Tanzania is my third country that boasts a considerable
Muslim contingent—roughly more than one third of the population, according to
estimates—after Jordan, and Morocco in the Peace Corps before that. Tanzania is
still a mixed bag, where it is safe to say that not one single religion has been
embraced by the entire population. Not a bad thing, necessarily, religions
peacefully co-existing like this. There were no such doubts in Jordan or
Morocco, both solid Muslim countries.
This past week, the holiday of the Eid Fitr was observed, the end of Ramadan. There is never any certainty just when Ramadan ends. Here, we were told either Monday or Tuesday, depending on the moon. It turns out the moon remained concealed until Monday night, so that the two ensuing holidays were slotted for Tuesday and Wednesday. So one would assume that the stores close, people stay at home to commemorate the festive occasion, and traffic stands still for two days, correct? Not quite. Small businesses don't make any money here if they close for even a day. The logic here was that there would be far more customers on holidays, since now thousands of workers would receive holidays and venture out to get that haircut, have that chicken coop built by the carpenter, or enjoy a leisurely lunch. The chores I enumerated might appear random, but that's exactly what I did on my first holiday, the Tuesday of the Eid.
If I recall correctly, then this was my fifth Ramadan. I am not a Muslim, so I haven't really observed this ritual since my first Ramadan as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Morocco. I thought what better way to endear myself to the local population than to show them that I can hold my own (or shall I say withhold my own)? Four weeks later, two unidentified illnesses, and twenty lost pounds were prime evidence that it might not have been such a good idea to fast when I did. The mental mindset was not there, obviously. It would have probably been better to fast a day or a week at a time. Fasting wholeheartedly with the Moroccan Muslim population all those years ago was like challenging myself to beat a Kenyan Olympic hopeful at the New York Marathon—not a good idea.
This past week, the holiday of the Eid Fitr was observed, the end of Ramadan. There is never any certainty just when Ramadan ends. Here, we were told either Monday or Tuesday, depending on the moon. It turns out the moon remained concealed until Monday night, so that the two ensuing holidays were slotted for Tuesday and Wednesday. So one would assume that the stores close, people stay at home to commemorate the festive occasion, and traffic stands still for two days, correct? Not quite. Small businesses don't make any money here if they close for even a day. The logic here was that there would be far more customers on holidays, since now thousands of workers would receive holidays and venture out to get that haircut, have that chicken coop built by the carpenter, or enjoy a leisurely lunch. The chores I enumerated might appear random, but that's exactly what I did on my first holiday, the Tuesday of the Eid.
If I recall correctly, then this was my fifth Ramadan. I am not a Muslim, so I haven't really observed this ritual since my first Ramadan as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Morocco. I thought what better way to endear myself to the local population than to show them that I can hold my own (or shall I say withhold my own)? Four weeks later, two unidentified illnesses, and twenty lost pounds were prime evidence that it might not have been such a good idea to fast when I did. The mental mindset was not there, obviously. It would have probably been better to fast a day or a week at a time. Fasting wholeheartedly with the Moroccan Muslim population all those years ago was like challenging myself to beat a Kenyan Olympic hopeful at the New York Marathon—not a good idea.
There have also been differences in the observance of
Ramadan. In Dar Es Salaam, there was still open eating and drinking in the
streets…big deal, Islam is not the nationally recognized religion of the
country, so there wouldn't be any stonings or mash shamings should one person
step out of line. In Jordan, people were a little more critical, although there
was still a considerable Christian population. For the most part, even though I
did see several instances of people smoking or eating in their homes, there
were very few instances of defying Ramadan right where we were in the Middle
East.
Not so Morocco. Living in a town called Beni Mellal—a university city in the Middle Atlas Mountains halfway between Fes and Marrakech—there would be no dissension among the ranks of worshipers. Even if I didn't observe Ramadan the second time around, it would have been folly to openly cook on my range at broad daytime (though the women did so liberally in preparation for breaking the fast later in the evening) and enrage the neighborhood. Morocco was also the scene of what I would call Ramadan rage, referring to the little side effects fasting could have on your body, among them a shorter temper. At a football match, for example, I waited for the referee to make one bad call against the home team to open the floodgates and subject himself to his own personal jehenem, or hell. The man duly obliged, and rocks and shoes came raining down from the stands…and yet, the man's flag signaling offside still didn't budge one inch. This is shocking, simply because I never met a gentler folk in my life than the Moroccans. It was like the difference between Jekyll and Hyde…or the difference between fasting and not fasting.
The festivities here in Dar es Salaam were still pretty impressive. To all of you countries who have ever won a World Cup, a European Cup, a Copa America, Africa Cup, etc. you will know what I am talking about: honking cars buzzing about, celebrating in the streets, more action than normal at the beaches. No different here. In fact, I'd venture to say that the celebration was even more pronounced here since it lasted two whole days.
Another year, another Ramadan.
Not so Morocco. Living in a town called Beni Mellal—a university city in the Middle Atlas Mountains halfway between Fes and Marrakech—there would be no dissension among the ranks of worshipers. Even if I didn't observe Ramadan the second time around, it would have been folly to openly cook on my range at broad daytime (though the women did so liberally in preparation for breaking the fast later in the evening) and enrage the neighborhood. Morocco was also the scene of what I would call Ramadan rage, referring to the little side effects fasting could have on your body, among them a shorter temper. At a football match, for example, I waited for the referee to make one bad call against the home team to open the floodgates and subject himself to his own personal jehenem, or hell. The man duly obliged, and rocks and shoes came raining down from the stands…and yet, the man's flag signaling offside still didn't budge one inch. This is shocking, simply because I never met a gentler folk in my life than the Moroccans. It was like the difference between Jekyll and Hyde…or the difference between fasting and not fasting.
The festivities here in Dar es Salaam were still pretty impressive. To all of you countries who have ever won a World Cup, a European Cup, a Copa America, Africa Cup, etc. you will know what I am talking about: honking cars buzzing about, celebrating in the streets, more action than normal at the beaches. No different here. In fact, I'd venture to say that the celebration was even more pronounced here since it lasted two whole days.
Another year, another Ramadan.
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