Easter in Senegal

Saturday morning I hopped in the car with Sarah, and her two boys and headed out to Linguère, a Pulaar town in the middle of Senegal, to spend Easter with the Lutheran missionaries. Once we got there, Dirk, asked me if I wanted to go with them to wrangle up two sheep for Easter brunch the next day. So, I jumped into the back of his truck with his four-year old daughter, Eva, and Souleye, a member of the church who owned the heard. We drove out into the field, running into people on the way, yelling greetings out the window until we made it to the shepherd boys with his heard. We got out and looked at the sheep for a while and began to negotiate which ones the church should purchase. We ended up picking two black sheep because they are half the price of white sheep because they are ‘blemished’ and therefore less sacred. On the way back, Souleye pointed out two little boys wearing all white. He explained that they had just been circumcised. Dirk asked about female circumcision in Linguère since it is often common in Pulaar communities (regardless of the fact that it is illegal in Senegal). Thankfully, Souleye told us that people in Linguère did not practice that and frankly he was taken aback that anyone actually did. I had read that things like that take place in parts of Africa but never thought I would find myself in a country that had populations practicing it. It was very reassuring to know that there is an active movement against it.

That night we had Easter dinner just with the American families. We had pork, chicken, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, all things I haven’t had in months. It was like I had been dropped back home for a night! The next morning on Easter we headed to the church for the Easter service. It was held on mats outside under a tin roof covering and walls around the yard. There were only 30-35 people so it was incredibly intimate. The hymns were so lively and having the service in French and Pull was so nice and such a change from the Easter I was used to. After the service, the women finished cooking the lunch and we all gathered in small clusters on the ground to share the meal as a parish. It was kind of like the Easter breakfast that the men cook at St. Philip. Again, I am thousands of miles away and still felt right at home.

I ended up speaking with a man named Malik after lunch. He comes from a very prominent Muslim family and grew up practicing Islam. When he turned 18 he moved to Lybia to study and experienced heavy racism. Apparently, Arab Muslims often do not consider many black Muslims to be true Muslims. Over the course of several years, Malik came to the conclusion that he could not practice Islam if people treated other Muslims like this so he became atheist. Two years later a close friend from work introduced him to a church. He attended out of curiosity and after a year of reflection and prayer, Malik became a Christian. He told me stories of the difficulty he had being Christian in such a dominantly Muslim country. They had to keep their church secret and underground at all times and even some of his friends had been arrested just for being Christian. Talk about die-hard commitment. Now he has moved back to Senegal and married a Christian woman here, despite his parents’ disapproval, and works to translate the Bible into Pull. I really admired his perseverance and the humble way he shared his story with me. It was if none of his pain or troubles mattered at all because now he has found God.

I have always been a little weary of the idea of missionary presence in other countries but I found out that the ELCA (Evangelical Lutheran Church of America) does not send missionaries to any random country. They only go if the host church contacts them and asks for support in some capacity. The ELCA even funds several positions in Linguère for public health and development work. Pretty neat position, maybe someday… :)

Books are the Answer

The last three weeks in Senegal have gone by in a blur. We left for our journey to our village stay hurriedly in a goofy touristy bus – all 26 of us! We stopped on the way to visit the pink lake, which was actually pink because of the specific type of salt hidden at the bottom of the lake. Over the years the lake has become less pink due to the salt extraction business picking up over the last several decades. This trip has made it more apparent than ever how nature is altered by human presence, there is definitely a problem with trash here – people just let it “go into the wind.”

We stopped in Theis on the way out to our village stay in Keur sa Daro (7 km outside of Theis) to have lunch and then meet our home stay families. We were greeted with a huge group of mainly women and children drumming, dancing and excited to see us. My name was first on the list so I left with my home stay mom, Fatou, right away. It was a totally interesting cultural experience because it turns out, not anyone in my family spoke French, only Wolof! I had only had two classes in Wolof and learned primarily just the introductory phrases so as you can imagine, it was a very funny four days.

In the morning on the second day I woke up and decided to go for a run after breakfast. I put on my running clothes and came outside to find Fatou at the well with all of the other women in my small quartier which consisted of about six other houses. I gathered up all of my courage to approach her to explain that I was going for a run (meaning I motioned with my arms vigorously while hopefully saying it in French.) She looked very pensively at me for a while until finally I just took off running – a roar of laughter followed. It must have been so funny having their crazy toubab (white person) guest just take off running. On my run I acquired little kids following me, some even were on their way to school and decided to take a little detour. They never said a word, just laughed and joined in. By the end of my short 30 minute run I had accumulated about 12-14 children! Quite a crowd, seemed a lot like the running scene in Forest Gump.

I realized the next day what the strange life of being illiterate must be like. I never realized how much I read and wrote every day, lists, signs, maps etc. This time I just wanted to learn a few wolof words and tried to write them down on paper to read and remember them. I asked my home stay mom and brother to help me with the spelling and they asked me to wait. Moments later a twelve year old girl came running to help me spell, turns out my family didn’t know how to read or write at all. This little girl was the only one in the quartier (neighborhood) that could read or write. Some people could write their name in Arabic or sound out some Arabic letters but not easily. My little brother used to go to school but he broke his leg so he is not able to get there, my little sister goes to school but only brings a little chalkboard to write on. I don’t think that they can afford books, notebooks, pens or paper so the only things that learn in school is by memorization. I have never been so thankful for books.