Easter Wishes

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. 

the price of a good conversation

I leaned down into the window and started the ritual of negotiating for a taxi. After I gave my address, the driver smiled and shook his head. "I know it well." He smiled. "But get in quick because the police are all around and they will ticket me for stopping here to pick up passengers."

I hopped in the cab, knowing it wasn't the greatest idea. Negotiating once in motion is always harder for me. I had taken Mbalia to get her vaccinations (super impressed by the National Institue of Hygiene- fast, efficient, free vaccine program for all children.) It was a bit rainy and there was a lot of weekday bustle- specifically a few large trucks unloading right near the entrance. Traffic was barely moving and it seemed like a good idea to walk down to the corner and flag down a taxi there. Only the corner wasn't really a corner, it was more of a traffic circle intended to keep the cars moving at a brisk pace. I could see how stopping taxis would throw a wrench into the whole concept.

I wanted to continue negotiating right away before either of us got too comfortable. Time of day and traffic patterns can play havoc with the rates and I wasn't up for spending a small fortune. The driver wanted to keep telling me how he had risked a 10,000 fine to stop and pick me up- a clear sign his idea of a just fare would be vastly different than mine. I cut him off on the third round of "oh the police..." and simply named my price.

He turned around in shock. He clucked his tongue, shook his head and put a hand to his chin. "But we're in Treichville," he began. In trying to make the whole thing less painful for us both I added 500 to my offer and thought it would be settled. But no. He clucked and shook and petted his chin. I wasn't sure he could really see the road with all his clamoring. I half heartedly tried to convince him that I knew it was a more than fair price, that I'd made this exact trip several times and that I had come for even less. (Why the trip out is always less than the trip home is something of a mystery to me, but I've found it to be true no matter our destination.)

Finally I asked to him to find a good spot up ahead where he could let me out and then I would just find another taxi, no big deal. I wasn't angry or put out at all but peacefully resolute. I had a budget to follow. Of course, this was completely unacceptable. He remarked the rain, the baby- "Just let you out here? Oh no, not in Abidjan. I will see you to your door. I will." OK, a valiant driver if not exactly honest about the cost of a ride. "If you choose to do something for me then that is good, and if not, well, I will see you home." So there it was. We'd each put our guilt out there for the other to pick up and assume if so desired.

A few minutes later he turned around to ask me what nationality I was and why I spoke French- the ever present conversation opener in the taxi. I shared the minimal about my travels in Africa. When he made a phone call, I tagged him as either Senegalese or Peuhl- sometimes the two accents sound similar. After he mentioned being from Guinea, it was obvious. I asked if he was Peuhl and that opened a whole other conversation. Well, if listening to him go on about his ideas of life and love and finding a foreign woman to marry count as a conversation (And the fact that Guinea would be the most developed country in Africa if they had a good president like Ouattara.) Politics and personal philosophies- two of the most popular cab-ride subjects. He started getting pretty picky about his imaginary future wife- or so I thought- and I decided to chide him a little. I brought up the third most popular subject. Religion.

"Ah but age, appearance and ethnicity have little to do with real beauty," I said. "Besides, you know Mohamed had 15 years between himself and his wife." I was hoping that would slow him down a bit.

It did add some spice. He quizzed me on my knowledge of Islam- much as he had previously quizzed me on my understanding of Sousou. I passed both tests fairly well. And then he went on to talk about the responsibilities of muslims (prayer and zakat and being honest with money) and asked about my husband. Oh the trickiness of my life. And conversations with taxi drivers.

I relented that he was not, in fact, muslim. (I decided to skip focusing on semantics. There's a limit to public knowledge.)  Although he believes in a higher power and a divine force, he is not Christian in the sense of going to church and accepting Christ. We get along fine in mingling our religious beliefs (not to mention I have only just re emerged from my struggle in faith.) I didn't explain all of this to the taxi driver. In fact, I said very little but simply sat receiving his blessings, listening to his ideas (I should go to an Imam and let him know I need to convert my husband to Islam and he will tell me exactly what steps to take.)

This solution was presented only after several repeats of the Qu'ranic rule that Muslim women canot marry Christian men. I replied that I thought this was in effect to ensure the children and wife would not be converted to Christianity and thereby safeguard the Islamic beliefs. Since I am in no danger of being coerced out of my religion by a man- and as the main educator of my children- I figured it was a safe bet.

Happily we were nearing my neighborhood and the conversation, while not unpleasant, would face a natural end. I handed him my cash and he shook his head. "Oh, no," he said as he took it. I think he was trying to undo his earlier sentiment that I should add a little extra. "I am very happy and I encourage you and wish you well." We'd come so far from the just-drop-me-off-here-and-I'll-find-another-taxi. It's amazing how a brief conversation can completely change the price of a ride.   

A conversation of faith

The woman across the desk paused in her writing. "Is he Muslim?"
"Yes, we are Muslim," I responded, emphasis on we. At that she cocked her head up and raised an eyebrow at me. I wondered if this was going to be a problem. I was at a lawyers office having some papers drawn up. She was an immigration lawyer of some foreign descent- Pakistani? Indian? She began to ask some questions about when I'd converted, commenting that I seemed uncomfortable talking about it.

It was my turn to pause. Was I uncomfortable? I remember the first time, after I had internally committed to Islam, that someone asked me my religion. I'd replied, "Nondenominational," and immediately felt overcome with shame and regret. I remember just as vividly the first time I replied with quiet confidence a more sure answer to the same question. "Religious preference?" Muslim. No doubts, no shame but a calm sense of dignity and truth. All was as it should be.  I've come a long way since those uncertain first few days- in my responses to others and my certainties within myself. So her question gave me reason to consider. Was I really uncomfortable? Surely it couldn't be.

More likely it was the tone in which she presented her questions. "Practicing? Are you a practicing Muslim? What is it that made you convert?" I wasn't really sure which position she was coming from, but I admit, initially, I believed she herself was a Muslim. I felt a bit as if she were testing me in some way, and this is what led to the reluctance to answer her questions. My journey to faith and acceptance is one that was truly enlightening and personal. I spent years researching, reading and cautiously skirting the edges. Finally, I read the Qu'ran and all of the pieces fell into place. Everything that had never really made sense or had tested my faith too much were suddenly resolved. This inner sense of conviction is not easy to translate into words. But I did try. "What is it that just made sense? What do you mean by that?" she queried as I wondered why she couldn't see, as I did, that this conversation did not belong in the middle of our legal business.

Words hardly seem adequate to express the clarity that enveloped me as I read the role of Jesus, a prophet, a man, not the son of God. I remember realizing how simple a mistake was made in the time that passed and the perspectives that changed as the Bible was written. Accepting the Qu'ran as the word of God, unchanged and directly spoken, left no room for doubt. I tried to explain how, as simple as this realization felt to me, I understood it to be something that caused wars between nations and - living in Congo as I do- could be the point of unresolved conversations and debates that stretched long into the night.

I began to hear words from her, even as she listened intently, phrases that signaled I'd misunderstood her intentions. "God as the trinity." She went on to explain her firm Christian beliefs and the fact that she'd been raised Christian in a Muslim society. I pointed out the difficulties of extracting culture from religion. I mentioned that, were I to compare her to a Christian growing up in mid-America, there would be differences. These differences related to circumstance and culture as opposed to actual tenets of the faith. She didn't seem to agree but her face was alight with the joy of her belief. Even as her words seemed to contradict this light. "The only salvation is through Jesus Christ, not through good works. There's nothing we can do." She didn't seem to see the irony. All I could think about was the importance of humans caring for other humans and wanting for their fellow borthers and sisters all they would wish for themselves. I resisted the urge to tell her my belief that when we can truly help and love our neighbors with genuine sincerity, would the will and wishes of God be fully realized.

I looked across at her beaming face as she shook her head and uttered words that seemed hopeless and full of darkness. "There's nothing we can do."  I'd worked hard to keep this conversation from becoming a debate or a struggle of wills, even as I began to wonder if she was trying to convert me. I couldn't synchronize her vision of our duties (or apparent lack of) in this world with the happiness she exuded.

"That's too bad," was all I could respond. We turned back to our legal matters and I felt oddly reassured about my faith.