are invisible. In Dakar I there is or non ci sia, non ha importanza per nessuno. E’ la mia prima sensazione in questa città. Mi fa male. Non riesco a comprendere come mai qui nessuno si accorga di me.
Prendo il mio primo car rapide da Guediawaye il mio secondo giorno. Destinazione Patte d’Oie. I car rapide in Senegal sono quello che i matatu sono in Kenya. O per lo meno svolgono la stessa funzione perché come struttura sono un po’ differenti. Mentre i matatu all’interno hanno sedili disposti uno dietro l’altro, sui car rapide i sedili sono composti di due file, una di fronte all’altra, ai lati del veicolo, più due file di sedili disposti uno dietro l’altro. E non si entra da uno portellone laterale, bensì da dietro. Si, sul car rapide gli sportelli sono dietro, e anche l’omino addetto al ritiro dei soldi dei biglietti, sta dietro.
Mi rendo conto che inizio fin dal primo giorno il gioco delle differenze con il mio Kenya. E’ necessario per me fare il paragone, quasi a voler trovare obbligatoriamente dei lati più positivi in Senegal, per poter giustificare il fatto che quest’anno non sono stata in Kenya.
E così salgo sul car rapide dove mi viene immediatamente offerto un posto a sedere. E penso che questo i senegalesi lo fanno sempre anche in Italia. Quando li trovi sul tram, in metropolitana, vedi sempre un senegalese che offre un posto a sedere a una persona anziana. Certo, io non sono una persona anziana, ma fatto sta che a Dakar I have given a place to sit.
known immediately something special in all of the travelers car fast. They are all composed, very polite. Every time someone goes up on the car, greets everyone with a "Salam Mailaikum" very discreet which is told almost in unison "Mailaikum Salam."
I learn quickly and begin to answer this myself. I get in exchange for smiles and knowing looks.
But despite this early start, I still feel invisible.
Mzungu In Kenya, those who are called in Senegal Toubab (white), never goes unnoticed. That will see a Mzungu in Kenya is to see a nice nest egg of € walking, which will be in Kenya and specifically in Diani many people know it is impossible to get on a matatu and not be recognized and greeted by someone, I will be the terror of realizing that he made the wrong choice, I begin to feel an uneasiness that I have a long life. I still do not know if I Dakar accept or reject me.
I can not tell if I have to put resistance, or both if we do not like very much. The fact is that I realize that from day one, wherever I am, if I'm sitting, the feet remain on the tips. I realize that I will not break any balance, so perfect in this world, which seems to work well without me, in this world of beautiful women who wear colorful clothes and give off the scent of incense in the world of children polite and friendly, in this world where nobody seems to see me. Patte d'Oie
George told me to get off at the Shell station. The car quickly speak with a gentleman who has a child in her arms full of colors and braids. It is called Fatou. I'm drooling arm since I left Guediawaye. I left to do because it is the only one that I was not ignored. I say to this man if he can show the exact location where I have to choose. He immediately offers to wait with me the arrival of George, because he does not want to lose me or disturb me that someone on the street. The reassure and thank him, I'm not afraid of the road. I can not wait for someone known to me, as I've noticed that you and your baby. So I think when I greet him.
At each stop the car fast always known that children face from the rear door and say the words that do not even seem Wolof. They hand in a red tin can and empty. Probably once contained the peeled tomato. Now if you are lucky, they contain some coin.
I understand they're asking for alms. And I think in the beginning: "Behold, the phenomenon Toubab begins." But were not there for me. Ask not only for me. We ask all those who were with me on the car fast. It also often known by anyone them something. I do not understand. Who are those kids? And why are there so many? I think of street children in Nairobi, I think of street children in Marrakesh, I think I read that I met in Dakar Talib.
And here they are. I think they own them Talib.
Talib means "student who studies the Qur'an" in West African Islamic societies, parents generally consider the religious education of children is a fundamental duty and common practice in rural areas to put their children in the service of teachers of the Koran - marabout in Senegal - which takes you to load and secure their religious upbringing. In this view traditional pedagogical value takes into homelessness, because it symbolizes the humility: the talib goes from house to house, an hour a day, and recites verses from the Koran, receiving in exchange a small gift as a contribution to the Koranic school. The parents hope that their children acquire self discipline and training and receive the Koran as the best means of social ascension. Finally, in a context of extremely high population growth, families "solve" the problem of too many mouths to feed and provide a kind of education that is not provided by the school nor the French nor Arabic. Even
Daara, ie the place where young people gather to learn the Koran and Islamic values, survival is difficult: the marabout receives youth in foster care, but families can not contribute to the costs. The consequence is that this small community is forced to move to the city in search of livelihood and income.
talib I live so far away from their families and spend a large part of the day to beg to survive and to pay the teacher a daily figure and avoid the violence that often inflicts marabout handed over if the amount is not enough. The study time is limited. This category is the most numerous: they are 89 percent of all children beggars.
As I reflect on the receiving punch in the stomach at the sight of barefoot children in Dakar, Fatou's dad tells me that we must come down. I tell him that if it is not her stop, do not worry, I'll get away with it alone and thank him for taking care of me in that my second day on tiptoe. Patte d'Oie
is full of life. Car rushing rapids and play on every corner, people crossing the street and block traffic, though they may block further items in the market, children chase each other and here they are, those who will become my talib for about 5 days.
I go to the Shell station and sit on a step, I would call steps, because rather high. Like bees drawn to honey, here are the tin cans red materialize before my eyes. The children pray for me and I say something in the Koran do not understand.
One of them seems particularly intrigued by this Toubab that sits on a step in Patte d'Oie. He sits next to me and asks me what I do.
I tell him that a friend and look that you may prefer to wait with me. He says, "Really?"
Really. As if no one had ever invited to sit beside him to wait. As if her life was made up of races and little time to wait, as if he had not expected ever been granted, as if he had received little kindness.
Talib
My name is Omar. He tells me that his family lives in Guediawaye and remains truly amazed that I come from Guediawaye. He asks me if I'm kidding. No, Omar, I'm not kidding, why should I? I ask him how come they are begging on the street. I want to know everything about him and understand why is Patte d'Oie at 10:00 am on December 20, 2008, instead of being at school. She explains that her family has set up a Marabout for some time, that two years ago he went to school and he liked it too much, but since he started his life in Daara, can no longer go to school.
What will give? I I ask. At this moment I only know that will give in Wolof means "nothing." Omar lives in a place called nothing, nothing. This I tell myself. And close to the stomach is felt stronger and stronger.
I do not know what lies behind the stories of Talib, the fact is that I already crying. Not only are they invisible in this city, but what is visible to my eyes massacres. Without knowing the reasons why so many Muslim families to send their children to the marabout, not knowing that there are marabout considered of great spiritual leaders, not knowing that other marabout take advantage of their role in order to make money off the backs of small talib naively begin to tell Omar dovrebbe provare a tornare a casa sua, perché la sua mamma potrebbe avere nostalgia di lui.
Mi racconta di un tempo in famiglia in cui il nuovo compagno della sua mamma lo massacrava di botte e che lui si sente fortunato a essere scampato al suo passato, che pensa alla sua sorellina e alla sua mamma e si chiede se stanno bene. Mi dice che ha paura di tornare a casa perché potrebbe essere picchiato ancora. Gli dico che se vuole l’accompagno io a casa sua.
Lui mi dice che se proprio voglio accompagnarlo da qualche parte, potrei accompagnarlo un giorno in fiera, dove avrebbe l’opportunità di vedere tanti libri. A lui i libri piacciono, mi spiega. Nella mia totale ignoranza, continuo a cercare di “rieducare” this little angel telling him that it is not good to beg on the street, which should return to school and study until one day his studies allow us to find a job, and then he will have his money.
the light of what I then learned later, I realize that I knew very little about the structure of the Senegalese society and its culture. I arrived in Dakar completely ignorant. I was not invisible. I was not Toubab. I was ignorant. And maybe the ignorant in Dakar are invisible to the eyes.
Omar and other smaller Patte d'Oie become my appointment for 5 mornings below. Soon the others broke up and indulge in some confidence, some some embrace and kiss, with this Toubab that continues to ask questions, as if the world which is to be different.
I always read in their faces extreme astonishment at my every question. What, you do not know that it is important to help others? This is one of their questions to my observation that all passers-by leave some coin to these children without shoes, and recommended that all nest egg to divide into equal parts. "Partager", share, share, in Senegal is something that is taught from an early age.
There is no mine and yours, there is ours. There is that if you have a plate of rice I can not eat with you. You naturally to me you offer before I tell you to be hungry. E’ straordinario quello che ho visto. L’educazione e il rispetto verso il prossimo non mancano in nessuno. Dakar è una città educata. Disordinata, rumorosa, inquinata, calda, viva e piena di gente educata, gentile e altruista.
Il mio primo giorno a Patte d’Oie diventa l’inizio di un percorso di apprendimento sulla vita dei talibé e su quella di tutti i lavoratori che si ammassano a una certa ora per prendere i car rapide e correre al lavoro. Correre è una parola che forse non dovrei usare. Nessuno corre. La flemma con cui tutti si muovono è incredibile. Forse per non rompere l’armonia che si crea in tutto quel disordine, forse per non sollevare ulteriore polvere che potrebbe attaccarsi agli abiti, perhaps an innate ability not to be overwhelmed by events and time, perhaps for mere awareness that the haste does not lead anywhere, all continue to smile and say goodbye to endless minutes late for work even though it is more certain.
I always feel a spectator of a world that keeps on going fine without me. But who has made up his mind that we have to go to Africa to take on local life to make it better? Who has given us the right to think that our lifestyle is better?
I want to have their children educated, I think. And education is not only pertains to the parents but also to society. And in Dakar undertake the education of all children. All.
Ogni giorno, i talibé di Patte d’Oie aspettano il mio car rapide come se ormai fosse una certezza che io ogni mattina vada a salutarli. E si prendono una pausa insieme a me. Si siedono, mi raccontano le ultime novità, chi ha dormito per strada quella notte perché non ha fatto in tempo a ritornare nel dara, chi si è svegliato presto per portare un piatto di riso a chi non è tornato al dara quella notte, chi ha iniziato presto il tour tra le famiglie a chiedere un po’ di cibo da portare al dara. Insomma, comincio a capire che ognuno di loro ha un ruolo.
E nessuno fa niente solo per sé stesso. Tutto è fatto per la condivisione nel dara a fine giornata.
Per quanto non sia d’accordo that all these children are begging in the street, I find the extraordinary in what they do and the way some people live. It 's like a mission of a video game. And conquered everything, be it a coin, which is a plate of cheebu dien, that everything is completed one level of the mission.
partager. Yeah, do not you know that it is important to help others? This phrase echoes in my head.
(to be continued ...)
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