Happy, inshallah

I’m in love. I broke fast with one of my favorite families in Atar last night. It was an unexpected meal: I meant to return a borrowed broom, and they wouldn’t let me leave. Thankfully, since I was near death with thirst and hunger. The point of fasting for Ramadan is, of course, breaking fast with others who are as hungry and irritated as you are.

Houleye was lounging near her husband, Abderamane, looking contented, loved, but still famished. We sat in brain dead silence, flipping through channels of soccer matches, waiting, waiting, waiting for prayer call to authorize the impending feast. Finally, echoing over the city, blaring through bullhorns and loudspeakers: “Allah huwe ekbar!” God is indeed great, so long as we can eat.

We dove into dates, zrig, orange drink, cherry infused bissap (liquid heaven), and liters of ice water. Drained cups soon littered the floor as we held our cramping stomachs, counting down the minutes before we could comfortably consume more food and drink. I rolled my head off a pillow to see the youngest daughter bound into the room to steal a handful of dates. She is not yet three and absolutely adorable.¹ She could hold about one and a half dates in each hand; this, for her, was jackpot.

Without a spoken language in common, we have developed special greetings and games that communicate “hello, I like you, you are ok.” For example, she jumps in, stands on her head, I gasp in surprise, she giggles and runs out. Or, she plops down next to me, grabs my arm, and methodically counts my bracelets.² Or, she crawls in, places a fist on the floor, I place my fist on top of hers, she caps mine with hers, etc. Or, I pull off my headscarf, she runs in, places her hand on my shaved head, touches her own shaved head, giggles and runs out. Or, I roll over to her, pretend to take a bite out of her knee, she hides her knee, cackles wildly, then offers a second bite (I have learned to dodge flying knees ostensibly offered in friendship).

Tonight was no exception; hands brimming with dates, she caught me out of the corner of her eye. Unable to stand on her head, count my bracelets, fist fight, tussle my hair, or offer a knee, she threw her dated fists in the air and danced. Then giggled and ran out. This date-stealing dance continued throughout the evening, eventually augmented by her singing Senegalese reggae songs and traditional Mauritanian warbles. It was the first time I saw both Houleye and Abderamane engaged in full, hearty laughs. I joined them with abandon and clapped along with her bops and leaps.

Strangely, the scene reminded me of Christmas 2005. Mid December, I found myself leaning over the fourth floor balcony, watching a holiday festival unfold in the lobby of a government research facility. One of my colleagues had dressed as Santa, various divisions had baked and iced cookies of sleds and reindeer and bells and angels, and the walls were haphazardly strewn with tinsel. I watched the children from our daycare file in through the front door, bundled in thick downy jackets, each attached to the child in front by a rope or a hand. I remember how they tore off mittens and scarves and fuzzy topped hats to gobble cookies, slurp punch, and petition Santa for wrapped goodies. It was merry and fantastic and I couldn’t enjoy it. My current state of mind was... just short of jolly. All I could think was that someday, those kids were going to grow up, take an unfulfilling job, have mortgages and mutual funds and dead parents and this might be the last time they would feel so happy and simple and young. It was a rough Christmas.

Why would such a happy scene at Houleye’s remind me of this? Because in the middle of my little one’s dancing and giggling and singing, I realized I had been wrong. That day, nearly two years ago, leaning over a balcony, pitying these children who would have to grow up, I was wrong. There are always reasons to laugh, to sing, to dance, to play nonsense games with a little Mauritanian girl who has enough energy and love and hope to melt glaciers. And so, I’m in love. With her smile today, with the promise of her future tomorrow. I want her to grow up healthy. I want her to love school and remember her French numbers. I want her to make Houleye and Abderamane laugh after I have to leave. I want to know her name so if I ever pray for someone, I can send a special request up for her. I want her to be happy. Happy, inshallah.

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1: Although I have eaten with this family for months now, I still don’t know this little girl’s name. The family calls her “the other one,” “the sweet one” and other such ambiguous variations. I worked up the courage once to ask her name, and they wouldn’t tell me. I’m sure my question was understood, but the conversation shifted and my courage faltered. She is “my little one” if anyone asks.

2: I have taught her French numbers almost through 13 and have begun English counting. She has an ear for languages; I have patience and bracelets to boot.