Why I Love Living in a Muslim Village

I have always found “Islamophobia” to be a cringe-worthy word. I hear about it in the news, read about it online, and now that I live in a Muslim village, I aware of it now more than ever. My fellow Peace Corps Volunteer, Jen McArdle, wrote a very eloquent blog post about her experience with Islamophobia. You can read about it here.

http://whenitgetstoonoisy.blogspot.co.id/2015/09/i-wish-i-could-promise-you-theyd-love.html

She literally took the words right out of my mouth. Instead of repeating any of her brilliance, I’d like to take a moment and share aspects of my Muslim community that I find beautiful. I feel like I don't write enough about my experience with Islam and I wanted to take this day as an opportunity to share. Wednesday, October 14, 2015 is the Islamic New Year. To celebrate, I would like to show you photos of my experience with the religion of Islam and I want to tell you stories of everyday kindness that I’ve seen here.

Let’s start with the most audible form of Islamic beauty: Call to Prayer.

Many Muslims around the world pray five times a day.  For each Adhan (the Arabic word for call to prayer) the mosque near my house blasts a prayer from a loud speaker. The five Adhans and the times for each prayer are:

1)  Fajr –  before sunrise

2) Thuhr - just after noon

3) Asr – the mid-afternoon

4)  Maghrib – after sunset

5) Isha – performed at night

My personal favorite is Maghrib. During this time, my host parents shut all the doors in the house. No one is allowed to leave and the house must remain quiet. I especially love Maghrib during rainy season. I love listening to the mosque loudspeaker singing a beautiful Islamic prayer through the pitter-patter of raindrops that fall on my clay ceiling. Maghrib is always a peaceful house in my house.

Muslims and Dates

Huh? No…I’m still single. Why do you ask?

OHHHHH. You thought I was talking about dates. No, I’m talking about dates, the fruit!

People eat dates during the month of Ramadan because dates are known as the food Muhammad ate when he broke from his fast. I didn’t fast during Ramadan, but one of my favorite things to do was to sit with my family and eat a handful of dates every night. YUMMM

Prayer Group

Every Sunday evening at 6:30pm, I go to a prayer group with my counterpart. Each member of the group pays a small fee of 3,000 Rupiah (about 25 cents) so that we can use the money to buy snacks and tea. The prayer session lasts about 30 minutes. The women were nice enough to gift me a little booklet with Yasin, which is one of the letters in the Quran. I’ve even started to learn some of it!

I try to go to these prayer meetings every week, but when I skip the women make sure to let me know that I was missed. They say things like, “We missed you last week! We ate peanuts, your favorite!” or “The meeting was at my house last Sunday. I wish you had come!” 

My ibus and me (in the green head scarf)

When I went home to America last June, they prayed for me to have a safe flight home. As I was leaving, some of the women told me to call them before I left America. “We will pray again for your safe flight back to Indonesia,” they told me as they kissed both of my cheeks.

The prayer book the ibus gifted me

Prayers for the big moments

This leads me to my next favorite thing about living in a Muslim village. Many people I have met here have offered to pray for me at some point or another. My nephew was born last year, but he had to stay at the hospital for an extra 2 weeks because he was born 3 pounds and 13 ounces. When I told my host mom, she immediately put on her prayer dress and headed straight for the mosque. “I will pray for him. What’s his name?” she asked as she rushed out the door. It didn’t matter to her that my family is not Muslim. It didn’t matter to her that she has never met my nephew or my sister. There was a baby in trouble, so naturally she prayed for its health.

Saying Alhamdulillah

Alhamdulillah in Arabic means “Praise be to God.” I hear this word a lot in Indonesia and I say it all the time. This word rolls off the tongue and is appropriate for so many situations. When people ask me how I’m doing, I say, “I’m great! Very healthy.” The response I always get is….

Alhamdulillah!

When I tell my students that I’m pushing the test to next week....

Alhamdulillah!

When my host mother finishes a delicious meal she just cooked...

Alhamdulillah!

When my Peace Corps stipend finally gets to my bank account....

ALHAMDULILAH!

Sometimes this phrase is even used as a call-and-respond phrase. My bapak frequently comes into the house and just says, “ALLHUMDU….” and everyone who is in the house (i.e. my host mom, host sisters, and me) says, “…. LILAH!”

Saying Insha’Allah

Insha’Allah means “if Allah wills” or “God willing.” I’ve heard this phrased used in situations that require hope. When my host sister applied to university, she would tell people, “I will go to college in Malang, Insha’Allah.” It’s as if she knew the power was out of her hands as soon as the application was submitted and all she could do was hope. This phrase, in my opinion, sounds beautiful every time I hear it.

Special Brownie: The Pros and Cons of being Indian American in Indonesia

The white Americans in my program fascinate many Indonesians. From what my friends have told me, the white volunteers get invited to a lot of social gatherings, the staff at their schools wants them to show up to every event, and people will flock volunteers just to get a photo with them. In some cases, neighboring schools will invite the volunteers to teach. The white volunteers are celebrities here, but that isn’t always a good thing. My friend Cait recently wrote a post about how she is frequently compared to a Barbie Doll, a toy that is admired and lugged around for show. My site mate, Kayleigh, describes her “role in [her] community is that of a show pony.” You can read about Cait's experience here:

https://prairiestateofmind.wordpress.com/2015/10/01/barbie-girl/

When I walk with white volunteers I notice locals shouting “BULE! BULE! BULE!” (FOREIGNER! FOREINGER! FOREIGNER!) to get our attention. I asked Terceira, a PCV in West Java, if this bothers her after being here for a year.

“It’s just white noise (pun completely intended) at this point,” she said. But I hear it loud and clear. I blend into the crowd, so I rarely get shouted at. When it does happen, I’m shocked every time.

I thought about how stressful that would be if I had to deal with that on a daily basis. Although I like attention, I must be in control of the attention. I like performing on stage, making speeches, and being in the middle of a dance circle. However, I do not like being put on the spot or being asked to make a speech with no preparation. Apparently this happens to the white volunteers all the time.

I was having a conversation about school life with another PCV, Craig, when he asked me, “Doesn’t your school sometimes stick a microphone in your hand when you’re standing in front of a huge crowd of kids and ask you to motivate the students?”

“No…?” I said looking incredibly confused.  “Why on earth would my principal make me do that?” I thought.

Blending into the Indonesian crowd has also motivated me to study the language more. When I was out and about with other volunteers, locals used to pick me out of the group to talk to me. They assumed my Bahasa Indonesia is better than the white volunteers (which is not true at all, by the way). I used to get really annoyed at this because I knew I was being singled out for my skin color. However, I just decided to work with it rather than against it. I started expanding my vocabulary just in case locals didn’t want to talk to my friends. This ended up benefiting me a lot. I became confident in my language skills and began telling people, "My friends can speak Bahasa, too." 

But blending in doesn’t always have its perks. I used to get worried when other volunteers visited my site and my school. I was afraid that if locals saw a white volunteer, the staff at my school would want that volunteer instead of me. This isn’t an abnormal fear, either. There have been situations where schools specifically ask Peace Corps for a white volunteer. Luckily I didn’t face discrimination when I moved to Panggul. I asked my regional manager to make it clear to my school, my counterpart, and my host family that I am Indian American. I didn’t want there to be any confusion or disappointment.

My brown skin also once caused me to get kicked out of a photo. I was hanging out with two white volunteers at Bromo Mountain. A woman tried to take a photo of us and asked me to step out of it. She only wanted a photo of the white volunteers. The two other PCVs stood by me and told her she couldn't take a photo unless I was in it, too. This was exactly a year ago. Since then I have shut down any request to have my photo taken. I don’t want my feelings to get hurt like that again. The only people I take photos with are my students and that’s only because they’re adorable and I love them. At this point in my service, I’ve noticed many volunteers have become annoyed with locals taking photos of them. I’m glad I’m not alone on that.

Despite the negatives, being an Indian American has really helped me integrate into my community. It used to bug me that I'm not a celebrity like my friends are, but now I've come to love it. Some of my Peace Corps friends call me up confused because they don’t know if a local genuinely likes them or just likes having a white person as their friend. “Do they like me or do they just like me because I’m white?” is a phrase I frequently hear. I don’t have to worry about that. Indonesians either take the time to get to know me or they ignore me. I'm perfectly fine with that! :) 

Smoking and XX Chromosomes

When I joined the Peace Corps I knew I would be facing gender inequality issues, but I had no idea to what extent. The problems I face everyday range from minute to day-ruining/life questioning. My village closely observes my behavior to the point where I feel as if I’m in a fishbowl. When I go for evening walks at 4pm, my neighbors tell me, “Miss, it’s dark outside. It’s too late to be out alone.” The sun is still shining, but people are afraid for my safety. I sometimes go to school at night to use the wifi. My host parents tell me I can’t stay there after 8pm despite the fact that teenage boys stay there until 10pm playing video games in the empty classrooms.

These instances didn’t surprise me, but there are situations that make me freeze in confusion. I typically wear a long sleeve shirt and a long skirt to school. One day, I hiked up my skirt a little bit to climb a flight of stairs. My ankles were exposed. Before I could even realize I had committed an unspeakable crime, my counterpart came running after me telling me to release my hand so that the bottom of my skirt could return to the floor. I’ve also been told numerous times to unroll my sleeves because my elbows were showing. Typically the adults are the ones to point out these differences in my behavior, but recently students have begun to correct me as well. Last month a male student told me I was tying my shoe in an impolite way. “It’s not polite for women to sit like that,” he informed me. Here’s how I was sitting.

These are just micro-stresses, though. There are instances where this culture frustrates me to the point where I have to escape into my room for relief and reflection. One of my female students once told me I would look prettier if I wore a hijab. I didn’t know how to respond. Do I tell her that I’m not Muslim and therefore I’ll never wear a hijab? Do I tell her I’m pretty just as I am? Do I fire back and tell her that I think she looks prettier without the hijab? My greatest struggle in my service has been to be a good role model for these young women. I battle between being culturally appropriate and being myself.

In Indonesia, teachers are seen as role models for students. I know that I go against the Indonesian norms, so I’ve questioned whether I should push this culture. Last week I smoked a cigarette in the small city of Trenggalek (a bad habit, I know). I didn’t think anything of it because I was two hours outside of my village. I’m an adult and I’m not doing anything illegal. However, rumor got around and a young girl in my village asked me, “Miss, someone saw you smoking. Do you smoke?”

My instinct told me to deny it, so I did. I’m sitting here a few hours after the incident questioning whether this was the right thing to do. Here, women are socially discouraged from smoking while most men smoke several cigarettes a day. I don’t understand this. Smoking is bad for everyone, but why is it worse if a woman smokes? I want to rewind time and tell the young girl, “If a man can do something, a woman can do it too” I will never condone smoking or encourage her to do it, but I want to push her into questioning why a woman can’t participate in the same activities a man can.

I’m going to leave the smoking argument alone because cigarettes are terrible for everyone’s lungs. However, this year I want to start incorporating gender equality issues into my classes. I want my students to question, “Why is it a woman’s duty to cook for her husband?” “Why can’t women be alone at night?” “Why can’t women play the same sports as men?” I honestly wish I had started doing this from the beginning, but I spent my first year simply observing the culture and trying to integrate (which means adopting cultural norms despite my beliefs).

My passion for gender equality has intensified since moving to Indonesia. I want to be a good role model for these girls according to my definition. I don’t want to change this culture, but I do want to empower the girls who are feeling confined by it.

I would like to add a disclaimer by stating that this post is a reflection of my Peace Corps service living in a small village in East Java, indonesia. I do not mean to generalize the Indonesian people or their values. I am speaking from personal experience. 

The F Word

I have been on this planet for 24 years and one thing about me will never change: I will always fantasize about the future when I am unhappy. If there is something wrong in my present, I tend to avoid those issues by imagining a happier life down the road from now.

During training, I was miserable and exhausted during the 10 weeks of intense language classes and cross-cultural training sessions. Therefore, I frequently looked up flights 10 months in advance and bugged my family about what dates they were coming to visit. When I was going through a breakup last November, I dove head first into job-hunting in Paris even though my Peace Corps service was nowhere near complete. Whenever the present feels grey and rainy, I frantically search for an event to look forward to, even if that event will never actually happen.

                            

On the other hand, I become completely consumed in the moment when I am happy. In my village, I find myself staring out at the mountains or the ocean thinking, “God, I’m so lucky to be here.” I shiver and smile as cold water hits the floor during my bucket baths. I eavesdrop on my host parents when guests come and soak up the short, choppy Javanese my host mom speaks in between her laughs. I fall in love with everything/everyone and I never want that moment to pass.

This summer I am happier than ever in Indonesia. Alhamdulillah! But unfortunately this blissful life led to an internal conundrum that gnawed at me for a few weeks. I only have 10 months of service left, so I am forced to think about that dreaded, awful, hideous, disgusting, terrifying word that I never want to hear when I’m happy: the future.

My vacation to the US kick started my fear of the future. My oldest sister moved from a city apartment into the suburbs (the old apartment had a view of Manhattan, so I was not thrilled about this). She also popped out a second kid before the move. My other sister got a new apartment with her new boyfriend. They grew up while I was gone and it freaked me out to no other. They are happy with their lives in America, but I’m equally happy with my life in Indonesia. Moving back home seemed like a reality that was creeping up a little too quickly.

 My subconscious spent my trip screaming, “IS THIS WHAT MY FUTURE LOOKS LIKE?” On the plane ride back home (to Indonesia) I thought about my bucket list, all the boys I haven’t kissed, all the countries I haven’t traveled to, and all of the things I want to do in my 20’s. I also thought about grad school, job hunting, boyfriends, flings, some guy putting a ring on my finger, walking down the aisle, house hunting in the boring suburbs, adoption, babies coming out of me the old fashioned way, salaries, 401K, and just about everything else that Peter Pan would slap me for thinking about. My head was in a perpetual game of tug-of-war every minute of the summer. I can’t grow up just yet, especially not now when I’m so darn happy sipping my Indonesian coffee and eating another pile of rice. How could this all be happening to me? What the future.

The thing that makes this situation even more overwhelming is that locals frequently ask me future-related questions such as:

“You’re still single? At age 24? When will you get married?”

“Are you going to get find someone here or go back home?”

“Will you be a teacher in the US when you go back?”

“What are you going to study for your masters degree?”

“Is a masters degree expensive? How much does it cost?”

“How many children do you want?”

As if my own head wasn’t punishing me enough, everyone bombarded me with questions I don’t have answers to. I guess the good thing about this is that I’m not the only one going through this phase. In fact, Peace Corps came up with a term for this exact feeling. It’s called the Mid-Service Crisis. It’s when PCVs feel like they have so much time and so little time…at the same time. They question their future even though they adjusted to life in their country of service.  My Peace Corps friends call me to vent about similar issues, which makes me glad I’m not alone in this state of mess and confusion.

My fear of what’s to come has made me appreciate the present even more than I normally would. I am looking forward to teaching again, I can’t wait to hang out with my counterpart, I spend more time on my bike than in my room, and I try to spend more time with my host sister who is leaving for college next week. Each minute in country is precious and I can’t afford to lose a second.

My group has ten months of service left. To us, this time will pass us by like both an eternity and a flash. Ten more months of eating rice. Ten more months of questioning the future. Ten more months of teaching (well, make that like…7 months of teaching. Class gets cancelled a lot second semester). Ten more months of secondary projects. Ten more months of trying to squeeze in as much Southeast Asia traveling as humanly possible. Ten more months of us sitting in our villages, alone, thinking.  

Although I find post-Peace Corps plans a little frightening at the moment, I’ll end of a very happy note. My Mid-Service Crisis is coming to an end. I started opening grad school applications. Watch out world, here I come looking for my masters degree! (…in 10 months) 

I made a paper chain countdown in my room. One link to represent each day left in my Peace Corps service. I'm at 282 days left!