The garden is finished now!
Huzzah! After three long months of what seemed like endless tiffs with the men in my village balanced with loads of support from the women, the garden is finally finished! The garden gates were put up a couple of days ago, and the last cement ring was put into the well yesterday. Success! The only remaining problem - naturally there is one remaining - is that the garden was not built on public land but rather on land privately owned. Privately owned by one Bara Cisse. The same Bara Cisse who was in charge of building the fence and the well. Right now he is letting the women's association use his land, but at any point in time he could reclaim it. The women could take down the fence and keep it for the association, but the well would have to remain. The roots of this problem lie in my rapid flight to America when my grandfather died. Before I left for the States, the garden was to be built on public land. When I returned, they had already had completed building the fence - on Bara's land. Apparently while I was gone he convinced the women to move the garden plot. Very sly, that one. I just found out about it last week from another friend in village. Now I'm trying to convince the women's association to save money little by little so we can buy the land from Bara. It will take quite a bit of time to save that much money though - the land is worth about $500 USD. For the time being, the women are using the land as a garden though. We'll see how long Bara allows them to do so.
In other news, we have had quite the string of fetes (parties) lately! Both Sassolo and Fatoma had their yearly founding celebrations within the past two weeks. Fatoma's was so much fun - I went with Ali and her homologue, Hawa. All the women walked up and down the main street in their finest dresses. I've never seen so many weaves and fancy braiding in my life. It was like Easter Parade, Mali-style. Fantastic. In the meantime, the men were out in the bush shooting off guns and generally being manly. Then the men all of a sudden came running down the street towards the mayor's office, with the women cheering them on. All the way shooting off more guns and playing Fulfulde music on a wooden flute with drumming in the background. It was so much fun to see everyone in their fancy outfits, jumping and dancing around (the jumping was mostly done by me every time a gun was shot. The Malians thought it was hilarious that I was afraid of guns. I think it makes a lot of sense to be scared of guns. They can kill you). That night Ali and I went to get street food - yummy beans and macaroni - and saw the beginnings of what was sure to be an all-night dance party for all the village kids. Abande, abande! Welay mido yidi ma! Bring on the Yeli Fuzzo!
Friday, July 23, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
525,600 Minutes
I can't completely believe this myself, but I'm at the year-mark! Halfway finished with my Peace Corps service! Woot woot. It's funny - two songs keep popping into my head whenever I think about having been in Mali for a year: 1) Living on a Prayer, Bon Jovi "Ohhhhhhhhh! We're halfway there!" and 2) Seasons of Love from RENT "How do you measure, measure a year? Measure in love."
When I think about the past year of my life, especially given that I was home in May and will be going home again in September for a friend's wedding (shout-out to Sam and Nate!), I often think about how to explain my new life. In May, it was really hard to continually explain what I do to people that don't even know where Mali is. I feel like I'm two people: America Jen and Mali Aissata (Aissata is my Malian name). I changed my course drastically a year ago, and now everything that is normal to me in Mali was completely abnormal in America. I have changed everything about myself: my clothes, hair, language, home, worldview, living situation, continent, daily schedule, and live in a different reality than I did before. How can those two worlds possibly merge? Will I always be some sort of bipolar oddity?
It's funny, when people ask me what I've been doing with Peace Corps for the past year - and they expect a 5-second American-style answer - it is impossible. How can I explain that I don't work in an office 9 to 5 but I do work 24 hours a day? I have done a great deal of work but it's not tangible. I have done very few things that are measurable by American standards. How can I explain this? What have I done?
I have spoken four different languages in one sentence and was understood. I have lived in a house with no electricity or running water and bathed in buckets; pulled drinking water from a well and taken a push cart 5k to plant seeds. I have learned to meditate and do yoga on roof tops. I have watched cattle stampedes and bartered in markets. I have seen things most people have not. I have seen camels and monkeys; fires and chaos; been lost in a city made of mud and stood atop a 1000 foot cliff. I have made friends and found a new family in an African village of 400 people. I have seen thousand year old masks and learned how to make new ones. I have seen women spend their entire days trying to survive: pounding millet, drawing water, cooking, bathing children, growing food. I have taught new ways to plant trees, explained basic nutrition, and learned how to pluck a chicken. I have seen children die and accidents happen. I have experienced losses and achievements and tried to take them in stride. I have hit people and been ashamed of myself. I have created a way for my village to have vegetables, and taught skills in project design, budgeting, and management, and along the way made ever so many mistakes. I have sweated through 110 degree nights and biked through 120 degree days. I have seen slave ports and oceans, rivers, lakes, and sand that seemed to go on forever. I have climbed mountains, eaten sheep organs, stepped on mice and killed scorpions, seen spiders the size of my hand and taken transportation with a goat for a seatmate. I have eaten the best mangos in the world, and lived off a handful of rice for dinner.
I feel as though I have accomplished more this year than ever before but I know that is not true. And it's back to Seasons of Love: How can I measure what is possible in a year's time? I am constantly asking myself: is this worth staying for? Is this worth giving up my family and friends for 2 years? And now, a year later, I realize that it is. Because the past year, and all the years before it, have been measured in love. And the love in my life has only increased since I came to Mali. Yes, there are days where this feels like my personal hell, but those itty bitty moments where something wonderful happens - that is love, and that makes it worth it. But how do you explain that in 5 seconds? I guess you don't.
When I think about the past year of my life, especially given that I was home in May and will be going home again in September for a friend's wedding (shout-out to Sam and Nate!), I often think about how to explain my new life. In May, it was really hard to continually explain what I do to people that don't even know where Mali is. I feel like I'm two people: America Jen and Mali Aissata (Aissata is my Malian name). I changed my course drastically a year ago, and now everything that is normal to me in Mali was completely abnormal in America. I have changed everything about myself: my clothes, hair, language, home, worldview, living situation, continent, daily schedule, and live in a different reality than I did before. How can those two worlds possibly merge? Will I always be some sort of bipolar oddity?
It's funny, when people ask me what I've been doing with Peace Corps for the past year - and they expect a 5-second American-style answer - it is impossible. How can I explain that I don't work in an office 9 to 5 but I do work 24 hours a day? I have done a great deal of work but it's not tangible. I have done very few things that are measurable by American standards. How can I explain this? What have I done?
I have spoken four different languages in one sentence and was understood. I have lived in a house with no electricity or running water and bathed in buckets; pulled drinking water from a well and taken a push cart 5k to plant seeds. I have learned to meditate and do yoga on roof tops. I have watched cattle stampedes and bartered in markets. I have seen things most people have not. I have seen camels and monkeys; fires and chaos; been lost in a city made of mud and stood atop a 1000 foot cliff. I have made friends and found a new family in an African village of 400 people. I have seen thousand year old masks and learned how to make new ones. I have seen women spend their entire days trying to survive: pounding millet, drawing water, cooking, bathing children, growing food. I have taught new ways to plant trees, explained basic nutrition, and learned how to pluck a chicken. I have seen children die and accidents happen. I have experienced losses and achievements and tried to take them in stride. I have hit people and been ashamed of myself. I have created a way for my village to have vegetables, and taught skills in project design, budgeting, and management, and along the way made ever so many mistakes. I have sweated through 110 degree nights and biked through 120 degree days. I have seen slave ports and oceans, rivers, lakes, and sand that seemed to go on forever. I have climbed mountains, eaten sheep organs, stepped on mice and killed scorpions, seen spiders the size of my hand and taken transportation with a goat for a seatmate. I have eaten the best mangos in the world, and lived off a handful of rice for dinner.
I feel as though I have accomplished more this year than ever before but I know that is not true. And it's back to Seasons of Love: How can I measure what is possible in a year's time? I am constantly asking myself: is this worth staying for? Is this worth giving up my family and friends for 2 years? And now, a year later, I realize that it is. Because the past year, and all the years before it, have been measured in love. And the love in my life has only increased since I came to Mali. Yes, there are days where this feels like my personal hell, but those itty bitty moments where something wonderful happens - that is love, and that makes it worth it. But how do you explain that in 5 seconds? I guess you don't.
Women's Rights? They Exist?
Oh, to be a feminist in a village where blatant sexism is both allowed and encouraged. For the past year I've been in Mali, I have kept most of my feminist views under cover. After all, this is not my culture. I'm here to learn, not impose my personal ideals. I don't know if it's because I just got back from the US (which albeit still does have many gender issues, although compared to Mali it's a dreamland) or what, but lately I've been more frustrated than ever over the treatment of the women in my village. Let me give you a couple examples:
The first was what I dubbed for lack of a better term Sassolo Day. This is a day-long celebration of the founding of my village. I was excited to go to it - I was told that there is a big dance party, and I do like to dance. My neighbor Samba told me to make sure to bring my camera, because he wanted a picture of himself with the other old, 'wise,' men in the village. The day came, and I walked out to the celebration site with a friend of mine. All the men and boys were gathered under one tree, while all the women were gathered under another tree about 30 yards away. I noticed the gender separation, but decided to pull the white woman card. I should explain that white women are the third gender in Mali. I can get away with a lot of stuff that Malian women cannot, and by that same token I am frequently treated with less respect by Malian young men (their only exposure to white women is usually from some trashy soap opera, and those rarely portray strong, educated women). So I walk over to the men's tree, all confident in my white woman-ness, when all of a sudden they start YELLING at me to stop. I do so immediately (is there a snake around?) and my friend Diampulo walks up. "Why can't I come closer," I asked. "Samba wanted me to take pictures of the men." Response: "You're a woman. You can't do that." Wrong button to push, mister. If I was in America, I would have said something along the lines of "How dare you tell me I can't do something just because I am a woman! I am strong, educated, and empowered. I will do whatever I want, whenever I want, and I have a history of strong women behind me: women who fought for the right to own property and the right to vote; women who smashed the glass ceiling of corporate America to pieces; women who advocated for women's health, birth control, and family planning; women who fought to control their own lives and now do so fabulously. Take that you sexist, chauvinistic, pathetic excuse for a person." However, I was not in America. I was in Mali. I was an outsider observing this traditional ritual. So I didn't say anything. I returned to the women's tree, seething inside. Every day these women are told implicitly and sometimes explicitly that they can't do things because they are women. No reason other than that. After the men danced around and shot off their guns (feel like a man now? you put down women and shot off a gun, congratulations), they all headed off into the bush to discuss the village's plans for the next year. Dreading the answer, I asked my host mom why women did not go. Response: We are women. We can't go. "Why not?" Because that is tradition. We are women. We can't go.
The next night, several problems involving the garden project came bubbling up to the surface. My host mom, Coumbare, is the president of the women's association. She had told all the women that they would have a garden and a well. Now, the men in the village refuse to finish building the well. Why? Because they found out that they won't be paid. Keep in mind, that from the beginning the men understood that they would not get paid because the well and labor is part of the community contribution. Now, at the hungriest time of the year, they are refusing to work unless they get money to feed their families. The ethics of it are horribly complicated -- would you refuse to do work unless you got paid, knowing that the work would bring desperately needed money to feed your family, while at the same time knowing that you are going back on your word by refusing to work? Well now all the women are blaming Coumbare for the well not being finished, when it is not her fault at all. The men, two especially, have been lying to her for day after day, saying it will be finished when it obviously won't be. She told me that the two men had also recently told her she had to stop being part of the regional women's association because they did not like her being so involved. She was so upset - "Aissata, I didn't steal any money. I did my job well. I planted all the trees, I helped with their garden, I brought in new money, I helped with women's projects. Why do they not want me involved? I'm a good person. I want to help myself and other women like me have a better life. Why is that bad?" Without me saying anything, she answered her own question: "They are men. They do not like a woman being involved." I asked her if she was still involved, and she said no, "Those men are the leaders of my village. I have to live here. I can't go against them."
Those two men now refuse to help the women finish their garden - a garden that the women will do all the work in, and then their families - including the men - will benefit from increased nutrition and a permanent food source. The women will do all the work in the long-term, the men will benefit. Where is the men's logic in this? Furthermore, the men are now saying that the garden supplies - a wheelbarrow, two shovels, two buckets, etc - belong to the men, not the women. They refuse to give the supplies back.
I do not understand. Maybe I will never understand. All I know is that if they knew what kind of woman they were dealing with they never would have tried to ruin the project in the first place. Because now I'm angry, and I will not stop until the well is finished, the project supplies are back in the hands of the women, and the women are able to plant their garden. Watch out, Sassolo.
The first was what I dubbed for lack of a better term Sassolo Day. This is a day-long celebration of the founding of my village. I was excited to go to it - I was told that there is a big dance party, and I do like to dance. My neighbor Samba told me to make sure to bring my camera, because he wanted a picture of himself with the other old, 'wise,' men in the village. The day came, and I walked out to the celebration site with a friend of mine. All the men and boys were gathered under one tree, while all the women were gathered under another tree about 30 yards away. I noticed the gender separation, but decided to pull the white woman card. I should explain that white women are the third gender in Mali. I can get away with a lot of stuff that Malian women cannot, and by that same token I am frequently treated with less respect by Malian young men (their only exposure to white women is usually from some trashy soap opera, and those rarely portray strong, educated women). So I walk over to the men's tree, all confident in my white woman-ness, when all of a sudden they start YELLING at me to stop. I do so immediately (is there a snake around?) and my friend Diampulo walks up. "Why can't I come closer," I asked. "Samba wanted me to take pictures of the men." Response: "You're a woman. You can't do that." Wrong button to push, mister. If I was in America, I would have said something along the lines of "How dare you tell me I can't do something just because I am a woman! I am strong, educated, and empowered. I will do whatever I want, whenever I want, and I have a history of strong women behind me: women who fought for the right to own property and the right to vote; women who smashed the glass ceiling of corporate America to pieces; women who advocated for women's health, birth control, and family planning; women who fought to control their own lives and now do so fabulously. Take that you sexist, chauvinistic, pathetic excuse for a person." However, I was not in America. I was in Mali. I was an outsider observing this traditional ritual. So I didn't say anything. I returned to the women's tree, seething inside. Every day these women are told implicitly and sometimes explicitly that they can't do things because they are women. No reason other than that. After the men danced around and shot off their guns (feel like a man now? you put down women and shot off a gun, congratulations), they all headed off into the bush to discuss the village's plans for the next year. Dreading the answer, I asked my host mom why women did not go. Response: We are women. We can't go. "Why not?" Because that is tradition. We are women. We can't go.
The next night, several problems involving the garden project came bubbling up to the surface. My host mom, Coumbare, is the president of the women's association. She had told all the women that they would have a garden and a well. Now, the men in the village refuse to finish building the well. Why? Because they found out that they won't be paid. Keep in mind, that from the beginning the men understood that they would not get paid because the well and labor is part of the community contribution. Now, at the hungriest time of the year, they are refusing to work unless they get money to feed their families. The ethics of it are horribly complicated -- would you refuse to do work unless you got paid, knowing that the work would bring desperately needed money to feed your family, while at the same time knowing that you are going back on your word by refusing to work? Well now all the women are blaming Coumbare for the well not being finished, when it is not her fault at all. The men, two especially, have been lying to her for day after day, saying it will be finished when it obviously won't be. She told me that the two men had also recently told her she had to stop being part of the regional women's association because they did not like her being so involved. She was so upset - "Aissata, I didn't steal any money. I did my job well. I planted all the trees, I helped with their garden, I brought in new money, I helped with women's projects. Why do they not want me involved? I'm a good person. I want to help myself and other women like me have a better life. Why is that bad?" Without me saying anything, she answered her own question: "They are men. They do not like a woman being involved." I asked her if she was still involved, and she said no, "Those men are the leaders of my village. I have to live here. I can't go against them."
Those two men now refuse to help the women finish their garden - a garden that the women will do all the work in, and then their families - including the men - will benefit from increased nutrition and a permanent food source. The women will do all the work in the long-term, the men will benefit. Where is the men's logic in this? Furthermore, the men are now saying that the garden supplies - a wheelbarrow, two shovels, two buckets, etc - belong to the men, not the women. They refuse to give the supplies back.
I do not understand. Maybe I will never understand. All I know is that if they knew what kind of woman they were dealing with they never would have tried to ruin the project in the first place. Because now I'm angry, and I will not stop until the well is finished, the project supplies are back in the hands of the women, and the women are able to plant their garden. Watch out, Sassolo.
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