A few weeks ago, I heard a familiar, cheery voice on the phone. “Hi, Mom!” I knew immediately who it was. It was Vadel, the Mauritanian man whom Bill and I befriended and who calls me his American mom. “Where are you, my son?” I asked. ”I’m in Indianapolis.”
Next came the round of inquiries about each other’s families that is the courteous prelude to conversation in middle eastern countries. “Mom, how are you and Mister Bill?” “How are your wife and children, Vadel?” After their marriage a few years ago, his wife and children remained in Mauritania until his mother died, and they’re still there. He said that he intends to become an American citizen and bring his family here.
After catching up, he said, “Now, I want to help you and Mister Bill. Let me check on you every morning, drive you to appointments, do your grocery shopping, take care of your yard, take out your trash and clean your house.” “Truly, we’re doing fine. Even though we’re old, we are still very independent.” “Let me do it!” He went through the list of chores again. “Vadel, as a Christmas present to each other, we’re having a service clean our house every month.” “But I won’t charge you. I’m making plenty of money.” “Thank you, but no.” Vadel is the most determined man alive, and I knew this wouldn’t be the end of it. And it wasn’t! We arranged a time for him to visit.
For those who haven’t read about him in past columns or in my book, I first met Vadel — not his real name — the week following 9/ll. While I was in line at a nearby gas station, a young man of obvious Middle-eastern descent with skin the color of café au lait was working at the cash register. When he reached the counter a man shouted at him, “Why don’t you go back to where you belong?” and stomped noisily out of the station.
When it was my turn I asked, “What was that all about? Why was he so hateful to you?” He shrugged. “Madame, who knows?” I knew why, and so did he. For some reason, he said, “You speak French, don’t you?” “Un peu,” I responded. I asked, “Where are you from?” “I come from Mauritania.” I said, “I write a newspaper column, and I’d like to interview you.” Cautiously, since I didn’t know him, we arranged to meet at a nearby sandwich shop.
Mauritania, the land of the Moors, is located on the northern coast of Africa. Oh, the romance of it: the vastness of the great Sahara Desert that encompasses much of it, brilliant starry nights and sand dunes, oases and date palms, Nomads and camel caravans! It is a very different milieu from the green fields and gentle landscape of Indiana, and I learned from Vadel how different his culture and customs are from ours.
I asked, “How old are you?” “How old do you think I am?” “Oh, perhaps 23 or 24.” “I am 33.” He told me that he’d traveled to many countries. “Have you made the hajj to Mecca?” I asked. “No. I cannot go because I’m listed as a revolutionary.” “Eek!” “No guns, no guns!” he exclaimed.
He told me that one of his uncles had been executed for participating in an unsuccessful coup and that he was certain that his father, an Islamic scholar, had been murdered. He himself had been thrown in prison because of something he had written. Later, after he knew us better, he pulled up his shirt and showed us a knot on his breastbone the result of a beating and showed us toes that were made crooked from a torture device. “Why did they do that to you?” “I was leading a protest in prison.” Yep, that sounds like our dear Vadel! As he has done many times, he exclaimed, “I love American justice.” wclarke@comcast.net