Well, it may be needless to say, in observing my lack of
posts, but I have been busy.
Everyday seems to be either completely full from waking to sleeping, or
completely devoid of any plans. It
is a polarized lifestyle that I have really yet to become accustomed to. In addition, the general fatigue and
stress hampers my motivation (and general ability) to write anything coherent
or worth posting. For now, I will
instead write about a couple recent events in my village.
It started with one voice, a heartbeat of singular pain. The
cry broke the silence of the predawn morning, and almost simultaneously, the
one voice was joined by all of the women in my family. The collected wail of pain filled all
sounds; it was otherworldy, disturbing.
The wailing gained volume and the voices trembled and cycloned to a
sound that I had never heard before.
The other women in my village began to walk to my compound to add to the
voice of grief.
From my hut, I knew instantly what had happened. The previous day, one of my host
Mothers had gone to the hospital due to some complications with her
abdomen. I was told by one of my
brothers that she was to return the next day. She did not return as he had said. In Senegal, health is not as predictable as it may be in the
United States. Many people refuse
to go to the hospital until the absolute last moment. Many try local “medicines” to alleviate their conditions. For example, my sister currently has a
very bad infection in her thumb from a cut. Her thumb is swollen to twice its size and bright red. I explained that she would need to go
to the hospital to get a prescription for anti-biotics or at least a topical
cream. She refused and instead
opened the cut over steaming water, squeezed her thumb and placed a mint leaf
on it. It hasn’t gotten any
better.
In my compound, most of the village was gathering. My brothers wept openly; yelling to the
sky and sobbing in the sand. One
had to be restrained and forcibly moved back to his hut because of his
grief. One of my neighbors fell to
the ground, rolling across the sand, her knees hitting rocks and logs. Two others picked her up and carried
her to lie down.
I didn’t know what to do. Even in America, there is not a specific thing to do when
someone dies in a family. I am
part of my host family in spirit, but I did not live with this woman for
everyday of my life like they did.
Later that day I was with the men from my village as they
dug the grave. The pickhead arced
through the air, pointing towards the sky, the trees, and ending in the earth
with a thump. The brown and tan
sandy soil was already removed, and the red ladderite clay was breaking into
cake-like clumps. The men formed a
circle around the work and took turns wielding the pick. Even in death, everyone from your
village has a hand in your life.
Silence was the atmosphere except for the few comments about the
movement of the soil out of the grave.
The solid thud of the pick punctuated the pall in the air brought my
thoughts back to the events of the day.
When the work was done a rectangular hole remained, 2 meters
by 1 meter. The body will by
washed with blessed water, and wrapped in white linen. Once placed in the grave, branches will
be placed over the hole and soil upon that. Some day in the future, the branches will give way, and the
body will be fully given back to the Earth.
My host mother’s body arrived at exactly noon to the
village, traveling in a metallic coffin in the back of a truck. She was carried to a small shaded area
in the back of the compound, where members of the family came to see the body,
and one by one grief was felt by all despite the noonday sun. The men took the body to the gravesite. A small prayer was said by the elders
in a straight line. The body was
removed from the coffin, covered by a sheet to occlude it from sight. Branches were laid over the entire
grave and soil placed on top of that.
It is very difficult to convey everything that happened that
day. Seeing the grief in my host
family is something I won’t forget.
For a week, visitors arrived to pay their respects and stay with the
family.
I walked into the large hut in my compound to try and talk
to my village counterpart about starting a live fence. Instead I sat in on the discussion of
my sister’s dowry with the village elders. She is to marry a man about 40 kilometers away. When asked if we have similar meeting
in America, I replied in the negative.
They then started listing off the money and clothing to be included in
her dowry. It is an interesting
custom, similar to the bride’s parents paying for the wedding. But, in some ways I really wonder how
much my sister really knows this guy.
Maybe I am making assumptions, but in rural villages it is very common
for people to get married without knowing each other that well. Especially since my sister is 16 and
the usually age difference between husband and wife is at least 9 years. The treatment of women in Senegal is
something that I have trouble accepting on a daily basis.
Perhaps it is only fitting that the next event I wanted to
record was the naming ceremony for my new nephew. He was born about two weeks ago and will be named Farine
after the brother that originally held my name. It is a strange thing to say that I have a nephew, since I
am an only child and will therefore never have a true biological nephew or
niece. Furthermore, to tell have
people tell me repeatedly I have a tokara, or namesake, as if he was really
named after me is an aspect of inclusion into an adopted family that I have not
experienced before and perhaps may do so only in this country. Family seems to be one of the most
important parts of Senegalese life, and by including me, my host family is
sharing one of the best parts of their culture.
The mother and my sister sit in front of the larger house in
the compound. The cherno, or religious
leader stands among the seated older men, loudly saying prayers. The men mutter “Amin” intermittently
and as one voice, collectively sounding like a motorcycle. 15 feet away, a goat screams: it is
today’s lunch. A small pit is dug
next to the goat. A knife saws
through its throat and the blood is caught in the pit. The tail is pulled to tighten the
muscles of the vascular system and the goat passes. “Welcome Farine Balde!” is called out with the death of the
goat by the butcher.
The women have not stopped chattering in high pitch for the
whole affair. More prayers are
said and the rumbling of the men are the bass line to the excited treble. The sweet millet and rice dough is
dolled out to everyone and kola nuts dispersed. The ceremony over, everyone disperses to shady huts to wait
for lunch.
I wonder if this culture and way of life will continue the
way that it is. Even at this
moment a new ladderite, or hard packed soil, road is being constructed 50
meters from my village. With roads
come more transportation of both people and ideas. Progress may inevitably do away with much of the culture
that rural Senegal has. I really
wonder if the people in my village realize how much change can occur in the
span of a few decades.
