Between Birth and Baptism: Maoloud in Djenne.

The house of the Saignon family where this morning’s Koran reading took place nestles deep in the Farmantala neighbourhood  of Djenne. This ancient mud city has developed organically over the centuries and the mud houses have shaped themselves into formations which correspond directly to the needs of this traditional society. No town planning has interfered with the way these narrow alleyways twist and turn between the two storey mud houses, opening up naturally into shapes (not squares) and open spaces just perfectly formed to hold the majority of the town’s faithful if they all sit down tightly placed together on prayer mats, under the awnings spread out for the communal Koran readings which punctuate the Islamic year.

I have been given an invitation to a Koran recitation by the Saignon family who have deposited an an important manuscript collection at the Djenne Manuscript Library. I arrive early, still European enough to believe that 8.30 am means what it says, even after eleven years in this town. I am classed as an ‘honorary man’ it seems, since I am the only woman who attends the inner sanctum of the space reserved for the men. I am even shown to one of the over-stuffed arm-chairs that has been placed in a line for the local dignitaries (albeit the one furthest away, and in direct sunlight). Nevermind. I appreciate that the honour given me is out of the ordinary. 

The Koran reading is already in full swing: chanting, not just reading.  Sometimes a real melodious and rhythmic beauty can be attained, with two sections of the men answering each other in perfect pitch, but now at the beginning, the men’s voices rise in unison with conviction if not always with tonal purety, awaiting the arrival of the rest. 

One by one they arrive: my friends and my foes, all dressed in their finest boubous. There are so many well-known faces. Some greet me with a bow as they file past. Here is Ibrahim my first watchman; here comes Hasseye Traore the son of BiaBia, the Grand Marabout; now Badra, the town councillor for the Djoboro neighbourhood and Djenne’s most elegant man, today in purple embroidered Grand Boubou. He comes all the way over to greet me. And now Maiga, the Village Chief who tried to close the library down saunters past me studiously ignoring me. Next  comes Alpha, my ham-fisted tailor with his brother Bob, who trained my first horse. Here is old Sarmoye, whom Keita loved. He has a gentle face; the head of the Haut Conseil Islamic in Djenne. And here comes the Imam with his entourage. My gentle Yelfa. Now in gold braided cloak and red Fez as befits his position. Was that me he smiled at as he took his place amongst the elders?

Now there is not a space left on the prayer mats. Incense drifts across the assembly as the chanting reaches a long drawn out crescendo.

I do not understand what is chanted. I know it must be the surats referring to the birth of the Prophet, and I also know that there is material written /composed by important Djenne saints and Marabouts which are chanted here each Maoloud. The assembled men all have photocopied sheets with Arabic writing that they are referring to. Before the event of photocopiers, all these sheets had to be copied out by local calligraphers, which is one of the reason there are so many manuscripts in the library which are more or less identical: each notable family had to have enough copies to go around when it was their turn to host a Fatia or a Koran reading.

I am not the only one here who does not understand the meaning of the words. All these men were  once pupils in Djenne’s numerous Koran schools where they learned to recite the Koran by rote. A handful only continued their studies to the level where they came to understand Arabic. Just like the European congregations in the churches of the Middle Ages who did not understand Latin, the ecclesiastical language, the large majority of the Djenne population do not understand the meaning of what they chant in Arabic, the holy language of Islam.

What does it matter? The important thing is that we all sit there together and there is a sense of communal effort to reach beyond ourselves. Because we don’t understand we are all able to invest this ceremony with the concerns that touch us personally. We can invest the chanting with prayers for our loved ones that are gone; for our friends who are grieving the loss of their loved ones; for all our hopes and all our sorrows in a long, monotonous, melodious and sublime lament or celebration which has no resolution but only catharsis.