Just kidding, there are no winners. Although I have been asked to share the top five books I've read this year (from July 2009 to July 2010). This proved to be a very difficult choice, as I've read quite a few (see list in side-bar), so I decided to split it into fiction and nonfiction. So in no particular order and without further ado:
Top 5 Nonfiction Books
- Amazing Grace by Jonathan Kozol. Fantastic and incredibly thought provoking. It makes you want to do something, right now, about urban poverty in America. Living in Mali, I live with very poor people (in money, not in spirit). Having volunteered with urban poverty organizations and studied poverty in cities in college, I know it's bad. I would rather live in Mali then be poor in any city in America. People here are poor, but they don't have daily shootouts and drug dealers down the streets. Something needs to be done, I'm not sure what but I'm a fan of people actually being aware of what their actions cause. And environmental justice and non-racist city planning. And social services that actually work.
- The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan. I'm a little late to reading Pollan's books, but they are so well-written and provide thoughtful analyses of our food system. Eat local.
- Madam Secretary by Madeline Albright. Perfect book for someone who gets geeked out by foreign policy and politics. Very long, but I could have read more.
- Guns, Germs, and Steel by Jared Diamond. Epic book. I've tried to read it four times, and finally succeeded in Mali.
- America's Women by Gail Collins. Such a fun book! I love the stories of the many different women she shares in this history of America.
Top 5 Fiction Books
- Prodigal Summer by Barbara Kingsolver. I love Kingsolver, and have read all of her books except for the newest one since I came to Mali. This is one of my favorites. Great story that weaves in the importance of the environment and ecology with the power of family.
- Persuasion by Jane Austen. Pride & Prejudice is actually my favorite Austen, but I felt the need to put up something I hadn't read before Mali. Love her.
- The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. I didn't like Hemingway before I read this book. Now he is one of my favorites.
- Catch-22 by Joseph Heller. Laugh out loud funny. I was reading this in my compound and kept on getting weird glances from my neighbors because I kept on laughing.
- A Passage to India by E.M. Forster. Great book about colonialism in India.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
I'm Back!
Well, after a wonderful and much too short break in America, I am back in Mali! First of all, thank you to the so many people who made my stay in America so fabulous. I loved being home with family and seeing the friends who made the time to visit. And of course, Sam and Nate's wedding was absolutely wonderful! It was great to catch up with friends and spend time with family. THANK YOU!
Now, to Mali: The first couple weeks back in country are always rough. It's really hot, there's no good food, massive caffeine headaches keep on happening, and family and friends are thousands of miles away. Ugh, you think. Why I am here? And then you wait. You sit and sweat through hot afternoons. You try to read War and Peace, and end up reading People instead. You venture out and fumble your way through remembering Fulfulde. And it's absolutely horrible for about a day. And then you see your peeps in village, and it all comes back. Drinking tea, shooting the breeze, shooing children away, speaking Fulfulde, and laughing a lot. Emphasis on a lot. You fall back into the routine, and everything seems to be okay. At least until that unlucky nth person of the day asks you for money. Then it's all over, everyone duck and cover. ;)
All the women in my village have been badgering me for a while now about doing another project: digging another well in the garden and getting a pump installed in both the new well and the well we already have. Another well in the garden is really important because having only one well makes it very difficult to water an entire hectare of vegetables. Children as young as five stay home from school in order to help pull the water and carry it across the garden in order to keep their family's plot alive. This can take up to four hours a day, two hours in the morning and two in the evening. The pumps would help alleviate this problem as well, as it would take a lot of the back-breaking labor out of watering the garden. This project is still in the early stages, but I hope it comes to fruition during my service.
I tried helping to water one evening, and they gave me a small child-size bucket. It was hard work! I was struggling carrying my one teensy-tiny bucket across the garden, while thirteen-year-old girls beside me were carrying buckets three times the size of mine on their heads. If nothing else, at least I provide comic relief.
I've established a new inside joke with my host family, which cracks me up every single time. Every night by five-year-old little host brother, Ngara, comes into the compound and pretends to be absolutely exhausted by falling onto our mat. I ask him a question about America, like, 'Is there millet in America?' And he says, 'Oh, I was there today. I did not see any millet.' I then ask him if he say my family, and he responds yes. He has named my mom Fatomata and my dad Hamadoun, after himself (Ngara is a nickname for Hamadoun). This charade continues on through the rest of dinner until I leave. I always tell him to greet my family the next day when he goes to America. We have quite a lot of fun with it, and he enjoys being the new 'America expert' in the family.
Now, to Mali: The first couple weeks back in country are always rough. It's really hot, there's no good food, massive caffeine headaches keep on happening, and family and friends are thousands of miles away. Ugh, you think. Why I am here? And then you wait. You sit and sweat through hot afternoons. You try to read War and Peace, and end up reading People instead. You venture out and fumble your way through remembering Fulfulde. And it's absolutely horrible for about a day. And then you see your peeps in village, and it all comes back. Drinking tea, shooting the breeze, shooing children away, speaking Fulfulde, and laughing a lot. Emphasis on a lot. You fall back into the routine, and everything seems to be okay. At least until that unlucky nth person of the day asks you for money. Then it's all over, everyone duck and cover. ;)
All the women in my village have been badgering me for a while now about doing another project: digging another well in the garden and getting a pump installed in both the new well and the well we already have. Another well in the garden is really important because having only one well makes it very difficult to water an entire hectare of vegetables. Children as young as five stay home from school in order to help pull the water and carry it across the garden in order to keep their family's plot alive. This can take up to four hours a day, two hours in the morning and two in the evening. The pumps would help alleviate this problem as well, as it would take a lot of the back-breaking labor out of watering the garden. This project is still in the early stages, but I hope it comes to fruition during my service.
I tried helping to water one evening, and they gave me a small child-size bucket. It was hard work! I was struggling carrying my one teensy-tiny bucket across the garden, while thirteen-year-old girls beside me were carrying buckets three times the size of mine on their heads. If nothing else, at least I provide comic relief.
I've established a new inside joke with my host family, which cracks me up every single time. Every night by five-year-old little host brother, Ngara, comes into the compound and pretends to be absolutely exhausted by falling onto our mat. I ask him a question about America, like, 'Is there millet in America?' And he says, 'Oh, I was there today. I did not see any millet.' I then ask him if he say my family, and he responds yes. He has named my mom Fatomata and my dad Hamadoun, after himself (Ngara is a nickname for Hamadoun). This charade continues on through the rest of dinner until I leave. I always tell him to greet my family the next day when he goes to America. We have quite a lot of fun with it, and he enjoys being the new 'America expert' in the family.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Malian Art & Music
See below links to websites featuring Malian art and music:
http://www.malichic.net/
http://www.tinariwen.com/
http://www.contrejour.com/artists/habibkoite/index2_uk.php?page=news
http://www.indigoarts.com/about1b.html
http://homepage.mac.com/melissaenderle/mali/pages/bogolan.html
Fun stuff! :)
http://www.malichic.net/
http://www.tinariwen.com/
http://www.contrejour.com/artists/habibkoite/index2_uk.php?page=news
http://www.indigoarts.com/about1b.html
http://homepage.mac.com/melissaenderle/mali/pages/bogolan.html
Fun stuff! :)
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Dancing, Planting, & Fasting...oh my!
Sorry it's been a while since my last post! Things have been (surprisingly!) busy, what with the new group of volunteers coming in and the old group leaving. So what have I been up to?
Well, we had a huge party to officially open the women's garden at the end of July. The real reason for the party was that the French woman who funds some of Planete Verte, the NGO I work with sometimes, was coming to visit. However, we just so happened to decide to have the party in the garden, then drive together to another village for lunch and a region-wide soccer match. The fete was quite the big deal! I invited Ali, Sam, and Emily (other Peace Corps volunteers and close friends) to come to the fete with me - and they were not disappointed! When we got there, the DJ was already playing the best Malian music interspersed with live Peuhl music. Peuhl music is not the most pleasant to listen to - it consists of a man playing 5 or 6 extremely high-pitched notes over and over again on a wooden flute - but it was fun to see everyone get excited about it and the dancing. Then the women and men performed a traditional dance.
After, there was a presentation of all the officials present, then they talked about the garden and my current neem cream project. Neem cream is a mosquito repellent made from the leaves of the neem tree. It's really easy to make and the women love it. This was the best part for me though - they introduced me to the crowd, so I stood up and waved....and got a standing ovation from my village and shouts of 'Thank you, thank you, thank you!' I was overcome with emotion because of the gratitude of these people, my friends, who had worked just as hard as I did on the project and were so happy that it was finally finished.
Then we planted some trees - 500 total! We planted jatropha trees, which produce oil that can be refined and used as fuel for cars, motos, etc. Five years down the road, maybe Sassolo will start exporting biofuel! Then it was off to the other village for a delicious lunch of zame (fried rice with cabbage, beef, potatoes, and whatever other vegetables are around). It was a great fete with great friends - both Malian and American.
Since the fete, the women have been very busy cultivating the soil and planting their plots in the garden! Most women have planted okra, millet, peanuts, beans, and onions, though soon they will have a wide array of vegetables to choose from. I've been out with them almost everyday helping and planting my own plot of peanuts and beans! Beans are my favorite...I can't wait until they are ready to harvest so I can share them with my host family for dinner! Growing things is fun. :) Right now we are trying to get the vegetable papiniere (nursery) up and running.
The last major thing that has been happening is that it is now Ramadan, the Muslim holy month of fasting. In Fulfulde, Ramadan is called Korka. Every adult who is not sick fasts every day from sunrise to sunset. This means they cannot drink anything (even water!) or eat any food. Some do not even swallow their spit! Nearly every adult in my village fasts except for me, and I don't simply because I am not Muslim, so the fast would lose its religious meaning and significance. Every night I do break the fast with my host mom though - which is quite the experience! Everyone has their radios turned on so that they can hear when they are allowed to start drinking and eating again. And the second the call begins on the radio, my host mom guzzles down a huge cup of water, then says a prayer of thanks and praise to Allah. After we drink a porridge made of sour milk, millet balls, sugar, hot pepper, and water. Which does not taste good at all, but the tradition is nice. Then we snack on peanuts or fried dough balls until dinner, which is usually something nice like rice and sauce. Those who fast then eat another meal around 11pm, and then wake up at 4am to eat a large meal to get them through the day. Not a lot of sleep this time of year!
I'm trying to get pictures up but the internet is super slow, so maybe in 2 1/2 weeks when I'm in AMERICA I can upload! See most of you soon! Yay!
Well, we had a huge party to officially open the women's garden at the end of July. The real reason for the party was that the French woman who funds some of Planete Verte, the NGO I work with sometimes, was coming to visit. However, we just so happened to decide to have the party in the garden, then drive together to another village for lunch and a region-wide soccer match. The fete was quite the big deal! I invited Ali, Sam, and Emily (other Peace Corps volunteers and close friends) to come to the fete with me - and they were not disappointed! When we got there, the DJ was already playing the best Malian music interspersed with live Peuhl music. Peuhl music is not the most pleasant to listen to - it consists of a man playing 5 or 6 extremely high-pitched notes over and over again on a wooden flute - but it was fun to see everyone get excited about it and the dancing. Then the women and men performed a traditional dance.
After, there was a presentation of all the officials present, then they talked about the garden and my current neem cream project. Neem cream is a mosquito repellent made from the leaves of the neem tree. It's really easy to make and the women love it. This was the best part for me though - they introduced me to the crowd, so I stood up and waved....and got a standing ovation from my village and shouts of 'Thank you, thank you, thank you!' I was overcome with emotion because of the gratitude of these people, my friends, who had worked just as hard as I did on the project and were so happy that it was finally finished.
Then we planted some trees - 500 total! We planted jatropha trees, which produce oil that can be refined and used as fuel for cars, motos, etc. Five years down the road, maybe Sassolo will start exporting biofuel! Then it was off to the other village for a delicious lunch of zame (fried rice with cabbage, beef, potatoes, and whatever other vegetables are around). It was a great fete with great friends - both Malian and American.
Since the fete, the women have been very busy cultivating the soil and planting their plots in the garden! Most women have planted okra, millet, peanuts, beans, and onions, though soon they will have a wide array of vegetables to choose from. I've been out with them almost everyday helping and planting my own plot of peanuts and beans! Beans are my favorite...I can't wait until they are ready to harvest so I can share them with my host family for dinner! Growing things is fun. :) Right now we are trying to get the vegetable papiniere (nursery) up and running.
The last major thing that has been happening is that it is now Ramadan, the Muslim holy month of fasting. In Fulfulde, Ramadan is called Korka. Every adult who is not sick fasts every day from sunrise to sunset. This means they cannot drink anything (even water!) or eat any food. Some do not even swallow their spit! Nearly every adult in my village fasts except for me, and I don't simply because I am not Muslim, so the fast would lose its religious meaning and significance. Every night I do break the fast with my host mom though - which is quite the experience! Everyone has their radios turned on so that they can hear when they are allowed to start drinking and eating again. And the second the call begins on the radio, my host mom guzzles down a huge cup of water, then says a prayer of thanks and praise to Allah. After we drink a porridge made of sour milk, millet balls, sugar, hot pepper, and water. Which does not taste good at all, but the tradition is nice. Then we snack on peanuts or fried dough balls until dinner, which is usually something nice like rice and sauce. Those who fast then eat another meal around 11pm, and then wake up at 4am to eat a large meal to get them through the day. Not a lot of sleep this time of year!
I'm trying to get pictures up but the internet is super slow, so maybe in 2 1/2 weeks when I'm in AMERICA I can upload! See most of you soon! Yay!
Friday, July 23, 2010
Sardine o tillike jooni!
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!
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!
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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