Counting Down Until the End of Ramadan

I tend to think that Malians pick and choose aspects of Islam at will. That is to say, social norms in Mali are dictated partially by Islamic law and partially by long held customs and beliefs that date back to the days before Islam was introduced to West Africa. I liken the current culture to an American at a buffet picking and choosing their favorite foods. Except this time, I think someone made a terrible decision.

It's Ramadan here, which means getting up before the sun rises (usually between 4:30 and 5:30am) and not eating or drinking until the evening prayer call issued from the mosque at about 6:45. There are other stipulations, as well, such as a ban on cigarettes, parties, and "ill-natured" or excessive activities. For someone like myself who's not farming intensely right now, Ramadan is a challenge, but not a health concern. But from what I can tell, it's the hardest time of year for the folks in my village. My work counterpart (or homologue, as we refer to them around here), Sali, is a great example.

Sali is her husband's 3rd wife, and the mother of a 1.5 year old boy, Ali. I went to break fast (not breakfast, but the evening ritual of breaking fast that happens at 6:45pm) with Sali and her family the other day, and started asking about the specifics of Ramadan. It seemed to me that most people are overworked and underfed these days, and I wanted the specifics. Sali said that she's been getting up, like everyone else, to eat a breakfast of rice and sauce and millet porridge (millet and water). And then, when it gets light out around 6am, she leaves for the fields. Yesterday she was out in her family's rice paddy from 6am - 5pm without a break, and without food or water. And now, to make things worse, it's her turn to cook for the family. So she comes home from the fields, cooks everyone a dinner of millet porridge and then starts cleaning the rice for breakfast the next morning. She says she usually sleeps until midnight when she gets up to put the pots on the fire. Then she'll go back to sleep until 4am when she's up for good to deliver food to the family and start her day. I was really surprised to hear that some nights, her family only eats porridge for dinner, and I've come to find out that it's because money is tight at this time of year. The manioc harvest is just starting, and it's been a year since the last big harvest, so money is running low. They simply cannot afford to eat rice twice a day.

Sali's been leaving her son Ali at home while she's in the fields because she says he was getting in the way. But that means Ali and his siblings stay home with grandma or Ali's 7 year old sister as the primary care taker. From what I can tell, they're OK with grandma, but I'm not entirely sure that the kids are getting lunch or water when grandma has to go into the fields. Ali's still breast feeding (not exclusively, but Malian doctors recommend that women breast feed until the child is 2), so I wonder if he's really getting all the nutrients he needs when mom's in the field all day. He's been sick twice in the past three weeks, and has definintely gotten skinnier.

I stopped by Sali's house on my way home from market Monday afternoon to find the place closed up and empty except for a clan of 6 kids who had the rule of the roost. I hung out with them for a while, and then jumped on my bike to go home. I'd been home about five minutes and was putting my bike away in my kitchen when my gate swung open and in came the same gaggle I'd just left on the other side of town. They'd followed me home (I'm still a novelty after a year!) , and their single file entrance into my compound reminded me of a mama duck and her ducklings waddling around, the 7 year old at the front of the line with Ali strapped onto her back, and the other toddlers following close behind. We entertained ourselves by picking the seeds off the sunflowers in my yard to shell and eat, chewing children's multivitamins, drinking water and "reading" the July 2008 Atlantic Monthly, which is fascinating because of the glossy color photos. Their favorite activity is looking at the ads and trying to guess which white woman is me. Once I tell them it's not me, they immediately want to know said woman's name. There are now 6 Malian kids children who think The Atlantic Monthly is filled with women with names like Awa, Djeneba, Rokia, and Aramatou.

Later that night, a friend and I were sitting around brewing tea and I went to get Sali to come join. I caught her mid-rice washing, but she put the rice basket back in her kitchen and came to join us at Mariatou's house, anyway. Sali sat down on her stool, helped us make the all-important foam for the tea (neither Mariatou nor I have quite mastered the technique yet), and fell asleep. Before she faded, she told me that she felt bad because she hadn't come to my house to greet in days. She's afraid I'll think she abandoned me!

I used to chuckle in disbelief when people in my village would mutter "fantan segenna" (the poor man is tired), but now I see that there's some truth to it. I told my host mom the other night that "Toubabu muso segenna" (the white girl's tired), and she just laughed.