How Did I Get Here?

Recently, I've been asked by a few people back home about what it's like to be the only foreigner in my village.  They want to now what the other people here think of me, why they believe I'm here, and how I ended up in this particular village in the first place.  Some of these questions are answered easily, some even I'm dying to know, and still others, I can only offer my best guess, but I will try to at least shed some light on the Peace Corps process, to give a "behind-the-scenes" glimpse at how our villages are chosen and prepped to house a toubab (translated to a "white"/ a foreigner) of their very own.

Bill meeting his kids for the first time.

Because Gambia is such a tiny country-their entire population hovering just below 2 million-and because Peace Corps has had a presence here since the 1970s, the organization has made quite a name for itself here.  Villages feeling that they could benefit from housing a volunteer submit an application or put in a request through the Ministry of Education; from there, the papers may sit for months or even years before the request is answered.  (My host father worked with a volunteer from another town back in 2002, and it was then that he submitted a letter requesting a volunteer in Sare Ngai!)

Before serious consideration of an application, Peace Corps site development visits the village in question in order to assess various aspects of the town in order to determine if it could work as a potential site.  They tour two or three compounds, conduct interviews with the families, and do a security survey to check for possible problems.  If a hut-window faces the main street, creating a temptation for theft, if a backyard seems too small to install a pit latrine, or if the family simply lacks the spirit or interest necessary for housing a volunteer, the village is discounted, and they move on. If the guidelines are met, however, Peace Corps comes in to begin grooming the site into a future home for a volunteer.

A map plotting the sites of all the 2014 Education Volunteers.

This process takes both time and a lot of energy on the part of the Peace Corps staff.  They conduct meetings with the Alkalos, or village Mayors, during which they sensitize the community for the arrival of the Americans.  They discuss our culture, our purpose for coming to the country, and prepare them for any potential issues or misunderstandings. While this can only go so far, it is useful in clearing the air and starting a dialogue for our differences.

My rather romantic facilities in Sare Musa.

On the other side o the coin lie the logistics.  Peace Corps has a certain standard that our houses must meet while staying within reasonably similar living conditions to those of our community members. In the Gambia, these standards include having two locking doors with screens, a window for air flow, cement floors, and a private pit latrine with cover.  (I know, I know, fancy!) All of these things take a good deal of time to build, so oftentimes they are completed while the volunteers go through their training, which, as you might recall from my first few posts, does not begin in our permanent villages, but in those closer to the Peace Corps training facility called Massembeh.

Because Gambia houses so many ethnic groups and languages, a small group of volunteers is picked to live in a village where the culture majority matches their assigned tribe.  I, for instance, was chosen to be a Fula, so I lived with three other volunteers in a Fula village about 30 minutes drive from Massembeh.

My LCF demonstrating how to use THE P

Here, we each lived with a host family, attended daily classes led by a Peace Corps staff member also staying in the village, and got our first taste of life in Gambia while still enjoying the cocoon of other English speakers to curl into while we transitioned.  Every few days we were taken to Massembeh and reunited with our fellow trainees living in other places, learning other languages, and all participated in larger, broader-scope classes.

These villages used during training are a bit easier for Peace Corps to chose as they must be within a reasonable distance of Massembeh and they must house specific ethnic groups to accommodate the tongues learned by the trainees.  However, since my training village of Sare Musa had never even had one pit latrine before Peace Corps arrived, the construction team had their work cut out for them in preparing it to host four volunteers and a teacher.

Hawa teaching us gals how to tie our scarves

These teachers, or LCFs (Language & Cultural Facilitators) in PC-speak, help trainees learn local language and cultural norms, but also serve to field questions on the part of the locals, for it is not only the Americans digesting a new culture, but the Gambians as well. Some common inquiries include: Why does the toubab stay inside their house so much? Aren't they terribly lonely?  Why don't they enjoy it when I serve bits of broken pasta and dried fish stuffed inside of bread and soaked in oil? And the equally puzzling, Why does the toubab seem so angry when the children look through the windows and watch them sleep and get dressed in the morning? As you can imagine, these staff members are endlessly crucial for both parties and it would prove nearly impossible to conduct training without their cultural sensitivity and patience.

So, after ten weeks in our training villages, volunteers are bused back to the city and readied for The Big Move while the final touches are put on our permanent homes.  Construction is finished up, meetings are held with both the host families and schools to prep them for our arrival, and the children are given a heads up to allow some space and privacy for the American stranger who is soon to arrive.

Tim's little sister in training village who was terrified of me.

When the time comes for us to move in, our families are pretty well-prepared, but it remains up to them to assist the community at large to understand our place, and this can often prove more difficult than it sounds. Throughout my year here, I've heard the following theories as to why Peace Corps places volunteers in The Gambia (ranked according to their level of hilarity):

1) We are spies.  Our mission is to collect highly sensitive political information and bring it back to America.  

2) We are learning other languages so that we may teach all the toubabs back home how to greet one another in languages from around the world.  (While I secretly wish this were true, I can only imagine the reaction. "This is Amurica! We speak Amurican here!"

3) We cannot find any other job whatsoever.  Because Peace Corps is known for its philanthropy, it is thought that positions as volunteers are given to us out of pity as we just have no.other.option.

4) We are here only to save money.  Because the Gambian currency stretches so far in comparison to the US dollar, some believe we come here to avoid spending the millions of dollars we've obviously saved up back home so that upon our return, we'll be richer than ever before.  (I also wish this were true, but you'd be hard pressed to find a volunteer whose main motivation for living without a paycheck and showering with a bucket for two years was to become a millionaire.) #tryagain

These conspiracy theorists aside, many people do appreciate that we are here to help--in the schools, in the clinics-in any capacity which brings our cultures together.  There will always be questions or ridiculous ideas as to why we're here, and even I may never exactly know The How of my ending up in Sare Ngai, but I do know The Why. I am here, Peace Corps is here, to make the world a little smaller, a little less mysterious, and one hell of a lot more colorful.

My brother, Falie (right) and his friend.

May 2015: Top Five Weekend Updates

I’ve heard spring has finally sprung in America, and I am here to report that not only has it sprung here in The Gambia as well, but it has leapt far past Easter hats and fresh grass, directly into a baking sauna, topped off by dusty tornadoes created from the intense gusts of wind. I never imagined I would live somewhere that necessitated sweeping a room three times a day just to keep the piles, yes piles of dirt from accumulating, but here I am. Dust aside, May brought some really great things. It was a busy month and while the weeks themselves went on business as usual, the weekends never failed to bring a bit of interest. So, here’s May at a glance.

5) Where’s my Thin Mint 

The first weekend of May brought the Scouts to Sare Ngai. They didn’t have colorful uniforms or boxes of cookies, but they had charisma. Students, both girls and boys, young and old, from about ten neighboring villages, marched their way onto our school grounds. They moved some desks around, pitched a few tents outside, and spent three days learning crucial skills for surviving in the bush. Tim and I helped out by giving a one-hour presentation on HIV/AIDS prevention, and they thanked us by giving us beans and serenading us with their masterful scout band, which consists of a few drums, and an inexcusable number of recorders. The excitement went on late into the night as they built bonfires, put on dramas, and danced. While I never did manage to stay awake long enough to witness this portion of the entertainment, the exhaustion on their faces come Monday morning assured me that a good time was had by all.

4) Strike a Pose

As the rainy season nears, the rice fields are fast becoming tall, lush, and the most gorgeous shade of green I’ve ever seen. The past few months, I’ve taken my bike out to enjoy the scenery and observe the subtle changes each weeks brings. The second weekend in May, I rode out with my sister, Kadijatou, to take pictures and attempt to capture some of the many birds that gather there. We were joined by our neighbor, Isatou, and, as often happens when a camera is taken out in The Gambia, a photo shoot was set in motion. It was all I could do not to laugh, as Kadijatou had never worked in the fields before, and was squeamish about the gushy clay-like soil filling the paddies. She crawled up on Isatou’s back, avoiding the ground, but not wanting to miss out on a good photo-op, kept her head turned and her smile wide like a true professional. The two of them went on to give me various poses: The Sexy Pose, The Working-

the -Fields Pose, The Eat What You Grow Pose, and my personal favorite, the candid shot, the “No way am I touching that, this mud is gross” pose. Kadijatou and I already have a special bond, but seeing her like that made me laugh and realize that while Gambian women constantly impress me with their toughness, we all generally start out the same—as silly, playful little girls.

Women carry their supplies on their heads.

3) Slippery Little Suckers

My friend, Jess, also "Fatoumata" in our matching dresses

The third week of May brought a bit of work mixed with a splash of indulgence. It marked the third annual GAD training for volunteers in The Gambia. An acronym for Gender and Development, GAD is a special sector of Peace Corps which focuses on giving females equal opportunities for employment and education, and working with males to ensure they grasp the importance and necessity of gender equality as a means for economic development. All volunteers in attendance were permitted to bring one local counterpart to Kombo for two days. Friday and Saturday morning, we all met up early at the Peace Corps office and were bused in to the blissful atmosphere of the Ocean Beach Hotel’s business center; we had coffee, tea, snacks, and a temperature controlled environment in which we discussed team building, sexual harassment, classroom management and community development. It was such a joy to see the reaction of some of the Gambian counterparts, many of whom had never seen the coastline of their own country. We had a buffet lunch, complete with so many pieces of silverware most the Americans were even unsure of when to use them. Two of the women were even spotted using their hands to eat as they’d never before seen a fork and hadn’t the slightest inclination on how to go about using it to eat food. I brought Aminata, the teacher from my school who I most often work with, and she had a wonderful time. Although she insisted the bottled water tasted “very unusual”, she loved the air-conditioning and, upon seeing the pool, inquired if she could go in with her clothes on during the break.

2) The Heat of the Moment 

As May progressed, the days not only continued getting longer and longer, but they were heating up. As the sun has more time to beat down on the roofs of our houses, sleeping inside these life-size ovens come nightfall proves next to impossible. To get around this problem, Gambians use these bamboo “thera-beds” to lie out in the middle of the compound and sleep until it cools off enough to go inside. This is done throughout the year to some degree as a kind of social hour, but now, it’s a serious matter. People bring their sheets and pillows outside and make a little nest for themselves to sweat away the night, usually waking when the strong winds roll in, sometime after midnight. When my dad came to visit, I preemptively purchased one of these thera-beds for him to use, knowing it would come in handy during the hot season. At first, I attempted to be “civilized” and make up a proper bed each night in the privacy of my backyard; it was honestly pretty nice. I had a small mattress, a little canopy mosquito net, matching floral print sheets. But, dragging the spare mattress in and out every day and attempting hospital corners on sheets three sizes too big turned out to be overrated—I’d soon had enough. So, the fourth Friday of May, I decided to bag civilized altogether; I schlepped the bed over my cement wall and into the front yard, threw down a pillow and the giant, wrinkled sheet, and claimed my new space. snoring family members and a sky speckled with stars, I suppose the heat is a small price to pay for such unique moments.
I now sleep there every night, alongside my sister, Kadijatou, until I wake up either from the wind in my face or her knee in my back, and stumble inside for the remaining few hours of night. Surrounded by a yard full of

1) Take Me Out to the Ballgame Camel Slaughter 

Right. So I don’t exactly know how to prepare any of you for this, as I myself have already seen it and feel unprepared, but here goes. Last Friday, the Quranic teacher, or Ustas, at my school and I decided to go for a bike ride. He, knowing I love riding out through the rice fields, suggested we do just that, but go a bit farther and survey the river for any hippos, which he’d never seen and was desperate to. So, out we rode, making it to the fields far past where I usually go. But soon, in the middle of the road, there was a large gathering, accompanied by a faint smell of something familiar, distinct—but it wasn’t earthy grasses or fresh air, it was meat—freshly butchered meat. Curious, we stopped our bikes and Ustas spoke with some locals to figure out what exactly we had stumbled upon. Then, he turned to me and explained. It was the weekly camel slaughter. “Oh”, I replied. “But..but..there are no camels in Gambia.” He stared at me, thinking about that for some time, then suddenly he responded, “They bring them here— they bring them, seven camels every week, and they slaughter them. Look at the bags of meat—see them? It is a thank you to the people.”

   

Saturday Night Fever Scare

I tried my very best to move on from this, to accept it as one of those things that happen in a foreign country that an outsider cannot possibly understand, but I just couldn’t, at least not without proof. Itwas so random, so utterly bizarre thatI knew if I tried to explain it to someone, I’d barely even be able to believe my own retelling of it. So, again helping with translations, Ustas made sure it was okay to photograph the scene before me. The guards in charge reluctantly agreed, but only on the condition that I would not capture any faces (aside, of course, from the camels’). A mysterious request, but I ran with it. So, behold, the massive piles of thank-yous to the people. The rest of the afternoon was nice; although we found no hippos, the fields were green, the sun was bright, and the birds were out in full force. Later that evening, as I lay outside, sunburned and exhausted, my host father came up to me with a bowl. “Here, try this. It’s a new meat. I think it must be that camel you were telling me about…” I pretended to be asleep. I may never know what exactly happened out there, or why camels, or why seven of them, but I do know one thing—I will never wander into any rice fields on Friday mornings ever again.

Bird stalking a tractor to get the bugs 

Spur-wing Plover, one classy lookin bird

My Ustas, Pa Omar Barrow

I Called the Witchdoctor

Living abroad, regardless of what country or culture you're in, can be challenging at times.  The weather, the food, the language--they all contribute to the creation of this other world.  However, over time, one learns to adjust.  After almost a year in Gambia, my body has somehow learned to tolerate the 100 degree temps, I find myself craving some local foods I once turned my nose up at, and Pulaar is sounding less and less foreign to me by the day.  But, there are other differences that as an American, or at least as a Meghan, I don't know if I'll ever quite buy into.

One of these things was previously unknown to me, but due to unfortunate circumstances and poorly tied shoes, was brought to my recent attention.  One day in early May, I was exercising in my backyard when, in the midst of doing high-knees, I came crashing down into the dirt.  I lay there for a moment gathering my thoughts--The first of which was a string words so vulgar, I'll spare the details, the second was, "No way! I can't do crutches again!" and then finally, straight denial, "I'll walk it off; it's probably fine."  Upon inspection, though, I determined I had, without a doubt, badly sprained my ankle.  It was swelling up quickly and when I attempted to pry myself up, I was struck with the reality-check of excruciating pain.

With no ice packs at my disposal, I resigned myself to lie down outside, prop my foot up on a big pillow and gently overdose on some painkillers.  Hours later, my ankle was huge and my family and neighbors started to chime in with their thoughts.  A few insisted it was serious and I needed to find a doctor, but most most were telling me I must do something...with a woman...while giving birth to...twin babies?  "Umm..okay. What the hell has that got to do with anything?  Do they think I'm having twins and that's why my foot is swollen?  How depressing," I thought.  It took a while, but after some explaining, I finally got it.  Apparently, the moment someone gives birth to twins, they are instantly blessed by Allah with the ability to heal.  Villagers with broken bones, sprained what-have-yous, or even whip lash go to see the woman nearest them who's been bestowed with this mystical gift.

My host-mother insisted I go, but I was skeptical, terrified even.  I'm not letting some random lady pull on my freaking ankle! I was rushed with visions of me, post-amputation, explaining to a physician why I would ever allow some tribal voodoo to be performed on me, and being told how if I'd only called a doctor, I could have saved my foot.  And so, stubbornly, I sat.  Evening soon arrived, and Hawa confronted me again and yelled in Pulaar, "Fatoumata, I know you are scared, but you are just sitting, doing nothing.  Try it. Go!" With that loving, albeit rather aggressive nudge, I decided to go. Satisfied, Hawa handed me a pot full of a local oil-based salve to give the woman, and off I went, hobbling into the dusk.

When I arrived to the woman's compound, it didn't look a thing like I'd imagined.  There were no bones hanging outside her door or cauldrons of viscous potions bubbling away.

Actually, she was wearing a Sponge Bob t-shirt and she was cooking dinner.  One look at my pathetic limp, and she put down her spoon and walked over to me.  Motioning for me to sit, she grabbed a small stool and crouched down in front of me, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.  With a dip of her fingers into the lotion, she immediately began her work.  She held my foot in one hand and pressed, tugged, rolled, massaged and flexed my ankle every which way.  A crowd of children had, of course, gathered to watch the foreigner receive her treatment, and there were excited, whispered announcements made at my every wince and groan.  (Also..I'm pretty sure some were placing bets as to whether or not I would cry.) I thanked her, and while wiping her hands on her skirt, she nodded and told me to return in the morning.

That night, I slept with my foot elevated and, like a good patient, arrived for my follow-up appointment bright and early the next day.  I was shocked to see that not only had the swelling gone down, but my entire foot was now dark army-green, signaling that the healing process was now well underway.  I was impressed.  I've had my fair share of sprained ankles, but never have I had one improve as quickly as this.  Maybe the magic is real.  I judged myself immediately for even entertaining the idea--I don't believe in all that hooey-stuff-- but then, without ice, crutches, or the ability to stay off of it, how was it able to heal so quickly?  It's a question I don't have the answer to, but I've decided I don't need one.  People here have been climbing trees and breaking bones for much longer than we have, and while I'm sure no Western medical book would endorse the "just lube it up and smash it around" course of treatment, it seems to be working.  #wheninRome

The Root of It

While there are many common threads woven within the missions and goals of Peace Corps volunteers in African countries, it is the attempt to control malaria that proves itself the greatest common struggle.  It is an unfortunate reality of living in this part of the world that this disease touches the lives of nearly every one of its inhabitants.  The Gambia is no exception.  It's estimated that malaria claims the life of one child every sixty seconds in Sub-Saharan Africa alone.  This itself stands as a heartbreaking and staggering statistic, however, not only is it affecting the health of those directly infected--the consequences of malaria trickle down, as absence from school, inability to care for crops, and inefficiency in the workplace combine to create a vicious cycle of poor education, hunger, and economic instability.  For these reasons, Peace Corps constantly strives to utilize new strategies for improving malaria education and prevention techniques.

Recently, one health volunteer in The Gambia took on the project of designing a school-based program which would travel around the country and promote healthy life-choices and skills to aid in the fight against this killer disease.  For seven months, Jess He, with the help of a few fellow volunteers, labored over a curriculum that would do just that--and thus, the Kick Out Malaria Trek was born.  

The program consists of four primary stations, each offering a unique skill or "take away point" relating to malaria.  Children from grades five through nine rotate through each station and learn everything from how malaria is spread and diagnosed to how to properly hang, care for, and even decorate a mosquito net.  These topics are presented in fun and approachable ways, using colorful story books, dramas, games, and a Gambian counterpart who helps deepen their understanding with any necessary translations.  Once the final rotation is complete, all classes come together in the school field to get a first taste of what's known as SkillZ/ Grassgroots Soccer. This program, which integrates soccer balls into various interactive games, was developed in South Africa and brought to life here by health volunteer Elizabeth Livingston.  It's a great way to impart malaria prevention knowledge while indulging the soccer-crazed youths of Africa.  First learning about Grassroots during a training in Senegal known as Stomping Out Malaria (http://stompoutmalaria.org) Elizabeth felt passionately that this would work well in The Gambia.  After searching for a platform to present this new idea, she joined with Jess He, and was able to put the SkillZ program together with the Kick Out Malaria Trek, and whet the palates of hundreds of Gambian students who now look forward to expanding their knowledge about malaria while engaging in fun and inventive play.

Learning to patch holes 

SkillZ in action

Kids enjoying a bit of fun after classes

Spencer, a fellow PCV and his students

I was given the opportunity to host this event at my own school and am so glad I did.  The trek was a success, reaching over eighty fifth and sixth grade students from both my school and the neighboring Fulabantang.  It was beyond refreshing to see the kids motivated and energetic about such a serious topic, and I look forward to working with my school to make Grassroots soccer a part of our own weekly routine. While malaria may be a problem bigger than any one person, through the education and empowerment of today's youths, students can steadily unite to create a force large enough to make a real impact on the future.

All students signed a banner to promise to sleep under their nets every night.

Small Country, Big Love

I've often imagined what my life would look like if I was born in another country.  Would I still have gone to college?  Would I have had children already?  What exactly would I be wearing right now? Few things, however, have made me ponder over being a woman in another culture as much as being here in Gambia, observing the intricacies of life as a wife in an extended family.  This term, "extended family" does not take on the same meaning as we know it.  It isn't a reference to aunts and uncles, grandmothers and cousins, but here, it's a label given to a family with more than one female head.

The Gambia, being predominantly Muslim, permits men to take up to four wives.  The logic for this, as explained by the holy text of the Quran, reasons that men should reproduce as often as possible in order to increase the number of people belonging to Islam.    This is simply easier and more plausible if more than one woman is there to procreate.  Additionally, a Muslim female must wait forty days following the birth of her child before she becomes available for sex, thus leaving open a dangerously wide window of temptation for the husband.  But, if a man takes a second wife, he can appease his desires without crossing the boundaries of marriage.

From a non-Muslim perspective, this may sound like the men are merely being let off on a technicality, however, it is important to note that these rules were set in place centuries ago, causing the original intentions to become clouded by our modern interpretations.  For instance, there was a time in history when many men were going off to war and dying in battle, leaving their daughters and wives with no one to care for them.  Giving men the right to take on more than one wife was an attempt to protect the needs of those widowed or orphaned.  So it is that things are not always what they seem.  For someone like myself, who was raised by a woman of the '70s and emerged from the birth canal singing "Anything You Can Do," I find it difficult to keep this perspective at times, but am constantly working to stifle my gut-reaction and focus on the fact that I am not here to judge, but to learn. So, curious to see if women here have the same struggle in holding back their opinions, I sat down with a few locals and chatted about their true feelings on what it's like to share their lives, households, and husbands with other women.

Although we were all a bit shy at first, in less than an hour, these ladies were rowdy and hilarious, allowing  me to open up and ask all the dirty details on love, jealousy, and most importantly--sex. Here's what I found out.

Q: Do the women get along? If they don't, can one tell their husband they no longer want a co-wife?

A:  In short, no on all counts.  While there are many instances of wives working together and showing no outward signs of jealousy or ill-will, more than likely, they want their husband to themselves and feel encroached on and threatened by the other woman.  I offered up that in my own family, I have two mothers, and they get along really well.

"J. Boi" and Ramatoulie 

I see them laughing together and Hawa even speaks to Jenaiba (my second mother) in her native language sometimes just to make her feel more at home.  I was, however, quickly knocked off my cloud of naivete, as each woman tried to suppress their laughs until one said, "Ha! Hawa and J'Boi? Haha! Noooo!" to which another finally added, "Fatoumata, a woman can look happy here, but she is feeling many things in here," while pointing to her face and chest, respectively.  I stood corrected.

As for a woman being permitted to weigh in on if and when another wife may be taken--that was a loud and clear "no" from the whole group.  They explained that although one may have suspicions or intuitions, a woman typically doesn't know her husband plans to take a new wife until a mere week or so prior to the wedding ceremony.  He just shows up one day, introduces the women, explains that they will now share their lives together, 'till death do them part, and that's that.  In my family's case, Hawa went and vouched for my host-father in front of Jenaiba's parents, ensuring them of his good intentions, however, I highly doubt this was done of her own volition, regardless of how true it may have been.

Q: How do the husbands and wives decide who is living where? I mean...are they all having sex in one room? 

My host father's new house going up

A: Absolutely not.  If a man is married to only one woman, it is common for them to share a house and at times, a bed.  But, once their children are a few years old and no longer able to feign sleep through the nocturnal habits of their parents, the husband usually builds a house next door.  (Keep in mind these are not elaborate condominiums, but simple, mud-brick structures.) Now, if there are two wives, naturally, things get a bit more complex.  Two women require two houses.  They each have their own territory in which to sleep, bathe, decorate and house their children.  The other areas for cooking and relaxing are usually shared spaces as they're most often found outside in the center of the compound.  This building of houses and shuffling around continues as each new wife is brought in to the family.

Q: That's all lovely.  But what about the sex?  How do they know when it's their turn to do it?

A:  As for "sleeping arrangements", the most commonly adopted routine is two days on, two days off. If, for example, my days are Monday and Tuesday, those days I will do all work related to the compound.  I'll sweep, fetch water, cook the meals, do the washing, and then finally, do my husband. It remains unclear if this is in reward for all the hard work, or is just considered another chore on the list.  (When I asked this, I was answered only with wild fits of laughter, leaving me to believe it probably depends on the husband.)  When more than two wives are involved, the two-day cycle is usually still followed, but some prefer switching to a less traditional one-day rotation, as waiting four or even six days (as would be the case when having four wives) to perform one's wifely duties presents a problem as, according to Islam, an idle woman may begin to seek the attentions of other men after only a few short days.  Herein lies the majority of the reason why the number of wives remains capped at four--because asking your wife to wait eight days for sex, now that would be asking too much.

Q: What about the children? Do they raise them together?  Are they treated the same? 

A: As you can imagine, this was a heavy question and the only one that did not illicit laughter.  As a non-Muslim with no children, I cannot begin to understand the complexities of these issues, but was able to gather some heart-felt responses.  Each woman works tirelessly to show every child love and attention; but, the force of biology is strong and it's rare that one's own children are not favored by their mother.  If multiple women are breast-feeding at one time, it isn't unheard of to feed the other's baby in a pinch, or to allow them to suckle simply as a means of pacifying their cries, so long as prior permission has been given.  But it is these early years that prove the easiest; the real trouble comes later when the kids are old enough to pick up on any animosities between the mothers and take sides against each other, creating a family dis-jointed by their loyalty to one woman or the other.  Some children may be hesitant to show affection to a second mother for fear of upsetting her own, or one may be cold to her birth mother in order to manipulate another.  Keeping a balance seems next to impossible, but this concept is not all that foreign to us, either, as divorce, remarriage, and step-everythings are more common today than the nuclear family--it's just that here, they're all residing under one, great roof.

One of my helpful ladies and her adorable son.

This concept presents such an unimaginable challenge, that I myself know I would not be up for. Marriage is hard enough as it is without adding more fuel to the fire.  That said, the principals of Islam, like any other religion or set of beliefs, is evolving and changing with the times, and as more and more people are exercising their right to find a partner in love, rather than a spouse chosen by their families, the rates of taking only one wife are rising.  Thoughts are that, if you're already happy with the first, then why bother with more? Perhaps this is also due in part to the voices of women being heard a little more clearly than in days past. One of the women I spoke with told me with a look of absolute severity, "I could never tell my husband I don't want him to marry another, but he knows."  

My conversation with these women ended smoothly.  I thanked them for their honesty and, wanting to contribute something , told them one of my favorite quotes which, embarrassingly enough, I took from My Big Fat Greek Wedding.  It states, "A man may be the head, but the woman, she is the neck, and she can turn the head any way she wants." They all smiled and one voice rang out, "A halli gonga!" which translates roughly to, "Ain't that the truth!".