Aisha laa tudd/Je m'appelle Aisha

This past weekend was pretty fantastic. Friday morning I got my hair braided (again). Now I am constantly told that I am “vrai senegalaise” and people constantly tell me to send my American mother a picture of my hair. Friday evening I tried Indian food for the very first time AND LOVED IT. Saturday morning I volunteered at a handicapped children’s center, which consisted of assembling and dissembling puzzles with some five-year-olds for a few hours. I plan on going back there every weekend. Saturday during the day I went to an artisanal market, where I spent way too much money on stuff that I hope isn’t too touristy. Alyssa (whose Senegalese name is Fatima) and I were in a jewelry boutique where a man was trying to sell her a necklace portraying the hand of Fatima (in Islam the hand of Fatima is supposed to have healing powers). This vendor asked me my Senegalese name, and I said I didn’t have one, so he gave me the name Aisha. Admittedly this is not the first Senegalese name I have been given, but it is the first one that I have been able to remember/I really like the Aisha, so this one is sticking. Not to mention, I have started to feel bad about forcing people to try to pronounce the name Rebecca. That night I went to a concert featuring the popular Senegalese hip-hop group, Daara J Family. Although the venue was kind of upscale, it was really cool to be part of such a diverse audience. I’m pretty sure every racial group was equally represented, which rarely happens here. Sunday I spent the entire day at the beach, and except for getting sea urchin spikes stuck in my foot, it was a beautiful afternoon.

Monday and Tuesday this week there was a “grève du pain,” (strike by the boulangeries) so there was no bread anywhere in Dakar. This was a rather frustrating few days, and I realized just how much bread I eat in a given day. They were protesting all of the power outages.

So, rather upsettingly, the other night I realized just how desensitized I have become to poverty and people begging. A boy came up to me, holding a prescription note. There was obviously something wrong with his eyes and he was clearly sick and/or handicapped. At first I just said “Ba beneen yoon,” which means “next time,” something that we’re supposed to say to all people/kids who ask for money. But then, I realized that this kid wasn’t a talibé (will explain what that is momentarily), but a kid who truly needed help and medical attention. As this popped into my head, I froze. By the time I could spring into action, he had walked away to ask someone else. I was so upset, I just wanted to go and hide and cry and wonder why the world is so unjust. Instead, I resolved that I would not allow myself to stay so desensitized. I bought a package of cookies/crackers that I keep in my backpack, and now whenever I pass a talibé, I give him a cookie. Talibés are young boys who go to Koranic schools (because their parents send them there) and are forced to roam the streets begging for money. In the rural areas, these are supposedly reputable schools; the begging is for the boys to learn hardship and grow as a person for it. They are still taught the Koran and they are still given decent living conditions. In the city, namely Dakar, these Koranic schools have become very corrupt. Now instead of teaching these boys the Koran, the teachers use them simply as money-making machines by putting them on the streets and then beating them if they do not collect a certain quota. One of my professors here works for Amnesty International, and she brought in pictures that showed the harsh conditions these boys are forced to live in. One picture showed a boy with welts and cuts all over his body. We were told that when these boys come up to us, we shouldn’t give them money because that is just prolonging the system. Instead, if we want to be charitable, we should give them food because they are most likely hungry. On my walk to school every day there are always a group of boys holding little buckets who come up to me and ask for money. Now, when I give them each a cookie, their faces turn from miserable and disconnected to happy. Even if it only lasts a minute, these boys deserve to experience some level of happiness in their lives.

I just finished Zenzele: A Letter to my Daughter, a book I read for my literature class. I must say it was one of the most beautifully written books I’ve ever read. I recommend it.

Last night was a ridiculous series of events. I had gotten sick three days ago, but this time I decided to skip out on the doctor visit and take my leftover meds from last time. I was still feeling pretty miserable yesterday, and altogether not having a great day. When I got home, Soso had dinner ready for me: rice and lentils. I took a shower and donned a pair of shorts and a tank top, an outfit I only wear around the house before I go to bed. I was sitting on the couch reading when Soso put down a glass of beer in front of me and said, “Ca fait du bien” (that will do you well). She then put a bed sheet on the ground and proceeded to lie down on the ground with her bottle of beer watching TV. Suddenly, a visitor came to the front gate, catching Soso off guard. I’m guessing he was a guy from her church. She panicked that she didn’t have any beer left, so she gave me some cash and told me to go to the liquor store around the corner. I laughed the entire way there… there I was, wearing shorts and a tank top, going on a beer run for my host mom in Senegal. When I got back her and her guest kept refilling my glass and insisted that I drink all that they gave me. Conclusion: Soso can put a smile on my face, even after the worst days.

I finally got a gym membership. Running outside just does not appeal to me when I get unnecessary attention for wearing shorts, it is hot, and I constantly inhale exhaust fumes. I went to an exercise class this morning and was put to shame by some middle-aged European women... pretty much exactly what I expected would happen.

And now onto a four-day weekend!