The Il Hamdulilah/Gasar Amar-ak List

November has definitely arrived in Mauritania. The weather is slowly creeping southward on the thermometer, and, though lacking the turkeys, tinsel, and general hustle and bustle of the holiday season in the States, I have found comfort in a different kind of plenty and excess here. For the first time since my arrival, vegetables and fruit are abundant and cheap thanks to a plentiful harvest during the cold season. This may seem negligible to many of you; however, the added benefits of these nutrients are of paramount importance to my malnourished body and those of Mauritanians. Rule of thumb: a hearty, nutritious meal means a happier Colleen. Now if I could only find a glass of wine to accompany my delicious repasts…: p

Moreover, the hospitality of my Mauritanian friends is more forthcoming now that I have made salient strides with Hassiniya and further integrated into the community. I no longer squirm with impatience as I sit hour after hour, drinking kasse after kasse of tea and discussing religion, marriage, gender relations, and a host of other topics, important and unimportant alike. Even work is beginning to pick up! This past weekend, I ventured en brousse with three other volunteers. Together, with the aid of several women’s cooperatives, we planted 150 trees aimed at delaying desertification and distributed vegetable seeds to 7 cooperatives. My interest has also been piqued by several health and community issues, and more and more projects appear on the horizon every day. Specifically, I hope to begin a Health Club at the local lycée (high school) and, subsequently, hand-washing and dental hygiene campaigns in the primary schools. Of course, this is all assuming I receive approval and first finish my wall mural. Big “if’s.”

In any case, given the good fortune I have experienced of late and the impending Thanksgiving holiday, I thought it appropriate and in good tradition to share a list of those things for which I thank God each day (Il Hambulilah). They are big and small and might otherwise be inconsequential was I not in Mauritania. However, they have made me smile on days when all seemed hopeless and have seen me through the rough patches I have encountered thus far. In the spirit of good humor and all things ying-and-yang, I am also including a companion Gasar Amar-ak List. In Hassiniya, Gasar Amar-ak translates as “May God shorten your life,” and, as harsh as this may seem, it is a phrase used without reservation by many a frustrated Mauritanian and Peace Corps volunteer. In this list, you will find those things which have dampened my spirit at times and might just give me a few wrinkles before I leave. So, without further ado, I present my first annual Thanksgiving Il Hambulilah / Gasar Amar-ak list. Enjoy!

Il Hamdulilah:

- Kiddy –It’s our version of Nutela and is thus equivalent of crack for us, chocolate-starved volunteers.
- Prayer call – Good for laughs when garbled and can also be incredibly beautiful at times
- Tea time! – Always laden with sugar and served up with a good dose of culture, the Mauritanian ritual definitely rivals its counterpart in the UK. It’s going to be a hard habit to break back in the States.
- My Northface sleeping bag
- Iste, the cold season
- BBC radio
- Early morning runs, watching the desert sun rise over the dunes
- Motivated, intelligent, hospitable, and open Mauritanians
- A sense of humor – Not only has it helped me to put many an experience in perspective, but it has also been a wonderful tool, effectively deflecting any unsavory offer whether be it tea with the local construction workers or slaying a goat for an upcoming festival.
- Well-stocked Peace Corps libraries – I will never want for books to read.
- Emails, calls, letters, and photos from home
- Care packages – Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Haha.
- President-elect Barack Obama
- My Mauritanian friends and counterparts, Tagant site mates, PCV friends, and the RIM Peace Corps Staff
- Family, Friends, and Relatives Stateside - I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I couldn’t do
this without your support!

Gasar Amar-ak:

- Ants, Scorpions, Blister Beetles…really, anything that wakes me up or hurts me
- Goats
- Mulafas
- Sand, sand everywhere
- Demands of “Cadeau, Madame” from ½ a mile away
- Marriage proposals – See November 13th Blog Entry
- Taxi Brousse rides – See October 15th Blog Entry
- Prayer call at 4, 5, and 6 am, respectively. Make up your minds people!
- Intestinal parasites
- The economic crisis
- Coup d’Etats

83 Proposals: Marriage in the RIM

“So have you met that chief who you're going to have your 20 kids with?”

This question was sent to me by one of my best friends not too long ago. Indeed, it is one I have received many times over from friends and family members over the past few months. Obviously, this question and its cousins are flip in nature and are posed in jest. But inquiring minds want to know, and I am not one to withhold information from my adoring fan base. So, to all those desirous to know about my new hubby and how many babies I’ve popped out since my arrival, I am happy to report that I am still batting zero on the marriage and baby front. [Cue Mom/Dad: sigh of relief]. However, that is not to say I haven’t had the opportunity to change that reality. In fact, I have had at least 83 chances, approximately, to jump on the nuptial bandwagon (4 proposals/wk x 20.5 wks). Eat your heart out Jane Austen.

“Why,” you might ask, “have I received so many offers?” This is an excellent question which I ask myself every time I am faced with a fresh proposal. Of course, it has a very simple answer that is neither my Helen of Troy beauty nor my baffling intelligence and wit; p Quite simply, I’m an American; I have fair skin; I’m the walking, talking, breathing image of Beverly Hills compared to most Mauritanians; and, at 23 years of age, I am past due for marriage by most Mauritanian standards. Indeed, many women shake their heads in disbelief and pity upon discovering that I am still single at 23. “What? You’re 23, and you have no husband or children? Here, take my son.” I kindly deflect these offers and typically conjure up an imaginary financé working in the States. Usually, this satisfies the female interrogators though some will persist and urge me to take a Mauritanian husband in addition to my American beau. The men, however, are a bit more persistent. They adjust their starchy boubous, strike enigmatic poses, and try to woo me with proposals like the following:

“Fair Colleen, I beg your hand in marriage so that I can spirit you away to my wonderful desert palace. There, you will feel no want for anything that is in my
power to give you and we can raise our family and grow old together in peace.”

[Reality: Toubab, I want you marry me. I have big house with parents. You live us there. Boutique close to house. There you buy everything. I also want many children for to build first Mauritanian national soccer team. You like this, yes?]

Take note all you single men out there: this is no way to woo a lady.

Fortunately, it is more than acceptable to reject these “grandiose” offers with a simple, “No, you’re ugly” or “Psh, you’re way too old for me!” Though seemingly blunt and harsh to us, they seem to do the trick every time, humorously turning down the offer while producing a few chuckles among the surrounding Mauritanians. In any case, as an ambitious woman with only 23 years of age to her credit, I am not seeking marriage at this point in my life and have grown a bit tired of the constant inquiries and proposals. That said, it has been very interesting to learn about the Mauritanian rituals of courtship firsthand, turning down offers and attending the weddings of friends. From these experiences, I have been able to piece together a rough understanding of the marital norms and practices in this country. This is where the Women’s Studies major in me comes to the forefront.

It goes without saying that marriage occupies a predominant position in Mauritanian society. Basically, the family supersedes the atom as the basic building block of life here. As such, the connections formed to create a family assume the utmost importance. Depending on ethnic background and location, the practices and standards which surround marriage vary. For example, some ethnic groups practice polygamy; others do not. Some localities are more accepting of romantic notions of love; others resist its impending tide. In general though, marriage is not about love or romance, but about practicality and function. For this reason, some marriages are still arranged, matching extended family members and/or first or second cousins together. Though marriage between family members is universally disagreeable to us, Mauritanians reason that marriage between cousins ensures the background and moral character of the parties while keeping wealth within the family and continuing family lines.

As you can well imagine, there are times when such antiquated practices conflict with modern mentalities and the appeal of romantic love. One of my roommates, Aisha Ba, is a victim of this clash, having recently married one of her cousins. According to her family, it was a good match, but, to her mind, it was a decision which forced her to abandon the man she truly loves, Oumar. Oumar lives and works in Tidjikja, and he and Aisha Ba had been together for roughly four years before her marriage. She is the only individual I know of who has had such an experience. No doubt, there are others who share her fate, but I take heart in that, with the urbanization of society and greater exposure to media, a growing number of Mauritanians are making their own choices with regard to marriage partners. Ali, my facilitator during training, ended up marrying his wife after a bitter struggle with her family because they objected to his ethnicity. He is a black moor, and she is a white moor. They disregarded the family’s protestations, married, and, though they fell out of grace with her family for some time, they have now reunited and rekindled the relationship. Happy endings are possible, but, as with everything here, you have to fight for them.

I also see hope in the rising age of marriage for women. Previously, it would not be uncommon for a young Mauritanian girl to marry by the age of 15 or 16. Now, there is a greater variance in the age of marriage for young women. Indeed, I have some friends who are 25 or 26 and are content to still be single. “Raajel ijiib mushkila,” [men bring problems] they tell me as they crook their heads and give me knowing nods. “Haani schwey,” [wait a little] they advise me. I tell them they don’t have to worry about me; I’m not jumping off that cliff anytime soon. But they just pat my leg and repeat their advice. I guess it’s worth noting that most of these women work, many as teachers, and have thus benefited from more education than others. Though they are presently unmarried and happy to be so, I have faith that they will all eventually marry. It’s a stepping-stone of life here, whether you like it or not.

Unfortunately, there are some girls who discover this reality far too early. Unlike my Mauritanian spinster friends, young girls en brousse are not exposed to as much alternative culture and education as women in urban centers and still marry as young as 13 or 14. The mantle of wife and mother is foisted upon these young girls as soon as they are of child-bearing age, and their health definitely suffers as a result. For example, I have met several girls at Tidjikja’s maternal health center who came from the brousse for treatment. They looked like they were in their mid-30’s when, in actuality, they were only 17, 19, 22. They had already bore several children, many before their bodies were developed enough for that experience. They came from areas which would really benefit from outside influence; however, those areas are so geographically isolated that I wonder if, when, and how this will ever come to pass. I have hope, but I am also realistic. Ethnicity, location, economic status, and education will continue to function as critical factors in determining marital norms, and, for the time being, young girls en brousse will suffer as a result.

Those Darn Proverbial Rocks

The rock hit me squarely on my right ankle. The shock at impact was quickly replaced by a bubble of humiliation and fury as I heard the peal of laughter over my shoulder. I swung around angrily and swiftly singled out the culprit - a young white Moor, about 8 or 9 years of age, noticeable for his smirk and his rapid backtracking into the pool of children. Rarely have I ever wanted to physically hurt someone, so badly.

"IJI!" I commanded. The children slowly gathered, surprised by my forceful tone and eager for the ensuing showdown. At that moment, I had no idea what I was going to do, but I remember feeling a tinge of shock and pride at my ability to recall the imperative in Hassiniya. Sadly, that is where my linguistic adeptness left me. After demanding where his mother and father were (in Nouakchott where he lived) and then chastising him with a few "Maa Zeyn’s" (not good), I was spent. He said, "Pardon Madame," but I knew it wasn’t sincere. I wanted to tell him about the destructiveness of violence and respect for authority, but how do you do so in broken Hassiniya to a child who should already understand that?

His compatriots held him fast and called on me to hit him. Tempted though I was, I frowned and refused. Ah ha! My Achilles heal was revealed; the restraint which I viewed as a strength merely denoted weakness to the children. As I began to walk away, the children took up my chant of "Maa zeyn," not to reprimand their friend, but to mock the retreating toubab. I couldn’t stand it, but all I could do at this point was shoot dirty looks at them. Anything more would have been fuel for their fire. I resolved to tell my counterpart, whom I was going to visit, and have her take care of any further discipline. She later did and, upon asking him why he threw the rock at me, he responded, "Hiye nasaranyi. Hiya jaay min Amerik." (She’s a foreigner. She comes from America). Enter: discrimination and racism [stage right]

In theory, this experience shouldn’t have happened. I was in one of the nicer neighborhoods of Tidjikja, walking to an evening English lesson with my counterpart’s daughter. I was wearing a mulafa - which normally commands greater respect for the modesty and cultural integration it connotes. I had also greeted the children gathered around the soccer field in Hassiniya and humbly explained to them that I couldn’t play soccer as well as them. Passing the edge of the field, I thought our interaction had come to an end and was about to chalk it up to one of those pleasant memories I would recall right before bed. That’s when the rock was thrown. I don’t want to over dramatize the event. After all, the rock’s physical impact left little more than a bruised knot and the two scabs I now see. That said, it shook me up that day, throwing me off balance. "We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto. Welcome to the new Oz - Tidjikja, Mauritania. The flying monkeys here are kids with stones, and even ruby red mulafas won’t save you."

In reality, several proverbial rocks have been thrown at me in my short time here, and I expect many more. Not all are bad, and many, indeed, have been wonderful revelations and experiences. Actually, I think it’s good to be knocked off balance every now and then; it forces you out of your comfort zone, forces you to readjust. However good or bad, those proverbial rocks universally seem to strike just when you’re getting comfortable, nestling into the proverbial Lazy-boy. Such is life in a different country and interaction with a different culture. Sadly, the rocks of late have been of the same make and mold as the one hurled at me by the young boy - laced with prejudice, veiled in racism. As I will soon relate, sometimes these negative sentiments have been directed at me, and sometimes, they have been directed at other ethnic groups in the country. Regardless, they have all been eye-opening.

I have been very fortunate of late to make several new friends in the community. My two "housemates" - Jenniba Sou and Aishaba - are affectated to teach primary school in Tidjikja and arrived a few weeks ago. It’s nice to finally have some company in the compound and, as French teachers, they always challenge me linguistically when I roll out of bed at 6am. But when I want to gossip or learn some new risqué dance moves, I head over to Coumbise and Coumba’s house. Unfortunately, these two fabulous ladies will be returning to Nouakchott within a week’s time, but I have enjoyed their spark and colorful perspective on life in the past month. I have also befriended several individuals working in the health sector and with community improvement. Ali is an anesthetist at the hospital; Jum is the manager of World Vision’s Tidjikja branch; and Hajetou is a sage femme at the hospital. In addition to being warm, welcoming, and extremely intelligent, each of these new friends shares one other thing in common. They are all Pulaar.

Briefly, being of any descent other than White Moor in Tidjikja automatically singles you out for attention. The community is composed almost entirely of White Moors, and they make sure that you know it, especially if you are of African, rather than Arab, descent. Pulaars hail from the Fula African group and their population extends across all of West Africa. In Mauritania, Pulaars maintain many governmental administrative positions and are known widely as the intellectuals in the government. According to the Cross-Cultural Manual provided us during training:

Though there are, of course, friendships between people of the various racial groups, there is also considerable wide scale mistrust between White Moors and Pulaars. Pulaars perceive the White Moors as being racist, powerful, and nepotistic people who use their political influence unduly to gain control over the other residents of the country. In return, the White Moors are typically distrustful of Pulaars. Much of the conflict of 1989 was centered between the White Moors and Pulaars. (Peace Corps Mauritania. Cross-Cultural Manual. 2008.)

I want to say at the start that neither group is without fault or responsibility for the poor relations which exist at present. Over the past few weeks, I have heard individuals from both groups make snide comments about the other; I have also heard them make positively glowing statements. These are the proverbial rocks of which I spoke earlier. They came from the mouths of friends - White Moor, Pulaar, and Wolof, friendly, intelligent, generally progressive - and it was thus all the more surprising when their comments were negative in orientation. One of the most well-educated men I have met in Mauritania basically said intermarriage between the ethnic groups was abhorrent. He also said, "Cheating on your fiancé with another woman is like deciding to eat couscous instead of rice for lunch. It’s really not a big deal." As you can well imagine, I have since decided to take most of his comments with a grain of salt J On the flip side, my Pulaar friends routinely joke about the sedentary lifestyle of Moors and their bland diet of couscous, meat, and water. They also voice resentment routinely for the Moor’s treatment of them as second class citizens. To the Pulaar’s credit, most Moors usually dismiss such commentary as the disgruntled grumbling of the minority and tell them, in not so many words, to get over it.

As an intermediary with friends on both sides of the divide, I wince a little each time I here these comments. Sometimes, I correct them; sometimes, I’m ashamed to say, I let them slide. Those who make the comments never seem willing to change their mind, but I try every now and then. I sit in the open air market with my Pulaar friends each day, smiling and inviting the frowns of the White Moors walking by. Similarly, last night, a man bluntly told my counterpart’s daughter, whose father is a Black Moor and whose mother is a White Moor, that her darker complexion wasn’t very desirable. She nervously laughed it off, partly because she had already internalized this mentality. I wanted to say, "Lay off, buddy! She’s only 14 years old!" Unfortunately or perhaps fortunately, my narrow Hassiniya limited the diatribe I had in store. I couldn’t say much more than, "In my opinion, she is very beautiful, and men will have to fight for her in a few years time." It’s the truth; they will.

Last night, she also confided in me that she dreams of being a doctor and holding a cabinet-level post in the Mauritanian government. This confession was another sort of rock, but it did not sting me the way the others had. It was a welcome rock that definitely threw me for a loop. Rarely do I hear young girls voice such ambitious aspirations in this country, and in the wake of her announcement, I wanted to hug her and shout, "Il hamdulillah!" (thanks be to God!).

…Upon second thought, I think some of the rocks hurled at us are actually gems in disguise. We just have to dust them off a bit to find their true nature, their real purpose.