Koriteh

Koriteh
A space in the fields under a mango tree had been cleared; a full twenty-eight days of fasting had past; and the moon was spotted the night before. Koriteh, the huge Muslim celebration that follows Ramadan, was upon us. Just after 9:30am the village alikalo led a procession of villagers from his house to the clearing in the field. Leading the procession were the old men, followed by the young men, then the old women and children. Somewhere near the back were two small boys lugging the village drum that was being beaten by 2 slightly larger boys. The thick rope twapping on the 2-foot deep dome were staccato accents to the low mumble of Quranic recitation. It’s an ominous sound when recited en masse. Wearing my sisters bright yellow complet (a matching skirt, blouse and head wrap) and donning my camera and extra rolls of film, I grabbed the hand of my neighbor’s child and made my way to the clearing. I was the only women there of reproductive age; I have bright white skin which was partially covered by a bright yellow outfit and a massive camera hanging from my shoulder; and I am not a Muslim. Had I not received the blessing of the Imam ahead of time, I would have been too embarrassed to go. I tiptoed through the greetings with my male friends, conscious not to cross any religo-social boundaries. Islam has a huge gray area when it comes to male-female relationships. (This is due to the discrepancy between what the Quran says and the example set by the Prophet Mohammed, which is very practical and what the West would consider liberal, and what the institution of Islam requires, which is very conservative). I stuck to the back with the women and children, didn’t smile too big or make prolonged eye contact with the men, and only shook hands with those who gave their hand first. I was most highly welcomed by the people as the purely curious visitor that I was and almost every man shook my hand.
The Alikalo and his people were the first in the procession. They were followed by another influential clan, and another influential clan, and another… Each of the important clans started a procession and Quranic recitation from their homes (but only the Alkali’s clan had a drum). The Imam’s clan was the concluding clan to make an entrance. The people from the section of the village where the slave caste lives straggled in behind the procession of influential clans. Everyone was seated in rows on prayer rugs and mats under the shade of the mango tree. The Imam sat front and center, ahead of everyone else. The first row of people behind him was reserved for the prestigious old men of the community. In the middle of that row, directly behind the Imam, sat the Alikalo. The members of the council of elders and the leaders from the small surrounding “suburban” villages sat beside him to complete the row. The remaining of the men were seated more-or-less oldest to youngest, leaving the 8 year olds on the edge of the shade nearest to the scorching late morning sun. A little ways behind them, under the shade of a second mango tree sat the small contingent of old women. The young girls sat behind the old women at the pack of the prayer ground. All heads were covered. Once everyone was seated and those with cameras took their snapshots, the ceremony began. As with all gatherings, it was started with a general blessing. After the opening blessing everyone rose for the main prayer. They stood. They bowed. They stood. They kneeled to press their foreheads to the ground. They sat. They pressed their foreheads to the ground. They stood. They repeated this several times in perfect unison on the orchestration of the Imam.
After the prayer the children were excused and the adults readjusted themselves and chatted a bit. As the children laughed and played their way home, six of the men from the front row stood up and formed a circle. They began to drape big white cloths over each other. When they were finished it looked like a circle of kids at a sleepover who put a sheet over their heads to tell ghost stories. Once the men were shrouded, everyone took their seats and the mummer died down. The next fifteen minuets proceeded like a call-and-respond song. The shrouded men orated a long chant which was intermittently interrupted by a responding chant orated in perfect unison by the masses. It was beautiful, but all in Arabic so I didn’t understand the content. The men were deshrouded and another wave of people started home, greeting everyone, asking for forgiveness, granting others forgiveness and giving charity on the way. “Will you forgive me?” “Your heart is clean. Will you forgive me?” “Your heart is clean.” What was left was an informal gathering of the leadership of Sanunding. Some of the old women also stuck around and moved under the shade of the first mango tree, though far enough back to not participate in the discussion. The rows turned into more of a circle and the Alikalo took over from the Imam and the language switched from Arabic to Jahanka, signifying a distinct transition from the religious to the political. The Alikalo gave a long speech and prayed for everyone, including a very long prayer for me specifically, and gave praise to the history and tradition of each of the founding families. The Alikali’s speech was followed by a lively political debate, mostly about the construction of the new clinic. Village politics is always decided by consensus, never by voting. Therefore, once an idea is presented, only the dissenters speak and are responded to until there are no more dissenters. The women were welcome to listen in to the entire debate, but were not welcome to participate. (Women often participate at a latter time when one man comes to represent the ideas discussed at a meeting to the entire women’s group. They ask their questions and have their own debate at that time). The meeting concluded with a blessing and the homeward bound procession began. This time the procession was lead by the Imam instead of the Alikalo and it exited the prayer grounds on the southern path (which leads straight into the Imam’s compound) instead of the northern path (which leads straight to the Alikali’s compound). After we walked the Imam home and prayed for him at his door, we walked the Alikalo home. Much to my surprise, the next and final person we walked home was my father. After we prayed for him, little candies that had been bought with the charity money were passed out. Everyone dispersed and went home just in time for a big, delicious Koriteh feast - a feast that had been prepared by all those reproductive aged women who weren’t welcomed to attend the group prayer. Three and a half hours, 97 degrees, half a dozen prayers and three rolls of film later, I was back in my hut and exhausted. This was indubitably better than Christmas.