Maybe it’s
Easter, maybe it’s just one of those things but the last few days have found me
ensconced in religious conversations with my neighbors. I have been the
recipient of several surprise visits. Remember this post when I
supposed that some European neighbors might have a better idea of how to
initiate friendship than I myself had? Turns out that a few Ivorian neighbors
have filled the bill.
A few weeks
ago, two women showed up at my door, laughing, a bit uncertain but seeking an
invitation to come in and talk for a few minutes. They said they’d noticed me
walking by and just wanted to make my acquaintance. In true African style I was
filled with suspicion and intrigue all at the same time. I could hear
Christian’s voice in my head telling me I should send them on their way. However, when one of the women inquired with
hesitance, “Can we come in or are you afraid?” I felt I had no choice but to
accept. How else can you make a friendship except to be bold, I reasoned.
They came
in and we sat on the porch trying to get over the awkwardness. I asked a lot of
questions and listened to their stories. One, Leah or Leila, said she was
married to a nurse and working in insurance. We talked a bit about the
complexities of selling insurance in Africa. I half expected her to launch into
a pitch but she refrained. Instead, she
told me about her family’s plan to immigrate to Canada.
The other,
Dianne, stays at home with her two girls. She seemed the most shy and aware of
the strangeness of the situation. Dianne looked often to Leila for cues and
when they finally left, she seemed relieved.
We promised to say hello if we saw each other in the neighborhood again
and I vowed to try and remember their names.
I saw Leila
in passing on my way home one day. I’d stopped at a corner boutique to pick up
a few items and she was walking by. She stopped and offered a proper greeting. More
surprising, however, was a visit from Dianne. She came with her youngest one
evening to say hello and visit the baby. I learned more about her this time.
Her husband is a doctor at the airport (plenty of questions here on my part)
and he takes the lagoon route to work each day. We exchanged questions and
answers- more this time from her. I felt a bit odd offering bits and pieces of
my life. That uncertain suspicion ever lurking in the back of my mind. At one
point she asked if I didn’t feel afraid, living here alone- and I wondered what
prompted her to make such a statement. I added some strategy to my response,
replying that we’d made friends of our neighbors and this helped us to feel
secure. (In case she was part of a band of robbers who had designs on
infiltrating our abode in the night. Making new friends is a joy- n’est pas?)
Since then
she’s come back once more- with both of her girls this time. They had fun
watching Mbalia and trading shy smiles, though most of our questions had run
out by then. Silences were filled in with remarks about the children. I asked her about her Easter plans, which led
to the first of what turned out to be several of my recent religious
conversations. She seemed to invite me twice to her sister’s to celebrate- or
just to eat food really- but I am not ready for such pressure on my
conversational skills. I like her (guardedly) but I am just not sure what to
say. It’s always been that way for me.
I remember
watching the women in my dance classes, in the changing room. I wondered what
they had to talk about, how they managed it- knowing each other- and felt it was such a difficult thing. What do people talk about? Maybe that’s why
the mundane holds such fascination for me at times. Underneath it all we are just regular people,
but what does regular look like? What
is it that facilitates conversation in one group of people only to be hampered
in the next?
Just this (Saturday)
evening, my other neighbor stopped by, Assita. She is the writer who came to
leave me the script so I can prepare for next Saturday. In my search to fill
the silence, I asked her if she was celebrating Easter and had hoped merely to
wish bonne fete. This innocent
inquiry turned into a rather intense discussion of her conversion to
Christianity – her soul searching and healing through Jesus Christ.
It was
interesting to share our completely opposite journeys of conversion. I let her
express her passion while keeping mine in check a bit- I wasn’t ready for an
all out debate about the truth of the Qu’ran--- or the Bible for that matter.
What I did share, and what I continue to believe is essential- is that God
calls us all to the path in different ways. The most important factor being
belief in God and adherence to spiritual kindness for our neighbors. We didn’t
exactly agree here, but managed to keep the conversation from getting to that
point of outright disagreement. (The
main difference in the two religions comes down to whether or not Jesus is the
son of God and God himself or whether he is a miracle of God, a prophet and
holy being but not divine.)
We each had
stories to tell of being moved (by songs of praise in her case, by the call to
prayer in my case) and of searching for a truth that spoke to our souls. I
appreciated again the ability of Christians and Muslims to live and pray side
by side in Ivory Coast- without one dominance and without coercion. She agreed
with this. True believers do not follow
the path of violence.
In the end
she said she would pray for me and I accepted. Her experiences of being saved
and being healed- physically and spiritually- were true for her. I wasn’t about
to dispute them, and certainly not refuse the well- intended wishes of another
through prayer. Islam acknowledges Christians and recognizes intention as more
important- or equally important- as action.
So, I’ve
met my Christian neighbors (who would like me to return to the faith) and my
Muslim taxi drivers (who believe my husband should be converted) and we’ve
conversed well this Easter on all accounts. Bonne Pacques to those who
celebrate.
