Barkissa.
We used to dance. I would take the whining infant from her siblings and we would move ever so gently on my porch. A slow dance. Most of the time it was more fun for me and the other kids than for her. She didn’t want to dance, she was waiting for her porridge to finish so she could eat. Once, I found her mesmerized by the baby chicks following their mother. I brought her over to where they were for a better glimpse. I tried my best to describe the situation to her in French, a language she would not learn for at least another 8 years. She visited me almost every night. The kids would bring her over and we would stare at each other. I wondered what she thought of me. If she realized my skin color wasn’t the same as her family’s. If she would one day refer to me as “Nasara” too. If she would even remember me after I left.
Barkissa.
I worked with her mother to make enriched porridges so she would maintain a healthy weight and good health. I wanted her to be a success, not only because she was my “sister” but because she deserved it. Every child deserves the best opportunity at life.
Barkissa.
Her mother went to the health center again. I could not understand what was going on. This was her fourth time within the last 2 months, second time this week. I made some of the porridge for my lunch and brought a bowl full to her. “She’s not eating,” her mother said. “Little by little.” I said. I brought tit up to my counterpart, the health center’s nurse, that my “sister” was here and she was sick. I wanted to ensure she was well taken care of.
Barkissa.
We all sent under my hanger on Thursday. It was hot and we were too tired to really do anything else. I occasionally would look up at the baby in her mother’s arms- blinking too long, moving too slowly. “Have you tried this?… Ask her about the porridge….Has she taken the medicine 3 times a day and the other twice?” The response was always “Yes.” I texted my PC friends for advice. “I’m worried…” They responded with the same advice I already knew. I had plans for the next day. If she isn’t better by tomorrow, we are going to try this…
Barkissa.
Knock, knock, knock. I check the time on my cell phone. 3:58am. The voice of my “father”, her father, echoes into the house. “Karla, we have lost the child.” “Oh NOOOO!” I yelp. We, my other “sister” and I quickly get dressed and head to Barkissa’s mother’s home. There, there is already 20 women, heads wrapped in scarves sitting in the courtyard under the moonlit sky. I enter the house where I find Barkissa’s mother, surrounded by women, holding the fabric wrapped body of the child. I cry.
Barkissa.
I cry three times. I cry in shame and guilt. What could I have done to save her? Maybe done more enriched porridges. What if I went with her to the health center each time? Maybe if I hadn’t…. No maybe if he had. It was the nurse’s fault. Why didn’t he see how sick she was? Why didn’t he think to put her on an IV, like he does everyone else? No, it was her mom’s fault. She was in charge of making sure her child was in good health. Maybe she waited too long…
“Karla, the blame game is a torturous thing…” my wise friend said. It’s true. There is no one to blame. We did all we could. It was her time.
Barkissa. 3:13AM, October 3rd, 2009. Rest in peace.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Within only 8 months…
October 3rd, 2009. 4:30pm.
“Karla, come see… girl…”
That was all of her Bissa I understood. I got up after laying all day mourning the death of my host sister. I followed her to “the house.” Oh wait, what’s going on? Why are we going to ‘”the house”? “The house” is the place where dying individuals are placed because if they die in the home, no one can stay in the compound.
I entered the house to find about seven elderly women sitting. And the “girl” lying covered by a cover. The “girl” was a 30 year old widow. She had been diagnosed with HIV in February. She refused to believe the doctors. She refused to fill the prescriptions for medicine. She refused life. So last week, she was placed in “the house”. And this week, Friday, she had passed.
I don’t know her reasons for not believing she had HIV and later AIDS. Maybe she thought it had “a look”. Or her symptoms weren’t what she expected the disease to possess. But she didn’t want to think it was her. And her grandmother didn’t want to believe it either. But it was only the two of them. Everyone else, including her mentally ill mother, urged her to take the meds. They knew it could save her life. There is a woman in our village living with AIDS. There is a man from a neighboring village with HIV doing so well, people think he has been cured. (This untruth will have to be discussed). But people are not ignorant about it. They know. They told her. But admitting it to yourself that you have a deadly disease is not as easy.
So I visited her. I was one of the first to see her deceased. I wasn’t expecting it. Her younger sister entered sobbing . I left. Two deaths in one day is a lot. Another blame game to be ignored. Time is too precious to waste it pointing fingers.
“Karla, come see… girl…”
That was all of her Bissa I understood. I got up after laying all day mourning the death of my host sister. I followed her to “the house.” Oh wait, what’s going on? Why are we going to ‘”the house”? “The house” is the place where dying individuals are placed because if they die in the home, no one can stay in the compound.
I entered the house to find about seven elderly women sitting. And the “girl” lying covered by a cover. The “girl” was a 30 year old widow. She had been diagnosed with HIV in February. She refused to believe the doctors. She refused to fill the prescriptions for medicine. She refused life. So last week, she was placed in “the house”. And this week, Friday, she had passed.
I don’t know her reasons for not believing she had HIV and later AIDS. Maybe she thought it had “a look”. Or her symptoms weren’t what she expected the disease to possess. But she didn’t want to think it was her. And her grandmother didn’t want to believe it either. But it was only the two of them. Everyone else, including her mentally ill mother, urged her to take the meds. They knew it could save her life. There is a woman in our village living with AIDS. There is a man from a neighboring village with HIV doing so well, people think he has been cured. (This untruth will have to be discussed). But people are not ignorant about it. They know. They told her. But admitting it to yourself that you have a deadly disease is not as easy.
So I visited her. I was one of the first to see her deceased. I wasn’t expecting it. Her younger sister entered sobbing . I left. Two deaths in one day is a lot. Another blame game to be ignored. Time is too precious to waste it pointing fingers.
The Fast for Ramadan
“Lo Kossou lo”
“Aye”
“You are not fasting. You should fast. You can start by doing one day until noon. And then the next day try until 3pm. And then…”
“Yes but I lost too much weight already. And my doctor said I have to gain weight for my health.”
“If you are heavier, that doesn’t mean you are healthier…”
“I know but…” I rethought my decision to argue with the chief of the village.
“You should really consider it… Okay well you can do it another time. I do it other times during the year.”
“Yes. I’ll do it another time, thank you.”
***
“Can I have two bags of water?”
“You are not fasting?”
“No I’m not.”
“Why?”
“Well I already lost a lot of weight and…”
“You don’t fast to lose weight.”
“I know but…”
“I thought you were going to say you are Christian.”
“I am Christian.”
“Well then…”
“I was going to participate in the fast because everyone in my community is Muslim and…”
“So you are Muslim here?”
“No I was just going to do it in support, out of respect.”
“So you are Muslim here but when you go home you are Christian?”
“No I’m Christian now!”
Ugh. Nevermind Madame.
***
“How’s the fast?”
“I’m not fasting.”
“What? Why not?”
“I already lost too much weight.”
“The fast is not about weight loss.”
“I know but…”
“God will provide for you. When you fast, God makes up for what you lack.”
“I know. I know.”
“So you are going to fast?”
“No my doctor said I have to gain weight.”
“Okay, okay.”
***
Clearly my reason for not fasting does not make sense to people. And honestly it really doesn’t. I’ve never lost weight in any of my previous fast (but I also ate enough for a feast at the end of the day). But I’ve already lost over 20lbs and this was during a period when I could eat whatever I wanted to, whenever I wanted to so I think I should abstain from the fast. I am not in the health to be able to fast sunrise to sunset without food or water. Maybe next year.
***
Since the fast commenced, there are more calls to prayer. In a world where there are no microwaves and most women do not have cell phones for alarm clocks, the “grand muslim men” (what we call them in French) make 2 extra calls to wake them up.
3AM! The call tells women to wake up to start preparing the meal. Pots start banging, dishes are washed and fires are started.
4AM! The call tells the family to wake up to eat. Doors are opened. Conversations start, as most families eat their favorite dish- tou.
5AM! The normal call to prayer. All food is put away and all those fasting go to the mosque to pray. During the fast, there are 17 rak'a of prayer as opposed to the typical 10.
***
“Oh Karla the market is full of people.”
“Really?”
“Yes during the fast you can get anything at night at the market. Massa, Sankare, Bissap, soup, rice… it’s all there.”
Most people break the fast with porridge because they say it is easier on the stomach. For many families, this is all they prepare to eat. Those that can afford it, go to the market and buy the prepared food there. This is the opposite of how I imagined we would break the fast- with a hardy meal. My friend who was in Ghana during last year’s fast said every night was a feast. I guess our feast can be bought at the market.
***
Your faith is not something you practice alone, it is community practice. Here 99% of my community is muslim and all that can do fast. We ask how the fast is going. We chant songs to God to give us strength. We break fast together. Even those I’ve never seen enter a mosque are fasting. “Are you fasting?” “Karla, it’s an obligation.” I respect their faith. I respect their sacrifice.
For more information about Ramadan, click here.
“Aye”
“You are not fasting. You should fast. You can start by doing one day until noon. And then the next day try until 3pm. And then…”
“Yes but I lost too much weight already. And my doctor said I have to gain weight for my health.”
“If you are heavier, that doesn’t mean you are healthier…”
“I know but…” I rethought my decision to argue with the chief of the village.
“You should really consider it… Okay well you can do it another time. I do it other times during the year.”
“Yes. I’ll do it another time, thank you.”
***
“Can I have two bags of water?”
“You are not fasting?”
“No I’m not.”
“Why?”
“Well I already lost a lot of weight and…”
“You don’t fast to lose weight.”
“I know but…”
“I thought you were going to say you are Christian.”
“I am Christian.”
“Well then…”
“I was going to participate in the fast because everyone in my community is Muslim and…”
“So you are Muslim here?”
“No I was just going to do it in support, out of respect.”
“So you are Muslim here but when you go home you are Christian?”
“No I’m Christian now!”
Ugh. Nevermind Madame.
***
“How’s the fast?”
“I’m not fasting.”
“What? Why not?”
“I already lost too much weight.”
“The fast is not about weight loss.”
“I know but…”
“God will provide for you. When you fast, God makes up for what you lack.”
“I know. I know.”
“So you are going to fast?”
“No my doctor said I have to gain weight.”
“Okay, okay.”
***
Clearly my reason for not fasting does not make sense to people. And honestly it really doesn’t. I’ve never lost weight in any of my previous fast (but I also ate enough for a feast at the end of the day). But I’ve already lost over 20lbs and this was during a period when I could eat whatever I wanted to, whenever I wanted to so I think I should abstain from the fast. I am not in the health to be able to fast sunrise to sunset without food or water. Maybe next year.
***
Since the fast commenced, there are more calls to prayer. In a world where there are no microwaves and most women do not have cell phones for alarm clocks, the “grand muslim men” (what we call them in French) make 2 extra calls to wake them up.
3AM! The call tells women to wake up to start preparing the meal. Pots start banging, dishes are washed and fires are started.
4AM! The call tells the family to wake up to eat. Doors are opened. Conversations start, as most families eat their favorite dish- tou.
5AM! The normal call to prayer. All food is put away and all those fasting go to the mosque to pray. During the fast, there are 17 rak'a of prayer as opposed to the typical 10.
***
“Oh Karla the market is full of people.”
“Really?”
“Yes during the fast you can get anything at night at the market. Massa, Sankare, Bissap, soup, rice… it’s all there.”
Most people break the fast with porridge because they say it is easier on the stomach. For many families, this is all they prepare to eat. Those that can afford it, go to the market and buy the prepared food there. This is the opposite of how I imagined we would break the fast- with a hardy meal. My friend who was in Ghana during last year’s fast said every night was a feast. I guess our feast can be bought at the market.
***
Your faith is not something you practice alone, it is community practice. Here 99% of my community is muslim and all that can do fast. We ask how the fast is going. We chant songs to God to give us strength. We break fast together. Even those I’ve never seen enter a mosque are fasting. “Are you fasting?” “Karla, it’s an obligation.” I respect their faith. I respect their sacrifice.
For more information about Ramadan, click here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
