Tsumu Ndjema!

This means Ramadan Mubarak or Have a Good Ramadan in Shingazidja!

Ramadan started in Comoros on May 7th and I am writing this on the 24th day, which means there’s only about a week left until Eid; the big celebration that marks the end of the fast.

Prior to living in Comoros I only vaguely knew that during Ramadan Muslims fast for 30 days, meaning no food AND no water. Now I have been given the opportunity to more fully understand the holiday, as Comorian’s celebrate it.

Several things about life change during Ramadan. For one, the fasting. We wake up at 4am each morning to eat “tsahu” or the meal before the first prayer that will give us sustenance to fast the whole day. We break the fast at Iftar, or in Shingazidja, we “fungala” which is the act of breaking the fast. In Comoros Iftar is around 5:50pm which is a blessing because we only have to fast for 13 hours, and in some countries the fast is 15-16 hours long. During Ramadan, people are also much more diligent about going to the mosque for prayer, five times per day, and men often pray into the night after Iftar. Women do not normally go to the mosque, but for this month a section of our neighborhood’s mosque has been cordoned off for women, and I plan to go with my sister next week before Eid. People are constantly asking me if I’ve been praying so I think this act will generate a lot of excitement in my village. For me personally, I have slightly changed the way I dress during this month by covering my head with a scarf every time I leave the house. And yes, I am fasting, though if you know me at all you can probably guess that I have cheated a little bit when it comes to drinking water.

My two favorite things about Ramadan have come in the form of exercise and eating. For awhile I was worried I wouldn’t be able to workout at all during this month, but then my friend Anzidi invited me to workout with him before his team’s soccer games! The past few weeks we have been going to the field around 4pm and running laps and doing other warm ups. It’s a lot of fun and also really intense after fasting all day, but worth it because Iftar is only a half hour away by the time we are done. And I love Iftar. Every night my family sits together on our roof in a circle, with an amazing view of the ocean and island, and breaks the fast together. It makes me feel so included and part of life here. I’ve also been able to break the fast at a few different friends’ houses which always makes me feel so grateful to have so many families who care for me in my village.

With the approach of Eid everyone has started talking about preparations because on that day we will all wear our nicest outfits and eat lots of food and children will go from house to house to get candy. However surrounding the excitement of Eid, is also the reality that many people in my village do not have the means to buy new clothes, and that this whole month of cooking large dinners with meat and different breads has stretched people’s money very thin. It’s been a humbling reminder that nearly everyone I know in my village feels this stress of not being able to afford all that they need or would like to have for Eid. Even in this poverty though, people are happy and find joy in day to day life. It really has made me realize that most of us have SO much in America and that we really do not need any of it – a cliche realization, but important just the same.

I’ve almost been in Comoros for a year which is absolutely unbelievable. At this moment in time I feel so intrinsically happy to be apart of my village and life here. Ramadan has only helped enhance my relationships and the togetherness I feel, and for that I am very thankful.

Wandzani

This title means “friends” because I’m feeling so thankful for all of them near and far.

As most people would probably say, I really love my friends. I really really love them. I take a lot of pride in being associated with the people I have chosen to be my friend and who have chosen me to be theirs.

Along these lines, I find it interesting and beautiful that we all as individuals have people we naturally gravitate towards. Friendship is special because of the very fact that we as people choose each other.

Living in Comoros has shown me that this is true anywhere in the world. Recently I’ve found a few families in my village that I really love spending time with. And I was thinking, how cool is it that out of all the people in my village I found these specific families that I fit in so well with and have so much fun with.

A month or so ago I moved to a new house with a different family. This was a very emotional experience for me to navigate. I have become very close with many of the women in my old neighborhood. When I told them I was moving to a different area I couldn’t stop myself from crying. I was comforted with so much acceptance and understanding. They came to visit me at my new house just hours after I had moved.

As I write this I’m laying on the floor with my Mama and my sister, sharing one big blanket and one pillow and I’m soaking in how amazing human connection is and how thankful I am that I’ve found it here in my village. 

Sisi Sawa!

We are the same!

Recently it’s become more and more clear to me that all human beings are the same. Obviously I don’t mean the same as in having the same interests, personalities, strengths etc., but that at a very base level all humans share similarities. And of course I’m only speaking from my experience in America and in Comoros – but talk about two totally different worlds! And yet we share so many similarities.

I think about these similarities the most in terms of humor. The fact that some things are universally funny is proof that we as human beings aren’t that different. 

A few examples of this:

I visited my friend Emily’s village and she introduced me to one of her good friends, an older man. He was joking and explaining to us that his daughter had a child but that he’s only an uncle because he’s much too young to be a grandfather. This reminded me of my own grandfather who refused to be called grandpa when my oldest cousin was born and instead chose to be called GW, because like this Comoran man he felt too young to truly be a grandfather. Wanting to be young and a disliking of old age is a universal human struggle. 

My director at my school is a jokester. He once asked me if I like madaba (cooked cassava leaves – so good!) or pork (pork is haram aka a big no no in Islam) better. I decided to answer honestly and say pork. The director started laughing a lot and so I said “samahani Allah” (sorry God) and he started laughing even more. All humans can find the some things funny.

All humans like the breeze from an open car window. 

All children love dancing. 

All humans enjoy a cold drink and coke is the universal one. 

All children cry when their parents have to leave them and all parents’ hearts break when they have to leave their crying child. 

All kids know the gross eyelid inside out trick.  

All humans fall asleep on long car rides.

All humans have baby talk voices.   

All humans can be competitive. 

All kids like having a day off from school. 

All humans have the same reaction when someone plays the draw 4 card in UNO on them. 

Each day I am in awe of how similar we are even though we grew up worlds apart. It makes me love humans more than I already did. And I think it’s an important lesson, especially in today’s world, that no one is better than anyone else. It should be enough that we all share one huge thing in common, we are all humans!!! 

Masterehi

 This loosely translates to “a feeling of contentment”. 

Recently I have been thinking a lot about what having all your needs met actually means. My thoughts on this are two part, and I will start with talking about how handy and competent Comorans are. 

2 weeks ago the lock on my door broke, meaning when I got home, sweaty and tired, from a long day of teaching the door would not open and I could not access my room. This stretched my patience to its furthest limits. I should have known there was no reason to panic though, because Comorans have yet to let me down when I’ve been in need. My 8 year old brother was able to squeeze through the metal bars on the window to my room, in fact he is the only one that fit, so the entire operation of fixing my door/lock now rested on his shoulders. My dad and a neighbor got home from work and positioned themselves right outside the window instructing Abou on the finer mechanics of using a screw driver and lock removal. By this point the comedy of the situation got to me, and I found myself thanking Allah that Comoran children are incredibly competent, because Abou was able to remove the lock and I gained entry to my bedroom!

Another example of Comorans being highly competent is when, during a bus ride to the capital, the bus’s gear shift completely stopped working. This was highly stressful for me because we were essentially in the middle of nowhere, stopped on an incredibly steep hill. Again my worries were unfounded because the driver and a few other men simply got off the bus, fiddled around for no more than 10 minutes, and the situation was fixed and we safely arrived in the capital. 

I think the reason why Comorans are so competent is because they have to be. There aren’t locksmiths and mechanics readily available to be called, and even if there were most people wouldn’t be able to afford those services. Thus, Comorans have learned how to take care of things themselves; they are self sufficient. This is something I think Americans could stand to work on. 

This leads me to the second part of my thoughts. The other evening I had a sore throat and all I wanted was a cup of tea. However, we haven’t had electricity for the past 3 weeks so I could not use my electric kettle, and my family was busy cooking dinner so they did not have time to boil water over the fire for me. I found myself feeling very frustrated. It should seemingly be so simple to make a cup of tea but of course nothing is ever that simple here. Then I started thinking about how easy it was to achieve immediate gratification in the United States, and how I definitely took that for granted when I lived there. Most of the time in my life here I can’t immediately satisfy my wants, and even sometimes my needs. Especially with the power being out, I can’t watch a movie in bed on my laptop even if that’s all I’m craving. Or sometimes I’ll be very hungry because my family doesn’t eat lunch until 2pm and even after 8 months here I still wish we ate at noon. 

I have had to learn how to find gratification from much simpler material things, like a cold bucket shower, or not from material things at all, but rather from a contentment inside myself. I believe that every person has this ability to be content regardless of the circumstances around them, but it isn’t until our usual comforts are stripped away that we are challenged to find it. 

I’m writing this and realize that even with my “hardships” I am still incredibly privileged compared to my friends and family in Comoros. It was fully my decision to come here and I have easier access to opportunities when I’m done my service than many of the girls my age. But I am thankful that I can have an appreciation for living a simpler life now, a life where all my needs are met, even if it’s not in the same exact way as in the US. 

The Comorans I live alongside have made lives for themselves, they find joy and contentment (arguably easier than Americans do), and are self-sufficient. The relationships I’ve made with these people and the life that I live here can accurately be defined as “Masterehi”. 

Ye Ngoendo Ndahu?

This means “Where are you going?” and is a question I hear anytime I am going anywhere. At first I found this a little annoying – why does everyone always have to know where I am going??? However, I have come to realize that this question is a normal and expected part of conversation in this culture, and that a lot of times that I have been asked, especially when traveling, it’s benefited me because Comorans are eager to help whenever they can.

Now that I have been living in this country for nearly 8 months, I have had the opportunity to travel a little bit, using Comoran public transportation. There are two main types of public transportation here: taxis and busses, which are actually large white vans. When I lived in Pittsburgh I enjoyed my daily bus rides to my internship because there is a certain sense of community one feels when traveling alongside other people, even if they are complete strangers. I experience this same feeling of oneness when I take the busses in Comoros, a feeling that I embrace and appreciate because I am used to feeling like a little bit of an outsider as the only American in my village. Beyond this feeling of community, I have experienced so much kindness during my travels in Comoros, and traveling has given me some of my fondest memories of my time here so far. I feel a sort of zen and sense of contentment in my life here when I am making the commute across the volcano to or from the capital. In order to paint the picture that is my experience of public transportation in Comoros I am going to share a few stories:

The other day I went to visit my friend Karolina’s village for the first time. To get there, I had to first take a bus into the capital and then from there take a taxi to her village. I ran some errands in the capital before heading to the taxi stop, and once I finished I started walking in that direction. A man on a motorcycle saw I was carrying a lot of things and offered me a ride on the back of his bike, which I of course did not and could not accept for safety reasons, but it was clear his offer came from a place of genuine kindness and not one wrapped up in ulterior motive. Almost immediately after, another car slowed down to offer me a ride, free of charge, but I declined as I was close to my destination. In the space of five minutes I was hit with two instances of genuine Comoran generosity.

One time I was traveling to my friend Katie’s site for the day and had gotten instructions from my counterpart on how to get there. It involved stopping in two villages and taking three different taxis. At each stop I would get out of my current taxi and immediately a man would be by my side asking me where I needed to go next. Then they would proceed to find a taxi to take me there. I truly did not have to worry at all about getting lost or finding Katie’s village because I felt so taken care of by the men and taxi drivers at each stop.

On my way home from Katie’s I had a little more difficulty finding transportation because my village is not frequently travelled to. When I got to the last stop before my village, the taxi driver let me out and gave instructions to a boy of about eighteen years old of where I needed to go and to wait with me until I found a car or bus there. We ended up having to wait over two hours for a car going to my village, and the boy waited the entire time. I think I would have completely lost it for fear of never getting home if it weren’t for this boy who talked with me and assured me a car would come, and who put so much effort into finding a taxi to take me. I was shocked by his kindness; I cannot think of a scenario where an American, myself included, would happily spend two hours, giving up whatever plans they had, waiting with a foreign stranger.

I have gotten to know some of the bus drivers in my village and there is one that always makes sure I get the front seat, which is ideal for the over an hour drive into the capital. During one of my trips with him, we passed another bus with a flat tire. My driver stopped and let the other driver take his spare tire, free of charge.

Another driver ensured that I got a seat on the bus on my way home from the capital one day, even though I had been last in the mad dash of people for a spot. He placed my backpack on the top of the bus for me, but when it started raining he remembered to take it off and shelter it inside the bus, without me having to say anything.

These are just a few of the countless positive experiences I have had traveling in Comoros. I have this feeling that I could trust almost any Comoran to take care of me or help me if I am in need, and living in a country where this is the case makes being an “outsider” so much less scary. I recognize that much of the kindness I have received is a privilege of me being an American in this country, but experiences of my driver giving the other driver the tire show just how integral helping others for the good of the community is in this culture. I think a lot could be learned from how Comorans function as a single community and family.

Mimi mkomori wa nusu

This is the phrase I typically say when I’m asked why I don’t cover my head: I am half Comoran. 

Typically the conversation starts and someone will suggest that I cover my head with my scarf, and I will respond “no thank you I’m good, I’m an American” to which I’ll normally get a response of “but you are Comoran now!” And so I will answer “I am half Comoran!” Which usually gets laughs and satisfies the person telling me to cover my head. 

Beyond helping me navigate complex cultural differences, this phrase has come to have a deeper meaning for me. The Peace Corps has three main goals. To summarize in my own words, the first is to bring needed skills to a village – in my case this is being an English teacher. The second is goal is to facilitate greater knowledge about Americans and American culture in the village that we serve, and the third is to educate Americans about the culture and people that we are serving. For me, sometimes this second goal gets forgotten. 

When I first moved to my village I was incredibly focused on integrating as best as I could. This meant wearing Comoran clothes, covering up my shoulders with a scarf every time I left the house, eating Comoran food, attending weddings, learning the local language etc. These are all really important things, but now as I’ve lived in Comoros for 7 months, and in my village for nearly 5, I’ve started to realize that integrating does not mean giving up one’s whole self. 

The Peace Corps is meant to be a cultural exchange as noted by the second and third goals. This exchange means adopting many of the Comoran ways of life. I’ve done this in several ways but there’s a few specifics ones that stand out. First, when I’m in my village I exclusively wear clothing that I’ve bought in Comoros. This means colorful long dresses called boubous, wraps which are called saluvas, and of course a scarf every time I leave my house. Second, because I live with a host family, I have all my meals prepared for me. This means that I exclusively eat a standard Comoran diet of lots of cassava and plaintains and rice. Third, I’ve started using a sandalwood face mask called msindanu every night before bed. Comoran women paint their faces with msindanu daily to protect them from the sun. These three things help me feel connected to the culture I’m surrounded by and I am happy to embrace them. 

But a cultural exchange, and the second goal, also means sharing some parts of myself with Comorans. This can sometimes be challenging because most of the time I feel as though it is my responsibility to defer to the culture around me, as I am a guest and I am here to serve. I’ve come to realize that holding onto parts of my American identity, and my identity as Danielle, is not offensive, but rather a part of this amazing opportunity to make the world a slightly smaller place. 

The most noticeable way I hold on to my identity is that I do not cover my head, even though I have been asked to many times, because it is not a part of my religion. I also eat with my left hand, something considered taboo here because that is typically the dirty wiping hand. But I am left handed and can’t easily eat with my right hand, so I explain this if people comment about my left hand usage. I also paint my finger and toe nails, something that only married women are supposed to do. But having painted nails is something that makes me feel beautiful and put together, and is an aspect of who I am. 

Most of the time when Comorans ask me to cover my head, or tell me to eat with my right hand, or comment that my nails shouldn’t be painted, I believe it comes from a benevolent place. They want me to be apart of their life and their culture here, and they are excited to teach me about it. Remembering this helps me to stay off the defensive, while still empowering me to share why I may do some things differently than them. 

My wise mother once texted when I first arrived here “soak in what is around you, consciously, little by little to be part of you but not to replace what already is you” and that is how I plan to navigate the complex cultural experiences that now color my life. 

Karibu!

This means “welcome” which is how I feel in Comoros. 

Today marks 6 months in country, and so far my service has been painted by days that make me feel happier and more in awe than I ever have, days that just feel normal, and days that are very hard. 

Yesterday was one such hard day for me.

Maoulida is the celebration of The Prophet Muhammad’s birth and so my family had an event for this holiday. This meant I spent 4+ hours sitting in the kitchen, while women cooked all around me, feeling generally useless. These types of events are also hard for me because I find myself surrounded by so many people that I cannot adequately communicate with given the language barrier. As a normally very social and talkative person it’s hard for me to simply sit and be during these moments, without worrying that I am not doing enough. So I felt sad, lonely, and anxious by the time the day and event wrapped up yesterday. 

However, as I reflect on the past 6 months, days like the one described above are few and far between, which is something noteworthy in it of itself because living in an entirely new culture, surrounded by a different language, thousands of miles from friends and family is no simple feat. 

Recently I have been thinking a lot about how humbling it is that my village, my school, and my host family have so readily welcomed me into their lives. I think sometimes, especially Americans, we can have a sense of entitlement like, “I’m doing them a favor by being here, I’ve sacrificed a lot.” And while that’s true, I have sacrificed some things to be here, it’s not the full picture. These people, my fellow community members, have welcomed me into their home so readily and that’s no easy thing. They’ve had to trust the Peace Corps, and they’ve had to trust me to teach their children effectively and appropriately. And most of all, my host family agreed to host a foreigner, a stranger, a non Muslim for two whole years. That’s such a commitment, and generosity of such magnitude that I don’t think many of us have ever given that much before. 

Yes I am here to serve my community, to show them an example of what Americans are like, and to hopefully benefit their lives in some way. But I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the people of my village taking the leap of faith to accept a foreigner like me. 

When I think about the past 6 months I remember bad days but I also remember my brother coming to spend time with me one day while I was sitting on the front porch, I remember my 5eme boys inviting me to a soccer game they’re playing in, I remember all the scarves I’ve been given by various women, I remember my grandmother always knowing what I’m trying to say even when the language doesn’t come out right, I remember watching 10 Things I Hate About You with Ryanne and my sister, I remember having interesting and real conversations with my fellow teachers at the school, and so so many more things. This life is so full. 

Ngasina nvu!

This post’s title means “we are strong!” Which is what I tell my female students as we run up the  hills in our mountain village.

In a previous blog post I wrote about how important running is to me, and especially to my Peace Corps Service.

Running has been a large part of my life for the past 5 years. In that time, it has become a consistent source of stability, empowerment, and fun. I knew that running was absolutely something I’d not only want to, but need to, continue during my Peace Corps service in Comoros because of the way it always grounds me, helps me feel strong, and provides a sense of freedom and accomplishment. 

When I first moved to my village nearly 3 months ago now, I started running a few days per week. The reaction of the community members varied: some were indifferent, some definitely thought I was crazy, and others absolutely loved it. Eventually it has become something I’m widely known for in my community; leading it to become a common conversation topic when I greet people throughout the village. “Danielle did you run today?” 

A few weeks ago, three of my female 6eme (equivalent to 6th grade) students asked if they could run with me on Sunday, and of course I said yes. This exchange didn’t really hold that much significance to me, as I simply thought “it’ll be fun if they come but I doubt they actually will.” The next day in class, however, every student began asking me about running on Sunday – so I decided to make an announcement: “Sunday morning at 6:30 we will meet at the school and run together.” The girls seemed dedicated, but this was still early in the week, a long way from Sunday, so while I was getting excited I still told myself to not expect more than a few students to actually come. 

On the Sunday morning of the first run I found myself overwhelmed with awe because 24 girls showed up to run with me. They came equipped with socks and sneakers, waters and juices, and biscuits to snack on. Their preparation for the morning ahead touched me immensely. The workout started with stretching and dynamic warm ups on the village’s soccer field. After we’d done that for a while several of the girls asked if we could run to the neighboring village, all the way down on the coast. I told them yes, but that it might be difficult to come back since it would be about a mile uphill. They said they didn’t care and wanted to go anyways. On the run down and then back up the girls, of their own accord, sang the alphabet and counted up to 15 English. It was a surreal experience to be running in beautiful Comoros, with a group of 20 girls, loudly singing the English alphabet. I will hold this moment close to my heart for the remainder of my service. 

I am overjoyed about the induction of a running club in my village for many reasons. For one, running is something that brings me such joy and I love that now I have the opportunity to share that joy with these girls. Secondly, I know that physical activity has a holistic positive impact on one’s mind and body. Exercising for fun is not something these girls have ever experienced before. It is my hope that in the coming weeks they begin to reap the benefits of exercise; and feel strong, empowered, and healthy. Third, and perhaps most significant, the success of this club’s first day is due primarily to the motivation of these young girls. It was their initiative and their drive to try something new that made this happen. I am humbled by this realization and also thankful that I am able to fill a role as their teacher, and hopefully as a role model of what it means to be an empowered woman. 

I am eagerly looking forward to what the coming months hold for this new running club. More than anything I am thankful for the opportunity to share part of myself with the girls in my rural Comoran village, making our differences even smaller still. 

Ye Ngofanyo Spori?

Are you running? The question I am asked every morning I leave my house in leggings, running shorts, and a big t-shirt to go on my run. I really love that running is something that I have become known for in my village – no one else runs and especially no women. Today as I ran past the school one of my 6eme (equivalent to 6th grade) boys decided to run with me for a bit. I removed my phone from my headphones in order to play my music out loud for the both of us and it was a really sweet moment. My 6eme girls have asked if they can run with me on Sunday, so inshallah, we will run and then play soccer together this Sunday morning. Running has given me an open door through which to engage and be present with my community, and I am very thankful.

Running became an important part of my life freshman year of college when I decided to try it out for the first time. But I think the time that running became something I truly love and need in my life is when I started training for the Pittsburgh marathon last year. Reflecting back I think “wow it is wild that I thought I could train for a full marathon in the winter in Pittsburgh during my second semester senior year, arguably the busiest time of my college experience thus far”. But I did it, and it remains one of the accomplishments that I am most proud of in my life. Running for that length of time and distance of course takes a lot of physical stamina, and I became awed about what the human body is capable of. But the mental stamina was the area where I felt I had the most growth in my training for the marathon. It took intention to regulate my thoughts while I ran for 5 hours at time with nothing aside from my music, and those very thoughts. I think most runners will contend that during long runs your mind will go through the gambit of all emotions; contentedness, elation, boredom, self-doubt, self-pride, and more.

As I have started running in Comoros I have found myself thinking about how that gambit of emotion very accurately parallels what it feels like to be a Peace Corps volunteer. This morning I ran 7 miles, the farthest I have run since being here, and it was fantastic but also very hard at the same time. I often ask myself: “why do I love running so much if it’s so challenging?” That is also exactly how I feel about my Peace Corps service. During today’s run I explored a neighboring village and it was so incredible to feel that freedom, that feeling of really living here; because running, for me, always solidifies places as my home, my place. I felt such high feelings of being strong, of being free, of being in awe of the beauty of this country. I felt in control and capable. I felt all these things even when I also felt extremely uncomfortable because I was mounting a particularly long and steep hill, even when I began to feel bored and like giving up because I was only at mile 3 and 4 more seemed like too large of a task. Feeling those negative things and still completing the run led to a feeling complete elation at the end of it.

During the close to 5 months of my Peace Corps service, and 2 and a half months at my site I have had moments of utter elation. I remember these moments vividly: riding back to my village from the capital in a crowded bus of Comorans, participating in Mashahuli festivities, having real conversations with my host sister about her thoughts and interests, watching sunsets and sunrises with other volunteers, sitting under a mango tree with Ryanne overlooking my entire village, and more. But there have also been moments of utter sadness, of heavy anxiety, of thinking “what am I doing here?” And “this is so hard”. Sometimes it is really difficult to pull myself out of those low moments, but they always pass, and usually right around the corner there is a moment of happiness. Embracing both the lows and the highs and persevering has made me feel like a strong and capable person – very similarly to how I feel after completing a run.

Life is not always easy and happy no matter where you are in the world, but right now in Comoros I am learning, I am growing, and I am truly living a life of adventure. And thus I am able to answer the question: “Why do I love this so much if it’s so challenging?”

Ye Ngo Endo Mashahulini???

Are you going to the Grand Marriage??? – The question I’m asked every time I leave my house if there is set to be a wedding at the end of the week.

The Grand Marriage, or Mashahuli, is a large and unique part of Comoran culture, and thus I will probably not do it justice in my own explanation because I am still learning a lot about it myself. But to summarize: A Mashahuli is comprised of many different events over the span of many days. These events may include dancing ceremonies, money giving, gift giving, cooking, or eating. Some of them are special for women and others are meant for the men. These weddings cost a significant amount of money so it is considered an incredible accomplishment and honor when a couple has completed their Mashahuli – my host father and mother have had a Mashahuli and because of it my host dad is one of the most notable men in our village. Generally, people are very excited and eager for Mashahulis, however I have met a few people who disagree with them because, in a very poor country, they view them as a waste of money, and that money would be better spent on things like education.

Today I attended my first Mashahuli in my new village. The day started with a 6:30AM wake up call, after which I got dressed in an outfit that had been deemed appropriate for a Mashahuli the day before, and headed over to a different house with my host mom. Then began the ~5 hour cooking marathon. A man told me that 2000 people were coming to this wedding, which I think may have been an overestimation, but even so there were definitely over 200 people in attendance. I remain in awe of the way women in Comoros are able to cook food in such mass quantity with such limited supplies. At one point there were four huge fires going with two absolutely massive pots of rice, one massive pot of beef and, one wide frying pan of chicken. During this entire cooking process I made very little contribution as I am still largely incompetent in Comoran kitchens, but I did scrape carrots and wash a seemingly endless amount of lettuce for salads.

My Mama’s hard work and endurance became very evident to me as I observed her in the kitchen all morning and afternoon. She is an intense woman, and with this intensity it is clear that she commands respect in whatever room she’s in. She kept track of every aspect of the cooking process, and every person helping seemed to defer to her. She also never stopped moving; lifting huge containers of plates, rice, firewood, washing dishes, picking up garbage – she helped with everything. I think my Mama is so hardworking, in part, because she cares a lot. During all of this she made sure to get me a huge plate of rice and chicken way before anyone else ate – without me having to mention I was hungry – and had a man bring me five water bottles because she knows I can’t drink the water here, again I never mentioned I was thirsty. My Mama is a prime example of the generosity, care, commitment, and endurance that I have seen in every single woman I’ve met in Comoros. They are incredible.

After the many hours of cooking it was time for me to attend the Gomani. This is an event for women that involves dancing and throwing money into a large basin. At this particular Gomani there was a singing group of five women leading the songs. When I started dancing with all of the women – probably at least 50, I thought “This is my village, these are my people, this is my home” and something about being surrounded by everyone, different yet definitely very apart of it all, made me feel incredibly emotional and in awe of my life and this experience. Plus who doesn’t love dancing surrounded by a bunch of dope women???

I am very thankful to have been a part of this community wide celebration. Today was not easy; I think I experienced the full definition of what Returned Peace Corps Volunteers mean when they say that during service you experience your lowest lows and your highest highs. There were points throughout the day where it truly hit me how draining it is to be constantly living and interacting in an entirely new culture and language. But there were points, like when dancing with my sister and her friends, or when being greeted by women from the village that I am starting to form relationships with that I felt so happy and so at peace with my life here. I think the key is to fully embrace both of these sides of Peace Corps Service, the highs and the lows, because both will teach you about yourself and about how full life can be.