Lu et approuvé :: Read And Approved

This is a text written by Aminata Traoré, a malian writer, and translated from french to english for a short film by Kan-si, a Senegalese artist. It is a powerful film entitles Lu et approuvé, featuring an African woman's mouth speaking these english words to us. They are painful words for us to hear, but they are powerful. I'm sharing them with you because not because I want to insite defensiveness, but because I believe they touch on important issues that all of us have to face. Living here, they are at the forefront of my mind daily.

~Jocelyn

"The African continent enters into globalization from below, absorbing the waste that you rich countries would have difficulty recycling if it were not for our own initiative and unpredictable behaviour. In this way, the structure and dynamic of the local urban and rural markets is seriously compromised.

The phenomenon is world wide, I agree. However, I would like to focus on one of the dimension of the open market, presented as being inevitable, that impoverishes, that alienates. If it is so, the expansionist West can expect an ever greater influx of immigrants, people who culturally uprooted due to an irresponsible, mindless globalization process.

In a world order that showed responsibility, and that respected the most basic of human rights, the Ivory Coast would not have to rip itself apart in order to supply the world market with products such as cocoa, coffee and wood, while its own people, mostly young, get poorer every day, and are forced to move , or turn to ethnic or religious contentions and /or violence in various forms.

Equally, Mali, a landlocked country in the Sahel without access to the sea, would not have worked so hard to produce significant quantities of cotton which subsequently it cannot sell because those same economic powers that invite Mali to join the open economy are flooding the market. The people of Mali would need to emigrate in such great numbers to Europe or elsewhere, nor wear our old clothes, not sleep beneath our old blankets, hoping to dream like us.The textile artisans Sénoufos, Peuhl, Bamanan, who are still working in our countryside and still create quality textiles by hand, would not be relegated to Bamako, the capital of Mali, waiting for an improbable visa in order to reach your cities.

The prevailing economic order not only robs us of the riches of our lands, which gives back, but also robs us of our dignity. We enter into the global world imitating you, masking our real selves. That is how your great companies can prosper and win the battle of competition. That is how you balance your budgets and disrupt ours. This outrage, that has gone on too long (Slavery, Berlin conference, Post-colonisation…) prevents the international community from being moved by the plight of Africa .

All the more reason why you have no right to judge our democracies, or tell us how we should make our society democratic. Robbed of the riches of our lands, of our knowledge and of our experience, in the near future our only resort will be to take up arms, just to survive."

-Aminata Traoré

A Tree House Made of Seashells with Princess Beds

The ceilings are a spread of seashells. And the myriad archways are lined with sky-blue mosaic tiles that lead you up stairways, along hallways, and up a ladder to the terrace room that overlooks a mini-paradise: lush gardens and intricate architecture framed by garbage-laden dirt roads and sprawling concrete homes. It is an artist colony, a resort, a tree house made of seashells with princess beds, as Kate put it, thanks to the beautifully draping mosquito nets. A magical locale that exudes tranquility and begets creativity. It is no wonder that the gardens along the pathways are bespeckled with gorgeous contemporary and traditional art pieces all nestled into the scenery; they are proof of its inhabitants’ open minds and hearts.

I spent my weekend here, in company of the fifty or so other students on my program, and partook of batiking and dance classes. A calm city somewhere south of Dakar, Toubab Diallo overlooks the ocean and attracts a certain brand of tourists as a means of supporting the artist colony and the local craftspeople. Of the bookend bus rides on Saturday morning and Sunday afternoon and all that came in between, there is one moment that deserves verbal recreation:

We overlook the ocean, damp from the sweat of dancing and hearts racing with the thrilling thought of racing down the beach and plummeting into the sunset salty waters. And we go, smiles extending farther than the beach itself and cries of excitement turning into song as we twirl and tumble into the water. Crash! Swish! And we’re overtaken by a warm tide and embraced in its tumultuous churning. Coming up, we experience the final wisps of daylight’s pinks and yellows fading into lightning. And the rain comes forth, pelting from behind. Is that rain or sand? It’s hard to say. Is that salty or fresh? We are all wet, so we can hardly tell. On the beach, a beautiful man with short dreads plays kapoera with our friend and we come forth from the water, clapping and dancing, ready to join in the acrobatic martial-arts dance that has already begun. He was our dance teacher and now he is our kapoera companion, but the warmth and crash of the oceans beckons us back as a cool wind whips up. I stand in waves, and waves, and waves; arms raised to the darkness and the flashing, crinkly lightning. My toes pay homage to the magnificent sand and my calves are sustained by live-sustaining waters; and I free-fall back, am caught by a wave, and die happily. --- Who needs words when you have the ocean? Song bursts forth necessarily and the tune has never been heard before –because it is one of the heart, the senses, the cheeks, the eyes. These are the moments that one lives for. I give it to you with all my heart. May the sounds or rolling water imbue you with an urge to dance melodiously.

Peace and love,

Jocelyn


Sept 27, 2009

WalfTV and Freedom of Speech

The Chariots of Fire theme song comes on the television, but this time its not images of a triumphant final race. Rather, its images of aggressors; pending violence. I had heard about it on the car rapide. I rode past an unusually large crowd along a public street, so I turned to the middle-aged and traditionally robed man beside me to inquire. It’s a TV/Radio station, he tells me. The journalists broadcasted something that “the youth” didn’t like, so they attacked the station. I peer over the heads of the grand crowd, imagining the wrecked computers and gashed faces that his explanations describe. And now I sit in the living room, peering at this curious sequence of images; youths standing in mid-motion, odd angles, the blatant middle fingers. WalfTV wants to make sure everyone knows what has happened to its journalists, to its facilities, and to their freedom of speech.

The controversy concerns local marabout, or religious leader, Serigne Aboo Sall whose brother shared some negative information about him with WalfTV (or Walfadjri). Serigne Aboo Sall then blamed the station for this blotch on his record, claiming that they invented the entire story about his corruption in the government, and so, he sent his disciples to attack the station. The brand of Islam in Senegal is unique, as it is in any other locale. The Sufi Islam here has formed an mélange with local traditions, creating a syncretism of animist and ‘fetishist’ beliefs and the Qua’ran that allows for a very flexible approach to Islamic Shari‘a law. More importantly for us, the Sufi tradition allows for multiple brotherhoods –such as the Maurides and the Tidjaan who are the most powerful and prevalent brotherhoods respectively- and a myriad of religious leaders, here called marabouts, within each of those. These marabouts are incredibly important to Senegalese culture, its history, and its contemporary political scene. Aside from being important spiritually, they also have a hand in directing political activity, as we see here. All that this defamed marabout had to do was say the word and his disciples took actions against the journalists. Uncovering the truth about governmental corruption associated with Serigne Aboo Sall wrought havoc on the lives and work of these journalists. To sum it up in one word: censorship. They are being silenced by this marabout through his disciples, and “the authorities” have no way of implementing retribution. The politicians and the police know who has the real power, and they’re not about to put at stake what little they have in order to punish these attackers.

Frankly, the politicians, and especially their darling President Wade, are carrying out their own implicit censorship. Theirs is a façade of democracy. When the president changes the constitution to extend his second term from five to seven years and then announces his intent to run for a third time in 2012, which is unconstitutional, you know there’s a real problem. Besides which, shouldn’t the president be taking care of his country when in it is in the worst period of power outages and flooding that it has seen in the last four years instead of off gallivanting through Europe on vacation? The people here are angry.

This country does value their freedom of speech and they recognize that it is being threatened. Thus, the people flooded the TV station in support the moment the news of the aggressors was spread. They are speaking out against the violence, showing their support for the news station that is always the first to tell them the most important news, always the one to criticize the government in spite of its intimidation tactics. The people love Walfadjri and weren’t about to stand by and see it harmed so. Thus the images on the TV; the only way for this station to stand up for itself and the freedom of speech that it stands for is by broadcasting how they have been wronged, to show the faces of the aggressors and let the general public recognize them and react to them on the streets in light of what they’ve done. If the government cannot punish this violence then it must be done through the people –because social relations are everything here and shame is a powerful tool. Power to the people. If only the government could match their valor. This is a country worthy of stability and flourishing.

Peace and love,

Jocelyn

A final note: When I asked, my host cousin Assane explained to me that the Chariots of Fire tune was also played when WalfTV first broke the news about 9/11. We may associate this song with awe-inspiring triumph, but here, it indicates a breathtaking tragedy.

The Tea and Coffee Pic Post

Here is Sadio steeping café touba. Delicious stuff, I might add.

Here is how much sugar they put into the ataya tea. Mind you, this is only the preliminary sugar for the tea kettle. Each single cup receives its own added third of a cup that recuires the tea and sugar to be poured between two cups repeatedly in order to mix it perfectly and get it frothy.

Here is the tea and sugar mixing that I just described. It is an almost ritualistic process.

Here I am making some ataya tea. :-)

Roadside Tea pics (and a lizard!!!)

Andy and me. This picture doesn't do Andy justice, btw.

Sadio and me. He is our tea and wolof professor! A very nice man.

This is the chair that Andy used. Makeshift brilliance, in my opinion!

And, as a side note, a fabulously tiny lizard that I found in my room the other day!

Junior's B-Day Pics

Junior's birthday cake. :-)

Britta, the other exchange student in our home, and myself. She is an absolute sweetheart -and its nice to have someone to make a quick English quip to over dinner every once in a while. Mostly we speak french to one another, but she's from Minnesota.

In the center looking towards the camera is my host sister Melanie who is so friendly and makes me feel welcome. I suspect she'll be the one to help me the most with my Wolof.

"Happy Birthday" was sung 3 times: first in French, then in English, and finally in Wolof. It was lovely! On the far left is my host brother Lou-Lou, although I'll have to get a better picture of him later.

Everything! (And Maids)

ONE HECK OF A WEEK: Lets hear about tea, turtles, and parties!

I sit scrubbing two rainbow colored socks between by hands over a bucket of soapy water and think back over the week; it has certainly been eventful...

On Monday I split a cab with Andy and Lauren to go visit an English learning center downtown where we spoke with various classes about anything and everything and helped them with their English.

Tuesday we celebrated Junior’s birthday, even though the little two-year-old was asleep for the last half of his own get-together. This event, I was assured later, was in no way an actual party, seeing as how that would have involved music and dozens of guests, rather than the ten or so friends who spontaneously stopped by.

Wednesday brought mine and Andy’s roadside tea date with local vendor and informal Wolof professor Sadio. It is an art to correctly steep, sugarize, and mix the ataya tea that people love ever-so-much here, but Andy and I are learning. However, next time I’m going to sanitize the cups myself because the residual stomach ache from our last rendezvous is not to be repeated.

Thursday was an epic day because I managed to flood both mine and my cousin Assane’s rooms. Let me just say that if I’d known that I’d be spending two hours sopping up water and wringing it out of a towel into a bucket that night, I wouldn’t have gone to the gym in the morning! Whewee! A full body workout for sure! Note to self: never turn the tap on in the bathroom and then leave to unlock your door with the intention of returning and turning it off when the bucket is full. Bad, bad, bad idea. Once again, maids to the rescue! After nearly two hours of work and seven buckets of water, our maid Mare took pity on me and helped me finish the second room. I swear, she did what had taken me two hours in twenty minutes. This is something to be admired: the work ethic of the gods.

But onwards to Friday –and let us not dwell on the soreness that persisted throughout thanks to the hardcore workout class combined with the even more hardcore towel-wringing from the night before- when we ventured to the fabric market HLM to purchase some gorgeous materials to have a tailor form into outfits for the end of Ramadan festivities coming up this weekend.

Saturday was the day we made our way out into the boondocks to check out the turtle refuge and that night was the Catholic Choir Soiree where only we Americans showed up at the appointed starting hour -9:00pm. Everyone else filtered in over the following two hours and the music didn’t even start until 11pm. Apparently we forwent the whole party because we left at 1am when the music ended and the dancing was only just getting started. My host mom didn’t get home until, get this, 8:30am!!! ---This is not at all unusual. ---I think the next time I plan to go out to a party or dance venue, I’ll have to prepare myself for a few days by sleeping in. Otherwise, I’ll be asleep before anyone even arrives!

You can imagine that, after this zany week packed with adventures, my Sunday would be a day of repose, and you’d be right; I did virtually nothing on Sunday and stayed at home in bliss.

Fun plans for the rest of this week: check out a documentary at the cultural center, have a climbing play date at a park jungle gym with my fellow climber-in-withdrawal Megan, go surfing, and enjoy the end-of-Ramadan festivities. :-) You just can’t complain when life is good!

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GRATITUDE

Sweat intermingles with rain as I make my way back home from the gym, thinking how ironic it is that I just finished taking a shower and am already drenched once more. Entering my home, our maid Mare is in the courtyard putting out buckets to catch the rainwater that pours down from the terrace rainspouts. These hefty washtubs are full within a minute, spattering water across the tan cement and down a drain; we now have all we need for doing laundry over the next few days. Laundry is a full day’s worth of scrubbing and a second day of drying and ironing, which turns into a third day of drying if it rains. Never am I more grateful for our maids than when they return that pristine stack of clothing to my door and I think of how long I toiled just to wash out some measly socks and bras. They are, indeed, amazing.

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Hugs and love to everyone -especially Oma, Mom, and Uncle Mike. Thank you so much for sharing my blog with GG Jerry before he passed away. That means a lot to me.

Love,

Jocelyn

Host Family Pictures

This is Jayna, my sister-in-law and the wife of Lou-Lou (the brother who likes to mess with me and joke around), with her son Gi-Gi (or Junior). Gi-Gi is the assertive one of the two toddlers in the house. There's a lot more noise when he's around! Jayna is due in a month, but people don't really talk about pregnancy here because it is associated with bad spirits who, if overhearing, could curse the child and mother. So, I actually didn't ask when she was due. The other student unwittingly asked and received a somewhat surprised response.

This is my host mother, my host "cousin" Assane who is my best bud, and me. Assane is the muslim of the household.

Me and my host mom.

A Day In the Life \\ CULTURE SHOCK

The watch beeps at 7am to tell me its time for Jocelyn’s private yoga, crunches, pushups, and dancing extravaganza, soon to be followed by a short shower that would be more appropriate to call a short drizzle. The washing of underwear occurs at this time since each person is responsible for her own socks, bras, and underwear. After my brief but refreshing rendez vous with the cold water and detergent, I dress myself and head down to a breakfast of baguette, with butter or chocolate spread, and milk. I could have hot chocolate or nescafé, but I prefer the powderized, boiled milk that, if served to me hot, leaves me drenched in sweat before I even leave the house. I could do without that sweat.

The walk to school is 20 minutes along dusty, exhaust ridden roads lined by locals who I make sure to greet kindly. Greetings are incredibly important here, although I’m still trying to negotiate who exactly I aught to be taking the time to exchange the customary, lengthy, Wolof greeting with. It’s good and fine to make friends and be culturally sensitive, but being a tubab (foreigner), I attract a lot of (unwanted) attention. We all do. The number of times that I have been offered or requested a phone number is countless and one marriage proposal is already in the bank. Oh, that romantic day in front of the gass station when that tall, dark, and …I didn’t get a good enough look at him to know whether he was handsome… man called from beside the gas pump, “Hey, tubab! You beautiful! Will you marry me?” To this mix of English and French I deftly repied, “Oh, I’m already married! Buh’bye!” …Good times.

Having passed the fruit stands and multiple vendors, I arrive at Suffolk University Campus where I have a class or two in the morning taught by Senegalese professors before I head back home for lunch at 1:30pm. My host brother, Lou-Lou, comes home from work at the bank on his spiffy motorcycle and joins the rest of us in eating the largest meal of the day. It is heavy, oil-laden food that is absolutely delicious. Rice and fish is the norm but French fries are a popular rice-replacement and vegetables are usually provided. If everyone else is having meat then they still provide me with fish, pescatarian that I am. We eat in the living room alongside the active TV, either eating around a communal bowl with the use of forks and fingers or on plates over our laps. I’m incredibly grateful for the allowance of right-hand usage in the fish-eating business because picking out all those little bones with a fork is nigh impossible. Oh, and the fish comes whole –head and tail included.

Back to school I go, taking advantage of the wireless to post blog entries and the like, and I finish up my classes for the day. I’m taking Wolof, Advanced French II, Senegalese Culture and Society, The History of Islam, and a community internship course. For my internship, I’m co-leading a student-founded ONG working to provide tutoring and various activities to local girls as a means of furthering women’s education. Classes accomplished, I hang out with other American students, do homework on campus, or return home to hang with my family in the living room. The Wolof flies right over my head so I sit and listen, wishing I knew what was going on and keeping a lookout for the few words I do know. When they occasionally revert to French, my ears perk up. Dinner is at 8:30pm and it is followed by fruit for dessert –usually mangoes from heaven or watermelon. I usually go to bed right after dinner, but everyone else stays up a bit.

By this time, several planes on their way to the nearby airport will have coasted over the house so close that I almost want to plug my ears and the power will have been down for more than fifty percent of the day –on and off. Apparently this is a new phenomenon over the last three years that is a politically hot topic; the Dakar people are enraged at their President, Abdoulaye Wade, because the power outages are indicative of his failure to maintain a stable country. He was the opposition in the 2001 election, the Obama of Senegal, lighting up national hope that politicians would actually work for the good of the people instead of maintaining a façade of democracy in order to rule for twenty-year swaths of time without doing a thing, like the previous two presidents. Unfortunately, Wade did not live up to his promises, and since his election the price of food has skyrocketed and the quality of education has plummeted. People are angry, but he was reelected anyhow. You might compare this to Bush being reelected; we’re not really sure how it happened, but what can ya do? (I send out my apology to all American Republicans at this point in my post! :-D I come in peace!)

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CULTURE SHOCK

Being in a new culture is not always a breeze. Granted, I let my blog present my positive mental incline, laughing at myself and focusing on the good stuff, but sometimes I loose that ability to laugh at myself –and I cry. See, it is so critical to keep perspective and recognize the cultural differences constantly because, if you loose sight of that and try to copy/paste your own cultural presumptions onto a situation then you are doomed to conflict and misunderstanding. Easier said than done. This means that every time my host mother speaks to me, I must keep in mind that what might sounds like yelling and chastising in the US is actually suggesting and encouraging here. So, when a family friend compares me to previous American students here and says that they assimilated far better than I because they actually went out and partied like the Senegalese as opposed to being quiet in living room conversations like me, I need to keep in mind that he’s only trying to encourage me to “do as the Senegalese do.” Even as I recognize intellectually what is going on, my gut reaction is one of distress. Even if I know they mean well, I tense up. It’s a constant learning process: making mistakes, not understanding, letting go, correcting, forgetting, remembering, asking, listening, and watching. I have to navigate carefully through the busy market place in Marché Sandaga, guarding my belongings, fielding people left and right who are trying to sell me their wares or be my guide or both. Knowing who has good intentions and who just wants to earn a few francs is nearly impossible and staying on the cautious side inevitably leads to slightly offending some well-meaning people. A few off encounters in the market combined with a few misunderstandings or assumptions at home is plenty of stress for one day. This, my friends, is culture shock.

The Terrace at 7:23pm

The call to prayer sounds over the surrounding buildings, drifting from this mosque, and then that, and then another, fading one into the other and singing at once. A cool breeze smelling of rain, cars, and food: spices, frying fish, happily eating people. The flit of birds, their warbling call. The warbling chant of the prayer. Colorful mosaic of broken tile spreading forth and fading into dusk, the clatter of silverware and dishes from afar. -- They are breaking fast. -- A fading orange sky and heavy rain clouds hang above distant barking and immediate bleating. The prayers fade as well, and the flapping laundry, once bright orange and green, looks grey. Afternoon sweat clings coolly in the evening, and one more day of Ramadan has passed from hunger into contentedness.

-9/5