Giving Thanks: It is interesting and telling that I wrote my last blog at the end of Ramadan. Since then many exciting and noteworthy things have happened - all too real to try to relay here in this limited virtual forum. The most significant and yet the hardest to capture in words is the spiritual journey I have awakened to find myself on. I say awakened rather than embarked, because this has been a long journey, perhaps it even began during my childhood, but I have only recognized it consciously within the past couple of months. Suddenly everything in my life revolves around spirit. The steps we teach students to communicate inter-culturally are all about realizing that your reality is constructed based on your cultural values and perspective. This constructivism is at the root of how I see God, life, creation/free will, happiness, change.



Perhaps this awakening began during Ramadan, which I tried to make meaningful by reflecting on religion (notably my Christian background and experiences with Islam) and my beliefs, which often do not align with religion. Nowadays I dwell over concepts read and re-read in Conversations with God, I take my time slowly digesting words by Alice Walker, I try to have meaningful soul-provoking conversations, I ask a lot of questions. My boss, who bears witness to this process, casually used the term "existential crisis" over lunch the other day. That made me smile.



Perhaps it is all of these nosy essay questions in applications for graduate programs. I lay bare my ambitions, strengths, weaknesses, regrets and lessons within a sincere response and then, coming to as if from a trance, wonder if the admissions committee really wants to know who I am. It has been one of the many pleasant surprises in life thus far - applying to business school can indeed be an introspective and even spiritual process.



Perhaps it is the constant questioning we encourage among our students. They come here often having already planned out their lives - first peace corps, then NGO work, and along the adventurous route of a career in development they plan to go. They arrive expecting these ambitions to be unquestioningly supported and instead we force them to question and challenge the concepts upon which they have built their dreams. Development from and towards what? Are we a good model of 'developed'? Who chooses these standards? Does happiness mean the same thing for everyone? Is the concept of universalism just a cover for cultural hegemony? This is the juiciest meat of our program and the most rewarding. Is it such a leap to connect it back to constructivism and the realm of the spiritual?



Perhaps it is, as auntie Alice might suggest, the gardening. Since my return to Dakar from the U.S. this summer I have been caring for the family of plants I inherited on the roof of my apartment. With the help of a more experienced gardener who brought new nutrient-rich soil and advised me on the needs of the different plants, I have been nurturing them and watching them grow. It is a small but nonetheless miraculous thing to witness - after misting (spraying water on the leaves of) my favorite plant, a frangipani tree, I can literally see it perking up.



I know your eyebrows may well be creeping up incredulously and now maybe you are smiling or shaking your head thinking "existential crisis." Again, that makes me smile. Because if it is a crisis I am going through, I never want it to end.



On this day, so ironically earmarked for giving thanks each year, I continue on my present path, more awake than I've ever felt. And for that I am thankful.

Kor bi jeex na! Ramadan is over. Alhamdelilah. This year was my first time fasting during the full month. For those who aren't familiar, this entails waking up to eat before sunrise, going without food or water during the day, and breaking fast after dusk. Of course, lots of praying is involved or, as in my case, meditation and reflection on beliefs and values. The hardest part was the overall fatigue from lack of sleep and fuel. The best part was breaking fast with neighbors, friends, family, and strangers throughout the month. I can count the number of times I ate at home on one hand during Ramadan. Now that it's over and I'm writing this in an empty apartment (except for the cats) after having cooked and eaten alone, I miss the camaraderie of the ndogou (Wolof word for 'cutting' the fast).

Ndogou: coffee, tea and hot chocolate with bread and jam, dates, and sandwich cold cuts

Left: Moussou and Oumy during Oumy's Ramadan bday dinner.

Right: Oumy's bday dinner. Maty, Fatou ak bagasam, Julie (my current roommate), and me.
Far right: Malang, Papis and Ibrahima (aka sai sai bu mag).










On the down side, I totally let my application work and GMAT studying get behind due to my general lack of energy. I realize that this goes somewhat against the rules of Ramadan, which state that fasting must not prevent one from fulfilling one's normal obligations. However, I have also realized that I am really stubborn. I decided to fast and I wanted to do it all the way. Now I just have a lot of catching up to do. I'm okay with that.

This past weekend was Korite (Eid Al Fitr in Arabic), which I spent with the family at Maambooy's house (Grandma's house). Here are some pics of the festivities below.

Women of the family prepare the food during the day.

Yacine Ba, my little sister when I was here in 2006. Same age as Simone.

Moussou and I went with a black and gold theme.

We even got Tinari to dress up for the festivities.

Me and Maambooy, my Senegalese grandma.

Easter Sunday/"Miss Celie I feels like dancin'!" I rarely celebrate Easter. When I was younger I participated in all of the mandatory egg-painting and hunting, church-going, and chocolate-eating (even though Mom has always had a complex about bunnies due to the psych ward escapee who used to dress in a bunny suit and flash the children on her school playground). During college in the US I remember being in complete shock at the first sight of someone with an ash cross on their forehead for Ash Wednesday and Easter came and went as a much-appreciated long weekend for more last minute paper-writing before the end of the semester. This year however, Duma and I got the urge to celebrate Easter religiously. Despite my uncertain relationship with Christianity as an institution, I think being in Senegal has made me appreciate the value of ritualized celebration. Since, in most cases, sitting in a church pew doesn't make me feel closer to God, I feel it is insincere of me to go just for the sake of celebrating Easter (aka when it is convenient for me). But if I can stand by and watch eight moutons be slaughtered for Tabaski, someone else's tradition, how wrong can it be to go to a ceremony for the sake of its familiarity?

We barely woke up and made it on the ferry to Goree island in time for the service. But Tinari, Katy (visiting from NYC), Duma and I were all there in our Sunday best, sitting behind the nuns on a wooden pew which was no doubt installed in 1830 when the church was built on the historical island, at 10am sharp. We followed the nuns as they cued the congregation on when to stand, sit, kneel, cross oneself, and sing. The choir was a wonderful mix of choral Wolof with drums and guitar. Having been raised Methodist myself, I was a bit overwhelmed at first by the level of ritual and the ornateness of the church; the lit candles, the holy water, the burning incense, the gold plaster and graphic crucifixion scenes all over the place seemed a bit overkill. Why not just sit outside under the tree to admire God's presence? This line of reflection always brings me back to the scene in The Color Purple when Miss Celie and Shug are walking in a field and talking about trees and God: 'I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in field somewhere and don't notice it.' But I guess it doesn't hurt to stimulate the senses every once in a while, whether with incense and music or a series of standing and kneeling (very similar to Muslim-styled prayer and yoga). As if on cue, someone got the spirit half way through a hymn and was systematically carried out by nuns and choir members who worked (never once missing a note in the music) with the efficiency of NYC club bouncers to bring harmony back to the sanctuary of God.

After the service we milled around on the church steps, as people do, and then met up with a friend of Tinari's, Fedou, who was born and raised on Goree. I slipped out of my heels and into some sandals before we walked up to the highest point to give Katy the panoramic view of the island and Dakar's skyline. While on this hill we stopped and sat with one of Goree's hidden treasures: Baye Soulaye. Baye Sooley (Father Sooley) is a bearded older man who 'sells' coffee and nuts to any passerby interested in a place to sit and good conversation. Our two hour session with him consisted of Wolof word etymology, philosophical debate and the signing of his impressive guest book full of different languages and memories.

After our second round of church with Baye Sooley, Fedou invited us to his home (across the cobble-stoned path from the House of Slaves) for lunch. It was such a Senegalese moment - leave the wise old man after a two hour conversation over cafe that he would be insulted if we paid for only to head into the crowded living room of a family we've never met (except for Tinari) for a delicious communal lunch. It just so happens that a friend we had met the day before (also via Tinari), stylist Mariam Diop, was there for lunch too. The food was DELICIOUS. It was a Senegalese paella of sorts: spiced yellow rice with pieces of chicken, shrimp, oysters, and squid thrown in the mix, covered in a tangy sauce of fresh sliced tomatoes and cucumbers. MMMMM!

After some coffee to jerk us out of our food comas, we headed across the 'street' to the House of Slaves for a tour. It was a first for Tinari and Katy. But even though Duma and I had been before its a pretty sobering experience every time, to say the least. Each time I visit I feel like some new piece of history jumps out at me: the fact that the French traders lived on top of the inhumane dungeons, the poor ventilation, the punishment cells, the door of no return. This time what stuck was a sentence on a display panel about resistance and escape during the middle passage. Under the relatively well-known Amistad story, one line: on November 29, 1777 fourteen women threw themselves into the ocean together from the boat Soleil.

The day ended on an energetic note with a game of pick-up basketball on the neighborhood court. I couldn't resist and jumped in - bare feet, Sunday dress, and all. I think of it as a continuation of my childhood days when I would run around our Dakar neighborhood, Simone and Zoe in tow, and climb mango trees in my white laced socks and patent leather shoes.

There should be a word for days like this - ones that are heavy with learning and memory, but still surprisingly buoyant.

Journal Entry/Musings on Religion: This week marks the beginning of Ramadan, that holiest of months in Islam, which just happens to coincide with one of the hottest months in Dakar. Islam is so alive and visible here; it will be interesting to be in a city of believers while they collectively practice this challenging ritual. In Dakar Islam has a soothing and rhythmic presence, like the predictable yet subtle change in seasons in New York. Prayer calls boom from mosque speakers reminding the faithful to stop what they are doing, wash up, pull out their mats, and kneel in devout meditations. On Fridays especially, the main mosque in Mermoz overflows with men in their brightly colored robes bowing heads to mats in a wave that covers sidewalks and storefronts. I admire this sense of oneness that is palpable even to me, the spiritual but unreligious onlooker. There is also something that gets to me in the urgency of the call, the rush to the mosque, the ability to keep appointments with God several times a day, every single day regardless of plans, location, and convenience. I recently spoke to Felicia about religion in another long-winded discussion. Something she said stuck with me; something like this "Going to church for me is like a spiritual alarm clock. It is an appointment I keep to meditate and devote time completely to my spiritual health. God doesn't need me to keep this appointment, but I surely do." I think this may be true for many churchgoers and for people who heed the mosque's call to prayer. On the one hand I appreciate (from the outside) Islam's relatively flexible stance on location (wherever you can fit your prayer mat), but on the other hand it seems overly structured and rigid to "set the alarm" for five specific times throughout the day. Shouldn't the goal of all spiritual beings be to never need an "alarm," to be constantly "awake" so to speak? These are the sorts of questions I think about here up on the terrace on the eve of Ramadan. Luckily I chose to sit under the thatched roof with my laptop because it just rained (we've had a ridiculous amount of rain lately....climate change...but that's for another post). This is the first time in a long while that I've seen (or noticed) a rainbow. It's here now spread across the sky like a giant post-it reminding me that not all things beautiful need understanding. I guess we can all use alarm clocks and reminders once in a while.....