Friday afternoon was a special day in my village- a celebration for the homecoming of a man who had made the Haj to Mecca, Saudi Arabia. While I couldn't understand most of what was said at the gathering, I watched with curious eyes as a very touching moment unfolded. All the men of the village were seated fon mats in the man's courtyard. I walked in to fifty pairs of eyes following each step I took as I approached Adama, my village host father and the village chief and imam.
I sat with him in the circle of elders he was surrounded by, all dressed in beautiful kaftans, many of them passing prayer bead after prayer bead through their hands as they listened closely to the man describe his journey. While he went over the time it took to get there, how the city looked, and how all kinds of Muslims from across the globe were there, the men affirmed his details with collective murmurs of Mmhhmm. He commanded great attention while he spoke. After giving the details of the journey he began to thank the people that made his Haj possible, starting with his father. The man began to cry, thanking his father for teaching him to be a good Muslim, for helping him get an education and a good job to have the money to go. His father sat stone faced, weeping as well. Almost all of the men around me were glassy eyed.
After thanking everyone, the man was finished and Adama led the group in a prayer. Everyone sat with their palms open toward the sky and repeated his prayer. I held my hands open and couldn't help but thinking that I would never have experienced a day like this as a simple tourist or traveller.
After prayer attaya was served for everyone and suddenly the conversation shifted to me. Before I had gotten my first cup of tea I was being grilled by Adama's friends about wheterh I know how to make attaya, if I was Muslim, if I had a wife, since I didn't have a wife did I want a Senegalese wife?
I did my best to respond to each question and with a little help from Adama had the group smiling over my description of how many wives he has, what their names are, and how, if you add my host mother in Thies, my host mother mother from Paris, my mom and my stepmom, I actually have 7 mothers. The group really liked this and with nods of approval the conversation returned to the man who had gone to Mecca.
I sat with him in the circle of elders he was surrounded by, all dressed in beautiful kaftans, many of them passing prayer bead after prayer bead through their hands as they listened closely to the man describe his journey. While he went over the time it took to get there, how the city looked, and how all kinds of Muslims from across the globe were there, the men affirmed his details with collective murmurs of Mmhhmm. He commanded great attention while he spoke. After giving the details of the journey he began to thank the people that made his Haj possible, starting with his father. The man began to cry, thanking his father for teaching him to be a good Muslim, for helping him get an education and a good job to have the money to go. His father sat stone faced, weeping as well. Almost all of the men around me were glassy eyed.
After thanking everyone, the man was finished and Adama led the group in a prayer. Everyone sat with their palms open toward the sky and repeated his prayer. I held my hands open and couldn't help but thinking that I would never have experienced a day like this as a simple tourist or traveller.
After prayer attaya was served for everyone and suddenly the conversation shifted to me. Before I had gotten my first cup of tea I was being grilled by Adama's friends about wheterh I know how to make attaya, if I was Muslim, if I had a wife, since I didn't have a wife did I want a Senegalese wife?
I did my best to respond to each question and with a little help from Adama had the group smiling over my description of how many wives he has, what their names are, and how, if you add my host mother in Thies, my host mother mother from Paris, my mom and my stepmom, I actually have 7 mothers. The group really liked this and with nods of approval the conversation returned to the man who had gone to Mecca.
posted by Nat Parker | 6:11 AM
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