One of the
things I will miss most about Tanzania is the call to prayer. One of my first
memories of homestay in Korogwe is
practically sprinting out of bed at 5:30 am as a result of the neighboring
mosque blasting quranic recitations. Even my village, which is entirely off the
power grid, manages to broadcast every call via an old school PA system
(imagine the air raid sirens from a Cold War propaganda film and you have the
right idea). Now, I mostly sleep through the morning call.
It’s a glorious
thing to hear the call to prayer in Dar Es Salaam at sunset. There you are,
sitting on a balcony, chatting about the inexhaustible topics of one’s youth
and future while families play on their roofs and the silhouettes of evening’s
first bats flash across the sky. Out of the labyrinthine city the first call to
prayer rises, only to be joined by the staggered emergence of its fellows, the
melodic Arabic swelling together before slipping back into the city’s unending
sounds. It may be one of the few moments that can make a twenty-something stop
thinking about himself.
Calls to prayer
only get more frequent and earnest during the month of Ramadan, which carries a
strange significance for me; it marks my first whole year in country. I’ll try
not to dwell on an arbitrary milestone too much but I will say that, while the
first year went so fast, the next fifteen months appear particularly
gargantuan. Truthfully, I’m scared shitless. Like many things in my service, I
can’t seem to resolve two conflicting feelings; at once, I feel like I’ve done
nothing meaningful over the last year, so now I have to really kick it into
gear, yet there’s so much time I shouldn’t sweat it. Truthfully: shitless.
Back to Ramadan,
I love getting the feel of another religion and the ebb and flow of their
lives. You start to notice things like how, although not as religious as it
once was, America’s calendar revolves entirely around Christian holy days. The
Islam I’m being exposed to is on such a local and independent scale, I also get
to learn about the faith while avoiding all the institutional and political
manipulations that taint all major religions. In a world of spreading violent,
political Islamist groups, like Al-Shabab
and Boka Haram in neighboring Kenya
and Uganda, respectively, this opportunity strikes me as invaluable.
On a personal
level, when I talk to people about their faith I enjoy get to peek through a
little window to what they most value. Recently, the conclusion of Ramadan has
granted me many opportunities to have this discussion. The end of Ramadan is a
major Muslim holy day, called Eid Al-Fitr,
which follows the siting of a new moon; part of the anticipation leading up to
the holiday is that no-one knows when exactly it will be, so we all watch the night
sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of the full moon.
The person I
most enjoy talking to about Islam, and any subject in general, with is my babu. To him, Eid (as in need) is about
charity and respecting all people as human beings; it’s a time to feed the
poor, cast aside avarice (uchoyo),
and recognize our shared humanity. After discussing the local customs of Id and his feelings on the holiday
season, the sun set and I was invited inside their roofless, door-less home to
sit with the family on their mkeka (a
reed mat) and break the fast. Although everyone in my village knows I don’t
fasting, I was a little tentative to take food from people who were eating
their first meal of the day. After the meal, my babu turned to me and said, “There is nothing better than eating
this meal with a non-muslim who is not fasting. Alhamdulilah.”
I have been affected
by many things in my Peace Corps service and few things have struck me as much
as my neighbors’ kindness and generosity, even in the face of destitution and
poverty. If I bring only one thing back
to America, I hope it’s some shadow of the selflessness I’ve come to know in
Kiuta. In America, a society of competition, isolation, and self-reliance, this
lesson is particularly pertinent: never are we more humble and connected than
when we are giving away ourselves.
P.S. Few things are more unsettling than being taken to a locked shead to look at a mystery animal. Apparently Sungura is rabit.
