It’s a little awkward how often I find myself writing about religion, but it seems to be a theme in my life these days. So bear with me, here comes yet another post about religion.
It’s Passover. A week-long celebration of the exodus from Egypt, a celebration of freedom from bondage, a time to remember that we were once slaves and now we are free (well, according to the torah at least). It’s my favorite Jewish holiday for a number of reasons. One is because of that DreamWorks animated genius, The Prince of Egypt, which I am only a little ashamed to admit is one of my favorite movies. I also love Passover because of all the theme of freedom and liberation, near and dear to my little progressive activist heart. I also happen to find matzoh (flat bread) tasty, which is not exactly the point since I think by eating it we’re supposed to feel deprived, but whatever. Matzoh pizza? Heck yes. I’ll eat that any time of year.
So. As the holiday approached I started to feel kind of down. At first I was planning to hold a seder (ritual Passover meal) in my village, translate the haggadah (instructions on how to lead said meal) into Swahili, turn it into an awesome cultural sharing moment. But I dropped the ball on that… my Swahili wasn’t good enough to produce a Haggadah much beyond “we were slaves, now we’re free, salt water tastes like tears, let’s eat flat bread!” So that failed. But, scary thought, I’ll still be here Passover next year so I can just do it then when my Swahili will hopefully be less embarrassing.
As today came to a close I was wandering back to my house singing “When you Believe” (embarrassing, I know, but that song is damn catchy) to myself, feeling lonely and all sorts of bad. I had tried explaining to a few different village friends why I was sad today but they just didn’t really get it. I got sympathetic texts from other volunteers but they didn't really get it either. I was feeling super alone and kind of stupid about it, considering all the times I've been away at school had to skip out on the family seder (sorry, Pahka and Gramma).
Now, quick side story: Because I’m an idiot and didn’t realize that corn gets really big when it grows and blocks you out unless you make a path through it, currently the only way to get back to my house is to pass through my neighbor’s courtyard.
So, I was on that path, just getting to the particularly relevant “in this time of fear, when prayer’s so often proved in vain” part of the song when Mama Hawa came outside to greet me and ask what and why I was singing to myself.
“It’s a holiday for my religion,” I told her, holding back tears and trying to act like this was an exciting thing. My smile was, apparently, unconvincing.
“I’m so sorry,” she replied. “I completely understand. The first few Easters were really hard for me after I got married and had to become Muslim. I missed going to church and singing in the choir.”
Hold up. What? It had never occurred to me that Mama Hawa wasn’t born into a Muslim family.
“Why did you convert to Islam if you loved Christianity so much?” I asked, hoping desperately that the answer was something like “I loved my future husband even more than I loved Jesus.” I should have known better.
“There weren’t many men to choose from, I was kind of in a hurry, most of the available men were Muslim,” she replied.
Now I decided to get nosey. I asked why she was in such a rush. Turns out she was the oldest daughter and three of her younger siblings got married before her, which was a disgrace. She was 20 when she got married, by the way. I was somehow reminded of Fiddler on the Roof as she told the story. As I kept asking awkwardly personal questions, the answers got sadder. She had waited to get married because she wanted to go to Secondary School. She’d passed the exam but her father wouldn’t agree at first. So she tried to make some money as a dressmaker, hoping she’d eventually get back to school on her own, but in the end it didn’t work out and her remaining sisters (apparently she has a lot of sisters) and father told her that she absolutely had to get married as soon as possible or she’d be an embarrassment to the whole family.
Mama Hawa is beautiful, kind, smart, quiet and gentle (very positive qualities for women here), and heart-heartbreakingly generous considering she has pretty much nothing material to give. If she took her time, she’d have had no problem finding someone equally wonderful and kind to fall in love with and marry, even if she limited her choices to the Christians in the village. But she was in a hurry so she just married the first person who would take her, and he happened to be Muslim. And just like that, her days in the church choir were over.
After she finished telling her story, we sat in silence for a while, but not that uncomfortable kind of silence, more of the "I get what you're feeling right now and we don't need to put words on it" kind of silence. Finally I had to go home, it was getting dark. As I left, she suddenly grinned and said, “Happy Jewish Easter!” We both laughed that kind of laugh you laugh when you were moments away from crying a moment ago.
Mama Hawa will never get to sing in the church choir again. She really had no choice when giving up her beloved religion. I, on the other hand, will be going home in a little over a year. I've got years of seders and opportunities to watch and unashamedly sing along to The Prince of Egypt ahead of me. In some ways, Mama Hawa and I shared something so special today. In other, more profound ways, her story eclipsed mine a hundred times over. Mama Hawa is not a slave in the technical sense of the word, but she is, in so many ways, bound. If nothing else, our conversation tonight fit the real spirit of passover--to share the story of bondage so that we will never forget what a blessing it is to be free.
