A Fresh Start

Last Sunday Sunniva, Marianne and I had to break up our fabulous trio into three solos. That is, Marianne and I have moved away from our first family in neighborhood 4 of Bucraa. I left for neighborhood 1, and Marianne for neighborhood 3. I suspect you most likely are not very familiar with Bucraa, so simply put this means that we are about 500 meters from each other. And that to get to Sunniva’s family, I now have to take a left upon leaving my house, walk a few meters along a narrow pathway between some houses, take a right between a house and a heima (the big Saharawi tents) and then pass a broken Landrover from the last world war. If I at this point am walking towards a house with Arabic writing in white letters on it, I’m on the right way.
Before I reach this house I have to take another left, and I should now be able to see the Bucraa center where we teach. From there I know the way like the back of my djelabia (the male melheffa). I just go past the Taxi donkey, take a right, and I’m already welcomed by kids yelling “Ahmed!” or “Mohamed!” (the Hassania equivalents to Eivind) at me. Hardly any problem at all.

Marianne on the other hand I have no idea how to get to, other than that she lives somewhere quite close to our Arabic teacher, who lives somewhat in that (I’m indicating towards what I think is the south-west) direction. I’ll get to visit her with time though. She tells fantastic tales of a bed, a sink and something like a shower - tales that sound so incredible that they can only be verified by going there to see for myself.

Being put so suddenly into a completely new family brought back all the challenges we experienced together the first few days. You know, that awkward feeling when you’re so far from your comfort zone that you have absolutely no idea what to do or how to act, and you end up just sitting there. Sort of watching the family while feebly attempting to use your limited Hassania vocab. Not to mention the anticipation just before I arrived! I regret to say that I’m not exaggerating when I say it scared the shit out of me. In fact, the past few days I’ve been having some quite autonomous bowel movements, manifesting themselves rather aggressively in the lavatory. Thankfully, the family bears over with me, much thanks to my host brother and room mate, Dädäh, who speaks well Spanish, but also some English. We have decided to only use Spanish when it is strictly necessary, and otherwise speak Hassania and English so that we might both improve our language. It makes communicating more difficult, but it also relieves the pressure to have an actual conversation about something beyond the most basic - a pressure one often feels when one has a language in common with the other. Instead we are able to treat each other as toddlers who utter a word now and then, so that anyone in their presence with a somewhat developed command of the language in question cheer the little one on by reacting with happiness far beyond proportion to his deed.

Beauty

Beauty in the refugee camp is, not surprisingly, a very different consept compared to the European fashion industry. The colourful 'melhefa' for women and the brown 'jelebie' for men are used on a daily basis, and we dramatically wrap scarfs around our faces whenever we go outside. Yet, we are greeted with 'hola' instead of the normal 'salam ailekum' while walking to the market. Now, it remains a mystery to us how the Saharawis are able to differentiate between us and a 'real' Saharawi when the only human feature we show are our eyes. We started questioning whether the smurfs could have something to do with this. Who can possible forget the smurfs? This happy, blue creature with white hats have indeed left many children with a smile on their faces before heading to bed at night. But what do the Saharawis and the smurfs have in common? We were all shocked when we encountered the first woman with make-up, which we by mistake took as dirt. I even tried to help my aunt removing some of this dirt, believing it came from the house-cleaning that day. She wildly objected and physically pushed me away and I then realised that what I had tried to brush off was face paint, not dust and filth. The problem with the Saharawi make-up, which is supposed to be white, is that in real life-it is blue! Indeed, most Saharawi women look like smurfs when attempting to promote their beauty. I do recognise that 'the gras is always greener on the other side' but painting your face blue is perhaps fashion streaching a bit too far.. When this is said, blue face- paint is perhaps no better than Norwegian girls with organge faces... So I guess the moral of the story is, be happy with what you have got. Stop applying and re-applying make-up on your face. You are beautiful. Enough said:P

How to...

I have been longing for becoming a real Saharawi and I assume that there are many more of you out there. So I have written down some guidelines including food and hygiene you ought to know before embarking on your potential refugee career.
Become a Saharawi:
It is not the easiest plan in the world to become like someone else, especially when the life here in so many ways diametrically opposes what I would do in Norway. But there are some ground rules:
1. Don't rush!
2. Make tea at least three times a day.
3. Know how to greet other people.
4. Don't try to get a tan. Try to look as white as possible. If you live in the desert and get exposed by the sun, put on some white cream in your face even if you look more blue then white.

Make food:
Food has always been something I enjoy, but never a thing I prioritized in hectic daily life. Therefore I usually eat food in Norway that is either prepared by someone else or takes less than 30 minutes to make. Here, on the other hand, a wife could spend almost the entire day in the kitchen despite the fact we only eat two big meals a day. It is strange working in the kitchen, especially in the dark, with your cellphone as the only source with light (Thank God for IKEA lamps). Like a child without words, I stumbeled through every cooking step and got a decent meal at the end. Here they use a pressure cooker for all their meals. It is an airtright pot in which food can be cooked quickly under steam pressure. By using the pressure cooker we simply have to wait for the food to cook and spend time doing other things. Which suits me well since I am not very patient. While waiting I could get more water from the rusty container or feed the goats with leftovers and cardboards.

While chopping up onion I learned something I desperately longed for: how to chop onions without crying. So for all you onion-criers out there, put a piece of onion or onion peel on the top of you head. Its supposed to do the trick.

Get sick:
While in Norway we eat from clean plates, the Saharawi style is to rinse their cutlery and plates in cold (probably dirty) water mixed with detergent, before you use them. Bad hygiene is therefore the easiest way to get sick. If you have a child in the house, you can also assume that the cloth you use to dry off your now spankingly clean plates, has already been used to wipe the kid's nose.

Books and nostalgia

Norway is famouse for its beautiful nature. And while reading Per Pettersons book, Out Stealing Horses the culture differences go even more emphazised. Instead of snow we have summer, instead of rain we have sandstorms. This book was one of many books that the store Tronsmo donated to the refugee camp before I left Norway in January.

When I was packing my bags home in Norway, I wanted to bring all the books that I've always wanted to read, but never had taken the time to read. However, the day before departure I stopped by Tronsmo, a wonderful bookstore in Oslo and asked them if they wanted to donate som old English books to the refugee camp. At the end I had to put my plan aside in favour of Tronsmos books, beacuse they gave me ten new and beautiful books, everything from comic books to epic novels. I gladly gave away all the space I had saved for my own books in my suitcase. As you may have guessed I took the liberty to read some of the books before giving them to my eager students and I found the Petterson book suprisingly important in this life here. After seeing so many students enjoy the books I brought from Tronsmo, I have realized the need for more reading material. I therefor engourage everyone who has English books at different levels to contact me by mail (sunniva.skjeggestad@gmail.com) before the 9th of Feburary if you want to send some books to the camps. But for now my students love reading Tintin and Persepolis.

Out Stealing Horeses portrays beautifully the nostalgia for a simple way of life. It is easy to relate to the same nostalgia here in the camps. How to manage life without television, a toilet that flushes and using car batteries to get light in the evnings. Sometimes you just want to to know that you don't need the modern world or technology to manage. In contrast to the man in the book, who lives in an isolated part of Norway I am in the desert. Here I am surrounded by people wherever I go. Reading the book I feel somehow more connected to where I am from, something that also emphesises my impressions of the Sahara desert. I am more aware of the life around me, which I truly enjoy. This is not a place for nostalgia, but for pragmatism and durable easy-to-accomplish solutions.