Disclaimer: I am by no means an expert on Ramadan or Eid, and this is simply a brief account of my experience of Ramadan and Eid in my village. I am working on a more detailed post about my perception of religion in my village, which will go into more detail about the religion itself.
If you think teenage girls in the States are the best at peer pressure or Jewish mothers are the best at making one feel guilty, you’ve clearly never been to Senegal (and I would guess many other predominantly Muslim countries) during Ramadan.
You know those greetings I’ve mentioned so many times? During the month of Ramadan, “Ano hoddi?” gets added. It means, “Are you fasting?” Inconveniently, it also sounds just like, “Ano hotti?” which means, “Are you going home?”
The month of Ramadan is decided by the moon. On a calendar, it is marked as starting on a specific day (which matches up with the lunar calendar), but here, it completely depends on when the moon is seen—which means that villages can start and end Ramadan on different days, due simply to weather or who’s paying attention that night. It’s all very confusing. When it began this year, everyone was excited and happy for this holy month. This excitement decreased quickly. From sun-up to sunset, you cannot eat or drink, and yet you must work in the fields and mind your children. The women do get one break: they do not cook lunch. Instead, the oldest girl of the household who is not yet fasting cooks for the children (and the toubabs, like me). Everyone naps for hours each afternoon. Around 7:30PM, the fast is broken with bread and coffee or tea. Some nights, our bread was slightly stale and from my host father’s boutique, but on the best nights, it was fresh and warm, made in the mud oven on the other side of the village. After this, moni is usually served. Moni is a warm porridge with balls of crushed millet. Made right, it’s delicious and drunk with what looks like a giant measuring spoon. There’s usually (though not always) dinner a little after that. People who are fasting also get up at 4AM for another meal and to drink lots of water so they can last about 14 hours until their next meal.
Madia, my host sister-in-law, with bread and a bowl of coffee for breaking the fast.
I did not fast. I wanted to try for a few days, and really just didn’t get around to it. People asked me daily, and were amazed when I said no. They asked me why. I thought the answer would be obvious—I am not Muslim, and they know this. It seems many people in my village are under the impression that Christians also fast. I corrected them on that idea of Christians fasting, but allow them to believe I’m Christian; the alternative would be far too complicated, and would likely risk my integration in my village. When I explain that very few people in American fast, they become very confused. As much as we would like to think that everyone knows what life in America is like, they do not. They hear that there is money and nice things, but they have no actual concept of it. Sometimes, I feel like I’m in the same boat…
In theory, pregnant women are not supposed to fast. In practice, many of them do anyway. Reasons include lack of knowledge and social pressure. If a woman does not fast during the usual month of Ramadan due to pregnancy, she is supposed to fast at some other point during the next year, and fasting alone seems too difficult. I spent much of the month at my health post, sitting in on consultations. Pregnancy women receive high-dosage malaria prophylaxis at two visits, along with other supplements. It was very frustrating to see six- and seven-month pregnant women refusing to take their pills with a sip of water, especially when I know they have probably walked several kilometers in the heat just to get to the appointment. Occasionally, someone at the post would say that the Koran does not require that pregnant women fast, but most women say nothing to this, and continue to fast.
At the end of this month is Eid Mubarek. Here, we call it Korite. In Pulaar, they actually call it julde, but this is very confusing, as this word also means to pray, so I’ve borrowed the Wolof word, which to me sounds French.
For Korite, the most important thing is how you look (or so it seems). For days beforehand, all the women gather and braid each other’s hair. Everyone gets new complets and shoes.
Siren is not a member of my family. We borrowed her for Ramadan from another village to help with cooking and housework. She is about 10.
You don’t know exactly when the holiday will occur until the night before, when someone sees the moon (I think, although I didn’t see it.) The following morning, my family killed a goat, as did most other families in my village. All the women dress up in their new complets and put on colorful make-up and glitter. The children get scrubbed and are stuffed in their own new outfits. Then, my entire village gathered beneath the baobob trees to pray together. My host father indicated that I could take pictures, which I took great advantage of. The village is so small and the trees so big that the contrast was amazing. A group of people praying together beneath huge trees in a rural village in a very modern world. My spiritual views do not at all match those of the people I am surrounded by everyday, but it is difficult to miss the beauty of that moment.
Eventually, I sat down in the middle of the group with my namesake and my host family. In the beginning, it was simply one man at the front offering a prayer, but suddenly, everyone stood up and began the typical Muslim prayer. You cannot walk in front of someone who is praying, so I was stuck, frozen in the middle of a praying village. My hair was partially covered by my tikka (a head wrap matching my complet), but the woman behind me threw a scarf at me anyway to cover the rest. I mostly crouched and avoided looking at anything but the ground until it was over; I have no idea if this was the exact right thing to do, but it was the best I could do at the time. I felt praying would be either insulting or would indicate that I was Muslim, which I am not.
After these prayers, the celebratory mood begins again. Some of the women begin cooking, while the older women (and myself) go from house to house greeting everyone. This is a stressful process. Added to the greetings are a series of prayers, to which you must “Amin, Amin,” rather than just “Jam tan.” Differentiating between the various phrases is difficult when they’re being said quietly and by more than one person at the same time.
Back in my compound, in my hut, people began coming by to greet me. In the beginning, there were women included in this, but as the lunch hour got closer, the age of my greeters decreased significantly. Reason? I had candy. Suddenly, dozens of children were trying to push into my hut for candy.
Halloween, anyone?
Just like children anywhere, they lie about who has received candy and how much. When they began to get aggressive, I put away the candy, led them away from my hut, and spoke in bad Pulaar with them, trying to joke around. My family found all this hysterically funny. Even after lunch, this pattern continued. Finally, I decided to give the rest of the candy to the people in my compound, and then there was no more candy and all the kids tried to tell me how sad they were, and it didn’t work, as they’d all been to my hut and gotten candy several times.
And then there’s the food.
The thing is, I love goat. Somewhere in the world, there is a fantastic photo of me eating goat on a beach under the stars in Kenya. My face is similar to the one I pulled after eating ice cream for the first time in 3 months earlier this week.
Correction: I like goat meat. Not stomach or liver or heart or intestines. Not skin.
But in Senegal, these are the parts that are considered the best, and therefore what I was encouraged to eat.
Moolie the handsome cat ate really, really well that day.
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