I needed to be there with them celebrating the holiday. I explained that I needed to stay in Dakar with my family since it was my first holiday with them. My Korite was pretty low key and chill with lots of good food and sitting around. People came to the house and greeted with a:
“Balma ak” (forgive me)
to which we respond:
“Balnaa la. Balma!” (I forgive you, forgive me!)
I understood that fasting for the month of Ramadan brings forgiveness of our sins, but it wasn’t until I began hearing these greetings that I saw the true beauty of the holiday. Every person you greet, whether stranger or not, you plead for forgiveness. I think our world needs more days like this; A forgiveness jubilee. No matter what we might have done to each other in the past, we can both understand the weight of our own sin and wickedness and both acknowledge how much we need each other’s forgiveness. Beautiful.

Kids also ran from house to house asking for money. This got old real fast because the moment I let one kid in my room, he brought ALL the friends he could find to see the Toubab’s room and to taste the weird candy he was handing out (I didn’t have any money to give so I figured I would turn it into Halloween!).

Later, I went and hung out with my great friend Aliou. We enjoyed walking around his neighborhood and hanging out with his family.

TWO DAYS LATER, I woke up early to go work in the garden. While I was gardening, I was thinking about how happy I was that my training was done and successful when I received a phone call. It was my sister Rokhoya (in Thieneba). I was excited to hear her so I kept talking about how much I missed her but something didn’t seem right in her voice and I couldn’t understand what she was trying to say. Then the voice of my brother, Matar, came on the line and he said four words that hit me hard, taking the air from my lungs:
“Our father is dead”
I lost all ability to communicate in wolof and I yelled “WHAT?!” Nothing was said for a moment and I had to gather my thoughts.
“I’m coming right now” I said and I hung up. I went immediately home and threw some things into a bag. I walked to the Patte d’oie garage and jumped in a Sept Place for Thies. When I got to the garage there, I jumped in an Alhum headed for Thieneba. When I got off, I began walking to the house and ran into my sister Ida who was walking with Ami Diouf. I didn’t know what to expect and my greeting was slightly solemn. They could tell I was pained and walked with me to the house. When I arrived, there were hundreds of people all around and in the house. I greeted the people I knew and then saw Rokhoya. She immediately walked me into mom’s room where woman sat all around her. She looked up at me with these horribly saddened eyes. I kneeled in front of her and said,
“Yalla na ko yalla yerum” (May God take pity on him)
She muttered an “amen” then began to explain that Dad was sick but had been feeling better. Then at 3am he passed. She repeated that he was feeling better and began to cry. I had no words for her so I just sat holding her hand. I left a bit later with a very heavy heart.
I spent the next 3 days there merely being with the family. I helped take care of all the mourners and even had some amazing conversations with Babacar. I think he might have been taking it the hardest. After sitting with him the 1st night, he asked if I was ok. I said it was difficult to explain but that my heart was heavy. He said he didn’t want to see me suffering, to which I responded that I didn’t want to see him suffer either. We took a few night walks where he talked about what a great man our father was. He even talked about being there right as his father passed away.
The time there was hard but at the same time so good. I think it was in those days that I felt the most like I was part of the family.