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I was very lonely when we moved to Pemba, Mozambique.
At first I had no friends, but after about three weeks I met
a nice South African girl named Este. She understood how lonely
I felt and took me to meet some of her Portuguese-speaking
friends, including her boyfriend, Yessir, who had a Muslim
family. One of his sisters, Bia, became a good friend.
One evening, Este invited me to Bia and Yessir's house.
They were very patient with my Portuguese and tried to talk
clearly so that I could understand them. It was my first opportunity
to see how a Muslim family observes Ramadan, an Islamic
religious holiday. Ramadan is a time of remembering the forty
days when the Koran, their holy book, was written. Yessir
and his father have chosen not to be Muslim, although the
rest of their family, all of their relatives, and most of
their friends practice this religion that takes up 70% of
this province's population.
When we arrived, Yessir's mother, Ana, was rushing about preparing
food for the feast that night. During Ramadan the Muslims
must not eat from dawn to dusk. But once the sun sets, they
stay up late into the night partying and feasting. Strict
Muslims are not allowed to drink alcohol.
Arabic writings were framed on the wall behind the couch,
but American boxing from New Orleans was on the television.
I asked where Bia was, and Este said that she could not see
images as in television, pictures, books or magazines during
Ramadan.
"And anyway, I know Bia," she added, "She can
become very irritable when she hasn't eaten for a whole day.
It's best just to leave her alone."
After the movie was finished, we walked down the street to
buy some drinks. When we came back Yessir and Este stayed
outside but I went into the house to get a glass.
Bia was in the dining room. She was glad to see me, and
we talked for a while. She asked me if I would like to see
how she must pray. I said I would like it very much. She covered
her head and her ears in a black piece of material with red
hearts on it and then covered her body with the same fabric.
She laid a green mat down in front of her facing towards their
eastern wall. She showed me how she had to recite scriptures
from the Koran with her palms up resembling a book. She knelt
down and repeatedly touched her head on the floor in front
of her. Then she stood up and recited more scriptures but
with her hands on her heart. I felt a little awkward because
I didn't know what to do during her prayers, but I thanked
her for showing me when she was finished.
We turned to the dining room table which was full of dishes
that she and her mother had been preparing throughout the
day. The aroma was of contrasting spices and flavors: curry
and cinnamon, manioca stew and sweet bread... It smelled like
a banquet for royalty! Their small table had hardly any room
for plates and glasses; there was so much food! All kinds
of different mismatched platters, bowls, plates, and even
thermoses were set up, all layered on each other. I didn't
want to intrude on their first meal of the day, but thankfully
Bia insisted that I must try a little of everything.
All of the food was traditional, she told me, from both
India and Mozambique. Ana came in and pushed some of the dishes
aside so there would be room for my plate and I sat down.
Ana and Bia were leaning on their chairs and staring at me
with anticipation of how I would judge their long work of
the day. I felt a little intimidated and a bit nervous, because
Este was still outside. I picked up my courage and I definitely
was not disappointed by this festive meal.
I tried a spicy dumpling with crispy pieces of vegetables
in it. Then Ana served me a bowl of what looked like, to me,
short thin noodles in soy sauce. I was surprised when I tried
it that it was sweet! I even served myself seconds later on.
Then she handed me a mug of what looked like porridge, but
tasted like hot, thick, sweet tea. Next I tried some manioca,
which is a type of root, in a gravy sauce with chunks of vegetables.
I wish my mother could learn to make that!
By then Este and Yessir had come in and seated themselves.
Este was enthusiastically eating everything on her plate.
She handed me a fried piece of pastry that looked like a meat
pie but with vegetables and curry in it. She asked if I had
tried the samosas. I said, "No, but I've had a
lot of samosas before, I know they're good." But she
said that these were the best she had ever had. I bit into
one of the crispy, spicy, triangle-shaped Indian specialties.
Afterwards I had to have a bit of sweet stuff to calm the
curry! I followed with a slice of sweet bread with a lot of
ginger in it that looked almost like a pancake. I asked Ana
if they had made all of this today, and of course she said
they had. There were a lot more cakes and dumplings for me
to try, but I was satisfied.
It is so easy to judge people by their religion or where
they are from, especially now because of the war on terror
and current world events. When you hear something bad about
a group of people or country it is easy to think that this
is how everyone who practices that religion or comes from
that country acts. Yessir's family knew I was a Christian
and an American but they told me that I could feel at home
with them. If I had not come to Mozambique I may never have
believed I could feel so accepted by a Muslim family.
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Travel writers: At home with a Muslim Family By
Anna Lena Wonnenberg
