For his photoessay on the religious life of a mosque in Senegal, Lucas Lin T’27 won the Cultural Context category in the 2024 DukeEngage Reflection Challenge.
Judges praised how the photoessay showed the kind of cultural humility that they hoped all DukeEngage students might bring to and learn from their experiences in the program.
Taking a stroll on the unpaved, rubble-strewn roads of the neighborhood in Sacré-Cœur, Dakar, one is immediately surrounded by the pastel tones of the architecture, washed over by the blaze of the sun. For someone navigating the neighborhood for the first time, every twist and turn at the corner might feel like entering a maze. Every now and then, I still find myself struggling to recall the location of the local Quranic school, the boutique stand, or the peanut grill vendor. While it may be difficult to look for directions in a neighborhood with minimal street signs and off the grids of Google Maps, my time with the community has taught me to find the path through an unique guide: that of a voice.
Friday is a cause of celebration in the Muslim world. Every Julli Ajuma, or Holy Friday, community members dress in formal attire and congregate in the mosque for prayer. Unlike in Christianity, where worshippers are summoned by a bell, or in Judaism, where the trumpet is used, Islam relies on the human voice of the muezzin, the servant of the mosque, as the call to prayer five times a day. Allāhu akbar ashhadu an lā ilāha illa llāh – the recitation of the verses echoes through every street and corner of the neighborhood, serving as a reminder of community members’ religious obligations while also anchoring the community in a shared sense of time and place. Whenever the call to prayer resonates from the loudspeakers of the mosque, I find myself drawn to the source of the ambiance, helping me orient myself within the winding streets.
My first encounter with Senegal’s unique religious landscape occurred when I stumbled upon a funeral ceremony at the local mosque Aboubakrine Sadikh with my host family. Lanes of people stood in solemn rows, shoulder to shoulder, in honor of the deceased. I observed how what might initially seem like a private family event has grown to involve the entire neighborhood, with the ceremony taking place at the mosque, a public space accessible to all. My host family explained that when a person passes away, their soul departs from the body because it comes from God and ultimately returns to Him. The communal gathering is a part of doing good works, and by praying together, one receives forgiveness and blessing from God. Like a close-knit brotherhood, community members come together to support each other in times of hardship and loss. Although the soul is an individual’s, the journey to God is a shared, collective path.
In Senegal, where 97% of the population identifies as Muslim, you’ll find some of the world’s largest Sufi brotherhoods, including the Tijani order, the Muridiyya, the Qadiriyya reaching back to the 11th century, and the Layene, the smallest of the four religious communities.
The proliferation of the Sufi orders in Senegal is intertwined with the history of French imperialism in West Africa. Resistance against colonial expansion led the masses to pursue religious freedom and salvation, promises fulfilled by the rise of the prophet Sheikh Ahmadou Bamba. Preaching the virtues of pacifism, self-discipline, and a strict interpretation of the Quran, Bamba was banished to exile by the French to first Gabon and then Mauritania as a threat to the authorities. The Serigne Touba, as his followers call him, endured torture and attempted executions in the seven years and seven days he was exiled; tales of his resilience and sacrifice have inspired generations of prayers to this day. The Grand Magal of Touba, one of the most widely attended pilgrimages in the world, celebrates Bamba’s exile to Gabon, and commemorates the lives and teachings of Sufi spiritual leaders.
Tariqa, the central doctrine of Sufism, means the path one takes to gain the innate knowledge of God. To seek the light of God is to purify your heart through the ritual remembrance of God. Through the collective invocation of the Holy Quran and the words La Ilaha, Ill Allah (There is nothing here except God), one strives for hassan, meaning well-being and excellence. Every Sufi brotherhood has its own set of formulas, postures, and chants derived from their respective khalifa, or religious leaders. While the prayer beads provide a means of seeking forgiveness from God and the wazifa, a collective litany practiced within Tijaniyya, involves rhythmic recitations in a circle, the ultimate goal remains the same: striving for excellence and a deep, personal connection with God. Inspired by the example of Sheikh Amadou Bamba, it is through sacrifices, hard work, and compassion that one gains the acceptance of God. The Tariqa provides the leadership and communal support to cultivate these virtues and facilitate the innate knowledge of the supreme.
In my brief two-month stay in Dakar, I’ve relished the Senegalese virtues of life, one deeply rooted in serenity and peace. In the country of Teranga, one’s day-to-day interactions are embedded in spirituality. The path to truth and knowledge is relational. I saw how Tariqa is manifested in the intricacies of the Wolof dialect, a blend of native Wolof, French, and Arabic. Efforts to transcribe Wolof into the Latin alphabet on paper will inevitably lead to countless variations; there is a certain aural quality to the human voice that requires one to be mentally and spiritually present. More than a mere greeting, an exchange of As-salamu alaykum carries a sense of comfort and peace upon your visitor regardless of their intention or origin. It shields us from the fear of unfamiliarity and cleanses us from evil. For every passerby you meet on the street corner and bless with greetings, you are bestowing peace to this world, regardless of their ethnicity, religion, or cultural background. Other Arabic terms from Alhamdulillah to Inshallah serve the same goal, that of imparting gratitude and hope, respectively, to one another and the world.
Native Wolof also enriches this spiritual fabric of communication. In response to “na nga def” (how are you?), the answer “Maangi fii rekk” literally translates to “I am here.” Rather than asking how your family is, Senegalese people often ask where your family is. The reply “Nungi fii rekk” (They are here) indicates that they are present and living in peace. It is no wonder that the most common Senegalese saying is “Jamm Rekk,” which translates to “peace be upon you.”
Adopting the same mindset, I’ve practiced slowing down my tempo. I cherished the daily midnight Attaya ritual with my host brother Papi over three concoctions of intense sweetness, flavorful mint and tannic bitterness; the stages of brewing and pouring represent the sweetening of friendship over time. I lived in the moment of the buzzing Sandanga market, filled with a cacophony of traffic honks, animated chatter, and hustled shouts of prices. Overcoming my initial fears of bargaining, I’ve come to appreciate it as an art of improvisation and respect. Patience. Poker Face. Politeness. Starting off with your Senegalese name and where your host family lives would usually kick off a healthy dose of laughter from the seller. You then move on to praise the country for its cuisine, handicraft, and hospitality before bringing up your status as a student/volunteer with a limited stipend. Although every price haggle is a hit or miss, I’d never forget the thrill of securing cab rides for mille cinq cents and the added bonuses of decorative bracelets and keychains from the amicable vendor. Equally memorable were the performative aspects: the headshakes, squawks, and palms outward to express friendly disapproval. Each transaction is more than a mere exchange; it’s an invitation for the seller to connect with you beyond your foreignness and for you to engage with the local culture on a more personal level. Affirming a state of harmony and connectedness means divorcing myself from social media and engaging in face-to-face conversations with members of my host family and strangers I encounter on the streets. By offering the greeting “Jamm Rekk” to others, I practiced being present and listening to others’ voices with genuine respect.
As an aspiring documentary storyteller, I’m fascinated by the candidness of emotions. With the invitation of my host family and the consent of the neighborhood, I’m grateful to have gained access every Friday to document prayer in the local mosque Aboubakrine Sadikh. On my last Friday in Dakar, I found myself behind the columns of the prayer hall, ready to capture the moment of the Adhan, the first Islamic call to prayer. I stood attentively, my tripod flanking the doorway, camera in full zoom recording, and microphone levels rolling.
As the powerful chants reverberate in the air, meditative silence envelops the neighborhood: the bustling traffic comes to a standstill, and the flow of prayers comes to a halt, as the masses unroll their carpet rugs on the debris-laden, uneven ground. I was once at the periphery of this commanding voice, seeking to navigate this new place and the nuances of its customs. Despite being a non-Muslim, I found myself enchanted by the tranquility, observing the prayers around me closing their eyelids and silently mouthing the sacred verses. The Adhan acts as a resonant call to the people of Senegal, and my intimate presence to the Muezzin in this spiritual hour reflects the lessons I’ve learned from engaging with the community – the importance of being fully present in daily interactions. Voices convey more emotion and intimacy compared to the often impersonal nature of digital communication and social media.
Whether or not voices take on a religious dimension, as in the Tariqa’s poetic invocations, they enrich human connections and promise Jamm Rekk, the Senegalese notion of harmony. I believe that these voices from Senegal will not be lost in translation, and whenever I revisit these stills, I can still experience their essence, even from a distant time and place.
Lucas Lin is a sophomore at Duke pursuing a major in Economics and a certificate in Documentary Studies. He is University News Editor at The Chronicle.