Koranic Schools

Every morning little African Oliver Twists wake me up with the rattling of their tin cans beside my mosquito net and their, weak, pathetic cries of Meda hadi, meda hadi – I’m hungry, I’m hungry. These are the students of Koranic schools, begging for food between their rote memorization of the Koran. This show is repeated twice more each day, usually while I’m hunched over the family feed bowl trying to enjoy my slice of the rice pie.^[1] If I’m not fast enough, I might lose the last piece of okra to one of these hungry children. And so, lethargic as I am from the heat and the massive intake of carbs, my right hand swoops down and takes the gumbo before my host father unwittingly gives it away to the malnourished child behind me. Despite my love of okra, it can be difficult to enjoy that last bite. The sound of loose teeth hanging from scurvy stricken gums rattling against the bones of a fish already picked over by a family of five is enough to make me almost lose my appetite, sometimes.

^[1]In Mauritania all meals are eaten family style, on the ground, from a large bowl, using your right hand to scoop food from the bowl to your mouth. Most meals come on a bed of rice our couscous. There’s an invisible “pie slice” that defines everyone’s share of those staples. You would never eat someone else’s rice or couscous, however you can take meat and vegetables from anybody’s “slice.”
This works better than you might expect and definitely makes you feel closer to those around you. I’ve heard some PCVs claim they’ll continue to eat like this in the States. I don’t mind doing it here, but I know I’ll never do it again once I leave. There’s something about licking oil, rice, and sauce from my hand that remains forever unappealing. For me, silverware is fine.