"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.
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