As someone who has traveled a lot and lived away from home for a long time I am used to being away from family and friends. I pride myself on being independent and not getting homesick. But there is something about being back with other volunteers and being in a city (Thies, and now Dakar) that makes me really miss home and friends and family. At site I’m so far removed from my previous reality that I’m not tempted by “normal” things. But being around other volunteers and being in a city with access to luxury, air conditioning, restaurants, going for coffee and delicious food makes me miss the normalcy and the comfort of home. Maybe not even home, but places that just aren’t as hard.
I met up with someone who was in Thies on a brief internship with a NGO. Talking to him about the Peace Corps experience and the way we PCVs live and the kinds of challenges and stories we all have, made me realize how exceptional this program really is. And how hard. It also made me incredibly proud of how much I’ve changed over these past months (almost six). I can tolerate so much more discomfort and frustration then I ever could before. Things just roll off my back much more easily than they used to. And I’m much more patient. Though that is not always consistent.
I have become totally jaded over some things, like going to the garage. The moment I walk into the garage I put my mean face on. I am ready to be harassed, to be grabbed at, swindled, lied to, and surrounded by people. So much so that today when we met a perfectly polite, nice, driver I was already so heated that it took me a few minutes to realize that he wasn’t trying to take us for all we’re worth. He was polite, helpful, and considerate. It was refreshing. Turns out that he was not Wolof. Unfortunately, the stereotype is that the Wolof men are aggressive and in my experience most times so far it’s true. I am not sure what it stems from, but my only real interactions with them are at the garage so that’s probably pretty unrepresentative.
So I’m heading back up to site later this week. Part of me is dreading it. The heat, the frustrations, the language barriers, the starting up of huge new projects etc.
But when I visualize coming home and having my little siblings and my family run into my arms to greet me…I wish I was already back…and that I had never left.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
PC training
Peace Corps.
It’s impressive as a whole, but some of the pieces are far from perfect.
As a PCV I am learning firsthand about the frustrations that come from working for a large, bureaucratic, governmental organization.
For one thing, there seems to be a lot of ‘wasted’ idle time. Particularly when it comes to training and PC policy. Many of our training sessions are repetitive and common sense based. It’s as if those planning the trainings don’t trust the initial PC selection process. As if somewhere along the line, someone decided that we needed to have basic trainings in subjects as fundamental as peer counseling techniques. I am hard-pressed to find one American college educated adult who has not had to help a peer through a difficult moment, addiction, or major loss, at some point in their lives. To spend several hours discussing how to be an active listener instead of giving us tangible teaching tools for working at our sites is a colossal waste of everyone’s time.
Talking amongst other volunteers, a lot of us feel like we are treated like children instead of as capable, educated adults. I’m not sure if this is because a lot of us are so young? In our stage, there is no one under 28. Because our training staff are all much older it is an easy trap to fall into. And to be fair, when we first arrived we were new to this culture, the languages, customs, and acceptable behaviours. In some ways we were infants in this environment. But after three months at site, having adjusted and figured things out for ourselves, it is endlessly frustrating to be thrust back into that same power dynamic.
It is also trying, after being largely independent for several months at site, to come back into a large group of other Americans and be back in a community where I do not speak the local language (Wolof). It is almost impossible for me to be thrown back in with 37 other young Americans and not feel homesick for those close friends and loved ones we have all left behind. In fact, one of the only times that I do get homesick is when I am surrounded by other volunteers. I think this is because it reminds me of the history and memories I have with friends at home. Not that we all haven’t bonded intensely over these past 5 months (5 months as of today!) but we are all still so new to each other.
Some of my most frustrating moments have arisen when I’ve been here at the PC training center, immersed in Pre-service and now In-service training. Training certainly has some positive aspects, but I am learning how difficult it is to create a cohesive and productive training curriculum, when the overarching theme of the Peace Corps is that “every volunteer’s experience is different.” Having heard this all through PST we thought we got it. But I don’t think we grasped the truth and wisdom of this statement until those first couple of weeks at site. Even in a country as tiny as Senegal, it is impossible to categorize and generalize the PCV experience. Perhaps this is one of the most appealing things about the Peace Corps?
More disturbingly from the administrative side though, are the accounts I have heard from my volunteer friends about their site placements. This is probably the most important factor in determining the success and endurance of a volunteer’s service. Truly it is. And there have been several instances where it has just gone horribly wrong.
I am so fortunate to have been placed in my town and with my family. I know that I am in the perfect site for my goals, and background. But the horror stories that some of my friends have told me just highlight the lack of communication between staff and administration, and between Senegal and Washington.
One such example was a friend of mine who lives up north nearby. She was put in the second largest site amongst the health volunteers, without speaking a WORD of French. While I admire her perseverance, it is absolutely absurd that PC would place a volunteer in a regional capital without any French, negligible health experience, and only rudimental Pulaar. Upon installation the staff member turned to her and said, “You speak French right?” Ridiculous that he didn’t know that already.
Meanwhile, another volunteer who speaks fairly decent French, and who desperately wanted to be in an urban setting and has more health experience, was placed in a tiny village nearby where she has struggled to find a niche for herself. The happy ending to this story is that both volunteers have settled in for the time being, and have carved out lives for themselves. But one can’t help but wonder if they would be more productive at each other’s sites? Such a needless and easily avoidable blunder. And the lack of awareness from the administrative side does nothing to instill confidence.
These kinds of placement inefficiencies are numerous.
Another female volunteer was placed down south in an extremely difficult site where she is barely holding on. Why? The volunteer that set up that site emphatically recommended that only a male volunteer be placed down there because of the abundance of leering men who are seasonal workers at the mines in the region. She was told that she was placed there as an exception because of her HIV expertise. When she mentioned this to a staff member intimately involved with the PC Senegal health program she was told that “oh no, don’t work on HIV/AIDS issues. You should be focusing on respiratory illnesses and diarrhea.” So then why was she put there?
I am so proud that she has made it this far after hearing about everything she has had to overcome.
I recognize that one of the fundamental principles of the PC experience is patience. Patience and flexibility. But there is a fine line between expecting volunteers to roll with the punches and sheer negligence. Unfortunately for some volunteers, the latter has overshadowed their placement.
I am learning that development work is full of inefficiencies, false starts, slow progress, and miscommunication. But the most important thing that the Peace Corps has going for it that so few other NGOs and development organizations do is that we are here. We are present in these communities for two years. We intimately get to know the people, the culture, and thus the potential success of particular projects.
I have heard of so many instances of NGOs giving mosquito nets to villages, only to discover that they should have given big ones because families all want to sleep all together and they cannot fit under a single bed net.
Or that a development organization will spend hundreds of dollars to build a well in some remote village because they noticed or were told that women must walk far to pull water. When the well is finished no one uses it because lo and behold, the women enjoyed walking and that was their only social time for the day.
These are the kind of wastes that can only be avoided when you have an agent in the community. A PCV who is constantly watching with his or her observation goggles and creative thinking cap on. Paying attention to every minute detail so as to bring the most sustainable projects to our communities that we can possibly muster.
For now I’m rolling with the punches, though my patience is being tested every day, especially back here in training.
It’s impressive as a whole, but some of the pieces are far from perfect.
As a PCV I am learning firsthand about the frustrations that come from working for a large, bureaucratic, governmental organization.
For one thing, there seems to be a lot of ‘wasted’ idle time. Particularly when it comes to training and PC policy. Many of our training sessions are repetitive and common sense based. It’s as if those planning the trainings don’t trust the initial PC selection process. As if somewhere along the line, someone decided that we needed to have basic trainings in subjects as fundamental as peer counseling techniques. I am hard-pressed to find one American college educated adult who has not had to help a peer through a difficult moment, addiction, or major loss, at some point in their lives. To spend several hours discussing how to be an active listener instead of giving us tangible teaching tools for working at our sites is a colossal waste of everyone’s time.
Talking amongst other volunteers, a lot of us feel like we are treated like children instead of as capable, educated adults. I’m not sure if this is because a lot of us are so young? In our stage, there is no one under 28. Because our training staff are all much older it is an easy trap to fall into. And to be fair, when we first arrived we were new to this culture, the languages, customs, and acceptable behaviours. In some ways we were infants in this environment. But after three months at site, having adjusted and figured things out for ourselves, it is endlessly frustrating to be thrust back into that same power dynamic.
It is also trying, after being largely independent for several months at site, to come back into a large group of other Americans and be back in a community where I do not speak the local language (Wolof). It is almost impossible for me to be thrown back in with 37 other young Americans and not feel homesick for those close friends and loved ones we have all left behind. In fact, one of the only times that I do get homesick is when I am surrounded by other volunteers. I think this is because it reminds me of the history and memories I have with friends at home. Not that we all haven’t bonded intensely over these past 5 months (5 months as of today!) but we are all still so new to each other.
Some of my most frustrating moments have arisen when I’ve been here at the PC training center, immersed in Pre-service and now In-service training. Training certainly has some positive aspects, but I am learning how difficult it is to create a cohesive and productive training curriculum, when the overarching theme of the Peace Corps is that “every volunteer’s experience is different.” Having heard this all through PST we thought we got it. But I don’t think we grasped the truth and wisdom of this statement until those first couple of weeks at site. Even in a country as tiny as Senegal, it is impossible to categorize and generalize the PCV experience. Perhaps this is one of the most appealing things about the Peace Corps?
More disturbingly from the administrative side though, are the accounts I have heard from my volunteer friends about their site placements. This is probably the most important factor in determining the success and endurance of a volunteer’s service. Truly it is. And there have been several instances where it has just gone horribly wrong.
I am so fortunate to have been placed in my town and with my family. I know that I am in the perfect site for my goals, and background. But the horror stories that some of my friends have told me just highlight the lack of communication between staff and administration, and between Senegal and Washington.
One such example was a friend of mine who lives up north nearby. She was put in the second largest site amongst the health volunteers, without speaking a WORD of French. While I admire her perseverance, it is absolutely absurd that PC would place a volunteer in a regional capital without any French, negligible health experience, and only rudimental Pulaar. Upon installation the staff member turned to her and said, “You speak French right?” Ridiculous that he didn’t know that already.
Meanwhile, another volunteer who speaks fairly decent French, and who desperately wanted to be in an urban setting and has more health experience, was placed in a tiny village nearby where she has struggled to find a niche for herself. The happy ending to this story is that both volunteers have settled in for the time being, and have carved out lives for themselves. But one can’t help but wonder if they would be more productive at each other’s sites? Such a needless and easily avoidable blunder. And the lack of awareness from the administrative side does nothing to instill confidence.
These kinds of placement inefficiencies are numerous.
Another female volunteer was placed down south in an extremely difficult site where she is barely holding on. Why? The volunteer that set up that site emphatically recommended that only a male volunteer be placed down there because of the abundance of leering men who are seasonal workers at the mines in the region. She was told that she was placed there as an exception because of her HIV expertise. When she mentioned this to a staff member intimately involved with the PC Senegal health program she was told that “oh no, don’t work on HIV/AIDS issues. You should be focusing on respiratory illnesses and diarrhea.” So then why was she put there?
I am so proud that she has made it this far after hearing about everything she has had to overcome.
I recognize that one of the fundamental principles of the PC experience is patience. Patience and flexibility. But there is a fine line between expecting volunteers to roll with the punches and sheer negligence. Unfortunately for some volunteers, the latter has overshadowed their placement.
I am learning that development work is full of inefficiencies, false starts, slow progress, and miscommunication. But the most important thing that the Peace Corps has going for it that so few other NGOs and development organizations do is that we are here. We are present in these communities for two years. We intimately get to know the people, the culture, and thus the potential success of particular projects.
I have heard of so many instances of NGOs giving mosquito nets to villages, only to discover that they should have given big ones because families all want to sleep all together and they cannot fit under a single bed net.
Or that a development organization will spend hundreds of dollars to build a well in some remote village because they noticed or were told that women must walk far to pull water. When the well is finished no one uses it because lo and behold, the women enjoyed walking and that was their only social time for the day.
These are the kind of wastes that can only be avoided when you have an agent in the community. A PCV who is constantly watching with his or her observation goggles and creative thinking cap on. Paying attention to every minute detail so as to bring the most sustainable projects to our communities that we can possibly muster.
For now I’m rolling with the punches, though my patience is being tested every day, especially back here in training.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Brunch
Today has been the best day ever.
This morning, about 8 of us PCVs met up at one of the volunteer’s apartments who lives in Thies. She has an incredible place. A beautiful, breezy roof terrace, full kitchen, a real bedroom and a bathroom, the works. We spent the better half of the day cooking, sipping mimosas, dancing to music, dreading hair, laughing, and talking. It felt so normal, and so good to be so decadent and indulgent. And it really was.
We made vegan pancakes and smothered them with peanut butter, bananas, and chocolate spread and put them on a huge plate and sat around Senegalese style, eating with our hands. Then we moved on to the veggies, potatoes and egg course (all cooked over a gas tank mind you), and then feasted on fruit salad, yogurt, and topped it off with horchata.
But the part that was the most fun was realizing how easy it is to spoil ourselves now. I mean, eating pancakes and pb with your hands probably isn’t most people’s idea of a delicacy, but boy was it ever!
Then I went to a hotel pool for some sun and pool time and wireless internet. It started to rain so it’s cooling off. And then a few of us are meeting up for dinner in a bit.
Who ever said Peace Corps volunteers never get time off!
This morning, about 8 of us PCVs met up at one of the volunteer’s apartments who lives in Thies. She has an incredible place. A beautiful, breezy roof terrace, full kitchen, a real bedroom and a bathroom, the works. We spent the better half of the day cooking, sipping mimosas, dancing to music, dreading hair, laughing, and talking. It felt so normal, and so good to be so decadent and indulgent. And it really was.
We made vegan pancakes and smothered them with peanut butter, bananas, and chocolate spread and put them on a huge plate and sat around Senegalese style, eating with our hands. Then we moved on to the veggies, potatoes and egg course (all cooked over a gas tank mind you), and then feasted on fruit salad, yogurt, and topped it off with horchata.
But the part that was the most fun was realizing how easy it is to spoil ourselves now. I mean, eating pancakes and pb with your hands probably isn’t most people’s idea of a delicacy, but boy was it ever!
Then I went to a hotel pool for some sun and pool time and wireless internet. It started to rain so it’s cooling off. And then a few of us are meeting up for dinner in a bit.
Who ever said Peace Corps volunteers never get time off!
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Back in Thies
After only three short hours in Thies I had already eaten a hamburger and ice cream, drank a beer and an espresso, all while emailing on wireless internet at a café/restaurant in the center of downtown. Tremendous. It feels so wonderful to be “normal.”
Being here makes me remember how much I love living in cities, and how relaxing it is to be able to be anonymous and wander the streets and run errands without running into cousins and uncles, siblings, friends and colleagues. And how much I love being independent and not having to constantly report back to anyone about where I’m going or what I’m doing. Thies feels like what I expected Africa “should” feel like. It’s mildly humid, not too hot, breezy, green, lots of trees, and you can hear birds all the time.
It’s such a treat to see all of the volunteers I have been away from for 3 months. I didn’t realize how much I missed them until we were all back together. It’s like seeing long lost friends and family. Collectively the boys have probably lost about a person in weight. I think the most anyone has lost is 43 pounds. Some of them are looking pretty skeleton-like. Many of the girls have lost weight too. At least half of the group has already been to see the medical officers in Dakar already. Most for GI problems like amoebas, and others for various skin fungi, rashes, and side effects of anti-malarials. I feel fortunate that although I have been mildly ill at site a few times (most recently last week with a lovely 24 hour full body “purge”) nothing has been serious enough to warrant the trek to Dakar.
We all just can’t hang out together enough. Everyone has so many incredible stories already. Yesterday, in health technical training we went around and shared funny stories from site. I haven’t laughed so hard in a long time. It’s comforting to hear that everyone has had the same kind of awkward interactions and embarrassing misunderstandings. Today we each presented the health concerns of and activities within our communities. It’s informative and interesting to hear how varied the health problems are even within regions. It really is true that every volunteer’s experience is totally different. Speaking with the few other semi-urban health volunteers made me feel better about being so overwhelmed with how much there is to do at our sites.
I know that the next three weeks are just going to fly by. It’s a challenge to be back on a 6 day a week 7am to 6pm schedule, but we are all attacking IST with lots of energy and motivation to gain the necessary skills to get back to our sites and start implementing some great projects. We’re going to receive training specific to the needs of our sites. I want to learn some teaching tools for presenting health information to children, and women, and how to make things like Neem lotion (anti-mosquito) and present effective visual aids, how to access resources for women’s groups etc. The great thing about the training during IST is it’s all going to be concrete practical information that we can actually use back at site.
This weekend we have a trip to Dakar planned. The American Club is going to hold an exclusive party for all of us with a barbecue and we’ll spend the day by the pool and have a dance party in the evening. Sunday I plan on tracking down the Ethiopian restaurant in Dakar and having a feast. (Any of you sensing a theme to this entry yet? Aka. FOOD!)
Seeing my Thies family has been so great. It’s tough to balance spending time with them and getting in time with the other volunteers. But at least this time around I feel a lot less guilty for spending evenings out with the other PCVs. Family guilt is something that was pretty all consuming during PST for most of us. It was so great to see them though. The 4 sisters ran to greet me when I came home and my Baaba and Nene were just all smiles. It really did feel like I was coming home. Even the cockroaches were excited to see me!
I was impressed with how easy it felt to come back here. The first time we went to our host families in Thies it was totally overwhelming, and that was nothing compared to installation up at site in the Fouta. So coming back felt like no big deal at all. I caught myself thinking I was such a baby for being so nervous the first time around. But it’s all part of the adjustment process. And I’m proud of myself for being able to tolerate so much more after just 5 months.
Part of me feels a little schizophrenic being back here. As one of the other volunteers said, “how many lives can we lead at once?” She is absolutely right. I am a 24-year-old American named Cait Givens, but I am also Oumou Sall, a PCV at training in Thies, but also a Pulaar Fouta inhabitant volunteer named Binta Lam. It feels a little crazy to be juggling all three at once.
Here’s to a busy and productive three weeks!
And of course, to three full weeks worth of ice cream…
Being here makes me remember how much I love living in cities, and how relaxing it is to be able to be anonymous and wander the streets and run errands without running into cousins and uncles, siblings, friends and colleagues. And how much I love being independent and not having to constantly report back to anyone about where I’m going or what I’m doing. Thies feels like what I expected Africa “should” feel like. It’s mildly humid, not too hot, breezy, green, lots of trees, and you can hear birds all the time.
It’s such a treat to see all of the volunteers I have been away from for 3 months. I didn’t realize how much I missed them until we were all back together. It’s like seeing long lost friends and family. Collectively the boys have probably lost about a person in weight. I think the most anyone has lost is 43 pounds. Some of them are looking pretty skeleton-like. Many of the girls have lost weight too. At least half of the group has already been to see the medical officers in Dakar already. Most for GI problems like amoebas, and others for various skin fungi, rashes, and side effects of anti-malarials. I feel fortunate that although I have been mildly ill at site a few times (most recently last week with a lovely 24 hour full body “purge”) nothing has been serious enough to warrant the trek to Dakar.
We all just can’t hang out together enough. Everyone has so many incredible stories already. Yesterday, in health technical training we went around and shared funny stories from site. I haven’t laughed so hard in a long time. It’s comforting to hear that everyone has had the same kind of awkward interactions and embarrassing misunderstandings. Today we each presented the health concerns of and activities within our communities. It’s informative and interesting to hear how varied the health problems are even within regions. It really is true that every volunteer’s experience is totally different. Speaking with the few other semi-urban health volunteers made me feel better about being so overwhelmed with how much there is to do at our sites.
I know that the next three weeks are just going to fly by. It’s a challenge to be back on a 6 day a week 7am to 6pm schedule, but we are all attacking IST with lots of energy and motivation to gain the necessary skills to get back to our sites and start implementing some great projects. We’re going to receive training specific to the needs of our sites. I want to learn some teaching tools for presenting health information to children, and women, and how to make things like Neem lotion (anti-mosquito) and present effective visual aids, how to access resources for women’s groups etc. The great thing about the training during IST is it’s all going to be concrete practical information that we can actually use back at site.
This weekend we have a trip to Dakar planned. The American Club is going to hold an exclusive party for all of us with a barbecue and we’ll spend the day by the pool and have a dance party in the evening. Sunday I plan on tracking down the Ethiopian restaurant in Dakar and having a feast. (Any of you sensing a theme to this entry yet? Aka. FOOD!)
Seeing my Thies family has been so great. It’s tough to balance spending time with them and getting in time with the other volunteers. But at least this time around I feel a lot less guilty for spending evenings out with the other PCVs. Family guilt is something that was pretty all consuming during PST for most of us. It was so great to see them though. The 4 sisters ran to greet me when I came home and my Baaba and Nene were just all smiles. It really did feel like I was coming home. Even the cockroaches were excited to see me!
I was impressed with how easy it felt to come back here. The first time we went to our host families in Thies it was totally overwhelming, and that was nothing compared to installation up at site in the Fouta. So coming back felt like no big deal at all. I caught myself thinking I was such a baby for being so nervous the first time around. But it’s all part of the adjustment process. And I’m proud of myself for being able to tolerate so much more after just 5 months.
Part of me feels a little schizophrenic being back here. As one of the other volunteers said, “how many lives can we lead at once?” She is absolutely right. I am a 24-year-old American named Cait Givens, but I am also Oumou Sall, a PCV at training in Thies, but also a Pulaar Fouta inhabitant volunteer named Binta Lam. It feels a little crazy to be juggling all three at once.
Here’s to a busy and productive three weeks!
And of course, to three full weeks worth of ice cream…
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Elation
Worrying that my most recent entries were downers, I decided that I wasn’t being representative of the full range of emotions I’ve been experiencing. Namely, that I hadn’t written enough about the happy moments that warm your heart. So not only am I going to upload lots of happy cute pictures of adorable children this week (Inshallah they go through), but I am also going to include this list of blissful moments.
To totally plagiarize…
Caitlin Givens’ Moments of Zen…
Walking back from the mayor’s office. 4 young girls (age 5ish) running full force at me yelling “Toubak! Toubak!” with huge grins on their faces. One of them ran straight into me and gave me a huge bear hug. It was so cute. I busted out laughing and smiled all the way home. Here she came barrelling towards me, a perfect stranger, and her little head only came up to my hips. Adorable.
When people emphatically correct me and tell me that “No, you speak Pulaar very well” when I apologize for only speaking a little bit. A little compliment goes a long way.
The day that my newest nephew (Albert age 18 months or so) recognized me and not only stopped being afraid of me, but spent hours playing with me.
My birthday. I spent it surrounded by new PCV friends who I’ve only known for a few months, who trekked out from their villages (no easy task) to spend time with me, just so that I could have a nice day. One of whom called for a circle of “Why We Love Caitlin.” Then each went around in turn and gave one reason why they love me. It’s hard to explain how important fellow PCV support is out here. We really do become eachother’s family.
Recognizing people from my town!
Prepping people in my town for my departure for IST and them all telling me how much they are going to miss me.
Finally feeling accepted by the matrons and sage-femmes at the health post.
Double trouble. My two little nephews toddling around our compound with their big bellies (not cuz they’re fat) hanging out, babbling in babyspeak, and herding our family’s goats. They are fearless and will just go right up to them and smack em if they aren’t going the right way.
A solid night’s sleep.
The 2 days when my alarm clock thermometer did not get above 100 degrees!
Successfully convincing my family that they NEED to sleep under mosquito nets.
Attending my quartier’s (neighborhood) winning soccer match. Everytime they scored a goal we all rushed the field and my sisters and their friends and neighbors danced and sang throughout the whole game.
The realization that I’m going to be able to eat ICE CREAM for 3 weeks when I’m in Thies for IST!
Finally tracking down the health supervisor in his office after months of unsuccessful attempts.
The sound of the robinet in the morning (the faucet). Because it means that the water is on.
It being cool enough at night to finally start sleeping in my room.
Haco nights! Yum!
Going to the post office and discovering that I have letters, packages, or postcards of any kind. (THANK YOU ALL!)
Not freaking out when I found a full chicken head and neck in my “yassa poulet.” (I did not eat it.)
Catching a whiff of something that smells good-soap, lotion, perfume, anything.
Eating as much all natural, not processed Senegalese peanut butter as I want. A half kilo is only 75 cents!
Doing laundry while jamming out to Whitney Houston’s Top 20 and singing at the top of my lungs.
Quiet moments talking with my yaaye when its just she and I and the littlest kids.
When my little 7 year old nephew and 10 year old niece came to my door the other day and held up a tiny slip of paper asking me what it said. My eyes fell on the words “erectile disfunction.” My sister Binta found some generic viagra in the house and was wondering what the pills did, but the instructions were written in English. Hilarious. Of course no one has admitted ownership of the meds!
The realization that I am really going to miss my family for the month that I am gone for IST in Thies. When I almost cried leaving my baby nephews I realized that this really is my home.
And finally…those moments when I’m walking around my town, or riding in a van and I think to myself “I’m doing it!” That I’m living my dream. I’m here, in West Africa, on my own, doing what I love, working for something I believe in, challenging myself every moment and not just surviving, but thoroughly enjoying almost every moment.
To totally plagiarize…
Caitlin Givens’ Moments of Zen…
Walking back from the mayor’s office. 4 young girls (age 5ish) running full force at me yelling “Toubak! Toubak!” with huge grins on their faces. One of them ran straight into me and gave me a huge bear hug. It was so cute. I busted out laughing and smiled all the way home. Here she came barrelling towards me, a perfect stranger, and her little head only came up to my hips. Adorable.
When people emphatically correct me and tell me that “No, you speak Pulaar very well” when I apologize for only speaking a little bit. A little compliment goes a long way.
The day that my newest nephew (Albert age 18 months or so) recognized me and not only stopped being afraid of me, but spent hours playing with me.
My birthday. I spent it surrounded by new PCV friends who I’ve only known for a few months, who trekked out from their villages (no easy task) to spend time with me, just so that I could have a nice day. One of whom called for a circle of “Why We Love Caitlin.” Then each went around in turn and gave one reason why they love me. It’s hard to explain how important fellow PCV support is out here. We really do become eachother’s family.
Recognizing people from my town!
Prepping people in my town for my departure for IST and them all telling me how much they are going to miss me.
Finally feeling accepted by the matrons and sage-femmes at the health post.
Double trouble. My two little nephews toddling around our compound with their big bellies (not cuz they’re fat) hanging out, babbling in babyspeak, and herding our family’s goats. They are fearless and will just go right up to them and smack em if they aren’t going the right way.
A solid night’s sleep.
The 2 days when my alarm clock thermometer did not get above 100 degrees!
Successfully convincing my family that they NEED to sleep under mosquito nets.
Attending my quartier’s (neighborhood) winning soccer match. Everytime they scored a goal we all rushed the field and my sisters and their friends and neighbors danced and sang throughout the whole game.
The realization that I’m going to be able to eat ICE CREAM for 3 weeks when I’m in Thies for IST!
Finally tracking down the health supervisor in his office after months of unsuccessful attempts.
The sound of the robinet in the morning (the faucet). Because it means that the water is on.
It being cool enough at night to finally start sleeping in my room.
Haco nights! Yum!
Going to the post office and discovering that I have letters, packages, or postcards of any kind. (THANK YOU ALL!)
Not freaking out when I found a full chicken head and neck in my “yassa poulet.” (I did not eat it.)
Catching a whiff of something that smells good-soap, lotion, perfume, anything.
Eating as much all natural, not processed Senegalese peanut butter as I want. A half kilo is only 75 cents!
Doing laundry while jamming out to Whitney Houston’s Top 20 and singing at the top of my lungs.
Quiet moments talking with my yaaye when its just she and I and the littlest kids.
When my little 7 year old nephew and 10 year old niece came to my door the other day and held up a tiny slip of paper asking me what it said. My eyes fell on the words “erectile disfunction.” My sister Binta found some generic viagra in the house and was wondering what the pills did, but the instructions were written in English. Hilarious. Of course no one has admitted ownership of the meds!
The realization that I am really going to miss my family for the month that I am gone for IST in Thies. When I almost cried leaving my baby nephews I realized that this really is my home.
And finally…those moments when I’m walking around my town, or riding in a van and I think to myself “I’m doing it!” That I’m living my dream. I’m here, in West Africa, on my own, doing what I love, working for something I believe in, challenging myself every moment and not just surviving, but thoroughly enjoying almost every moment.
The Health Post
The Health Post
Every Thursday is vaccination day at my town’s health post. It coincides with the weekly market so that everyone knows what day it is happening. This is very effective and I have been consistently impressed with the turnout. At my first vaccination day 64 women showed up to vaccinate their babies! Women come from all over the region, not just from my town. They come in from nearby villages, and towns nextdoor.
I have recently started attending the vaccination days, not to vaccinate any babies of course, but to hang out and speak with the women, to practice my Pulaar, and to have a chance to talk to them a bit about their health concerns (in my broken Pulaar). All the while I have my PCV observation goggles on. I take in every site, sound, concern, and emotion I can until my head is swimming with ideas and of course, frustrations and disappointments.
As I said, 64 women showed up several weeks ago. Most of them arrived between 8-9am. The last ones did not leave until 2pm. They waited to be seen for 6 hours, in the heat, with their infants. There are only 2 benches, which means there is room for about 4 women on each. The rest sprawl out on the cement floor and when that is full the others wait outside in the sand or on mats. When the power goes out, so does the running water and on this day, the power was out, so no one had any water to drink.
But despite all that, these women persevere. They pay the money to travel by cart or van, they brave the heat and the thirst, all to come and vaccinate their babies. I am always inspired by their drive. None of them speak any French which means that they have not been to school and I am consistently impressed that it is now common knowledge for babies to even be vaccinated in the first place.
All that aside, my days at the health post are exhausting. The first vaccination day I had my first run in with really sick, tiny, skinny, malnourished, swollen-bellied newborn babies who will most likely not even live to 3 months. This is just devastating every time. My first day I had to leave because I couldn’t hold back the tears. Even thinking about it now brings tears to my eyes.
I try to single out the mommies with the sickest looking babies and talk to them about why they are so tiny and what they can do to make them well. Because it’s not as if they do not notice. And I can see all the other women with healthier babies glancing knowingly at the tiny ones. I spoke with one woman about her baby and I asked her if she was breast feeding exclusively-no water, no butter, no oily coffee dipped bread, breast milk only. She nodded at me sheepishly and then later of course I saw her giving her newborn tap water out of a filthy sippy cup. Sigh.
It’s these kind of interactions that have motivated me to start weekly health talks at the health post on vaccination days. I have already cleared it with the head midwife and she was very encouraging. I mean, I will have a captive audience of bored, hopefully interested women. I know it will not be ideal, because it will still be hot and uncomfortable, but it is the perfect opportunity to take advantage of a captive and idle audience. I will be giving talks on breastfeeding, diarrhea, explaining the vaccination cards (because they are in French), the importance of pre-natal visits, tracking their babies weight, first aid, malaria, you name it. I am eager to start as soon as I come back from IST. I know that the women will be appreciative because they are always very receptive to me when I am there. They just cannot believe that there is a toubak at the health post who not only speaks some Pulaar, but who wants to do nothing else but sit around and talk to them and hold their babies, and laugh, and make them feel at ease. (I will admit that these days are very good for my own ego because the women always tell me how good my Pulaar is. Not true, but nice to hear. And of course I get to hold adorable drooling, giggling, babies all day. Heaven!) I even had one woman give me a bin bin a few weeks ago just for talking to her. I was touched.
From hanging around at these vaccination days I now understand first hand the complexity of the health problems in my town.
For one thing, the quality of care is almost absolutely zero. Women are literally afraid of the nurses and midwives there. And I entirely understand why. If they are late vaccinating their babies, they get yelled at; when they get injections there is no forewarning, the nurses just stab them gossiping with their friends all the while; if they don’t jump up and run to the vaccinating room the instant they are called the midwives roll their eyes and sigh as if they have somewhere else they are supposed to be; the babies are thrown around like pillows and vaccinated on a cold hard slab of metal; and don’t even get me started about the birthing room…
Perhaps that needs to be reserved for a whole other entry?
But ultimately, there is no privacy. There are 5 “beds” (wire structures with old foam pads) all in one room and the door is left open at all times so that when the health post is crowded women can come in and sit in there. So women who are in labor are always surrounded by strangers. The midwives might check on them every once in awhile, but ultimately they are left to their own devices until the very last minute. Most bring a family member who fetches them water and whatever they need, but if they can’t, they are totally alone in a crowded, filthy, hot room with no bathroom facilities, and no medical facilities. There are no ultrasound machines, or heart monitors, or medicine for pain. Nope, it’s pretty much just a room and as far as I can tell every woman is indiscriminantly given an IV drip of glucose.
So there is little incentive to even get to the health post in the first place. As a result many women choose to give birth at home. I spoke with one woman recently who told me that when she was in labor, she trekked to the health post at midnight, got ahold of the midwife who told her to go back home because it was too late at night, and the woman most likely would not need to be there until morning. On her walk back sure enough, the baby arrived and she gave birth right there in the sand. In the sand, with animal shit and urine, and tires, and trash, and rotting food. And the stories don’t end there. Every week I hear new ones, each more horrifying than the last.
And on the other end, the midwives get jaded and frustrated because they repeatedly see women doing exactly the things they tell them not to, like not exclusively breastfeeding until six months, or not coming to the vaccination days on time, or not coming for prenatal visits. So there are frustrations all around and no one seems to be working to retrain the health workers to be more compassionate, and the women are not receiving the necessary education to help keep their babies healthy.
I suppose this is where I come in, as a middle person, to transfer simple health knowledge and to live by example.
But I am going to start this work off right. Namely, by gathering data. I can access any records I want (health post, mayor’s office) so I am first going to accumulate statistics on the number of deaths of children under 2 in my town and then after two years I will actually have something to compare to. Granted it is not ideal because reporting is not required and there is plenty of room for error, but I think that concrete results are important and unfortunately they are difficult to come by and overlooked in a lot of grassroots development work.
I am ready to start helping mommies keep their babies alive, healthy, and giggling…one vaccination day at a time.
Every Thursday is vaccination day at my town’s health post. It coincides with the weekly market so that everyone knows what day it is happening. This is very effective and I have been consistently impressed with the turnout. At my first vaccination day 64 women showed up to vaccinate their babies! Women come from all over the region, not just from my town. They come in from nearby villages, and towns nextdoor.
I have recently started attending the vaccination days, not to vaccinate any babies of course, but to hang out and speak with the women, to practice my Pulaar, and to have a chance to talk to them a bit about their health concerns (in my broken Pulaar). All the while I have my PCV observation goggles on. I take in every site, sound, concern, and emotion I can until my head is swimming with ideas and of course, frustrations and disappointments.
As I said, 64 women showed up several weeks ago. Most of them arrived between 8-9am. The last ones did not leave until 2pm. They waited to be seen for 6 hours, in the heat, with their infants. There are only 2 benches, which means there is room for about 4 women on each. The rest sprawl out on the cement floor and when that is full the others wait outside in the sand or on mats. When the power goes out, so does the running water and on this day, the power was out, so no one had any water to drink.
But despite all that, these women persevere. They pay the money to travel by cart or van, they brave the heat and the thirst, all to come and vaccinate their babies. I am always inspired by their drive. None of them speak any French which means that they have not been to school and I am consistently impressed that it is now common knowledge for babies to even be vaccinated in the first place.
All that aside, my days at the health post are exhausting. The first vaccination day I had my first run in with really sick, tiny, skinny, malnourished, swollen-bellied newborn babies who will most likely not even live to 3 months. This is just devastating every time. My first day I had to leave because I couldn’t hold back the tears. Even thinking about it now brings tears to my eyes.
I try to single out the mommies with the sickest looking babies and talk to them about why they are so tiny and what they can do to make them well. Because it’s not as if they do not notice. And I can see all the other women with healthier babies glancing knowingly at the tiny ones. I spoke with one woman about her baby and I asked her if she was breast feeding exclusively-no water, no butter, no oily coffee dipped bread, breast milk only. She nodded at me sheepishly and then later of course I saw her giving her newborn tap water out of a filthy sippy cup. Sigh.
It’s these kind of interactions that have motivated me to start weekly health talks at the health post on vaccination days. I have already cleared it with the head midwife and she was very encouraging. I mean, I will have a captive audience of bored, hopefully interested women. I know it will not be ideal, because it will still be hot and uncomfortable, but it is the perfect opportunity to take advantage of a captive and idle audience. I will be giving talks on breastfeeding, diarrhea, explaining the vaccination cards (because they are in French), the importance of pre-natal visits, tracking their babies weight, first aid, malaria, you name it. I am eager to start as soon as I come back from IST. I know that the women will be appreciative because they are always very receptive to me when I am there. They just cannot believe that there is a toubak at the health post who not only speaks some Pulaar, but who wants to do nothing else but sit around and talk to them and hold their babies, and laugh, and make them feel at ease. (I will admit that these days are very good for my own ego because the women always tell me how good my Pulaar is. Not true, but nice to hear. And of course I get to hold adorable drooling, giggling, babies all day. Heaven!) I even had one woman give me a bin bin a few weeks ago just for talking to her. I was touched.
From hanging around at these vaccination days I now understand first hand the complexity of the health problems in my town.
For one thing, the quality of care is almost absolutely zero. Women are literally afraid of the nurses and midwives there. And I entirely understand why. If they are late vaccinating their babies, they get yelled at; when they get injections there is no forewarning, the nurses just stab them gossiping with their friends all the while; if they don’t jump up and run to the vaccinating room the instant they are called the midwives roll their eyes and sigh as if they have somewhere else they are supposed to be; the babies are thrown around like pillows and vaccinated on a cold hard slab of metal; and don’t even get me started about the birthing room…
Perhaps that needs to be reserved for a whole other entry?
But ultimately, there is no privacy. There are 5 “beds” (wire structures with old foam pads) all in one room and the door is left open at all times so that when the health post is crowded women can come in and sit in there. So women who are in labor are always surrounded by strangers. The midwives might check on them every once in awhile, but ultimately they are left to their own devices until the very last minute. Most bring a family member who fetches them water and whatever they need, but if they can’t, they are totally alone in a crowded, filthy, hot room with no bathroom facilities, and no medical facilities. There are no ultrasound machines, or heart monitors, or medicine for pain. Nope, it’s pretty much just a room and as far as I can tell every woman is indiscriminantly given an IV drip of glucose.
So there is little incentive to even get to the health post in the first place. As a result many women choose to give birth at home. I spoke with one woman recently who told me that when she was in labor, she trekked to the health post at midnight, got ahold of the midwife who told her to go back home because it was too late at night, and the woman most likely would not need to be there until morning. On her walk back sure enough, the baby arrived and she gave birth right there in the sand. In the sand, with animal shit and urine, and tires, and trash, and rotting food. And the stories don’t end there. Every week I hear new ones, each more horrifying than the last.
And on the other end, the midwives get jaded and frustrated because they repeatedly see women doing exactly the things they tell them not to, like not exclusively breastfeeding until six months, or not coming to the vaccination days on time, or not coming for prenatal visits. So there are frustrations all around and no one seems to be working to retrain the health workers to be more compassionate, and the women are not receiving the necessary education to help keep their babies healthy.
I suppose this is where I come in, as a middle person, to transfer simple health knowledge and to live by example.
But I am going to start this work off right. Namely, by gathering data. I can access any records I want (health post, mayor’s office) so I am first going to accumulate statistics on the number of deaths of children under 2 in my town and then after two years I will actually have something to compare to. Granted it is not ideal because reporting is not required and there is plenty of room for error, but I think that concrete results are important and unfortunately they are difficult to come by and overlooked in a lot of grassroots development work.
I am ready to start helping mommies keep their babies alive, healthy, and giggling…one vaccination day at a time.
Atheist Man Hater
I called my parents last week and the first thing I blurted out was
“My site is turning me into an atheist man-hater!”
I didn’t think it was possible, having grown up with atheist parents in a liberal town in Northern California, but I think that living here in a conservative, Pulaar, polygamous, Muslim, region of Northern Senegal, has actually made me less religious and turned me into more of a champion of all things women’s rights related. And I realize that addressing this topic in this public forum has the potential to get ugly, so let me qualify what I’m about to say. This entry is about my observations, and the frustrations I encounter as a development worker working, living, and trying to integrate into a culture wholly unlike my own. I am not passing judgment or criticizing. I mean only to share my experiences with you all at home.
I’ve been thinking about this entry for over a week now. Thinking about how to write it and how to dive into a topic that is so complex and sensitive. Because ultimately, religion ties into this, but this entry is mostly about a culture of male dominance and female subordination (in my opinion, partly due to religion and of course many other factors such as lack of education, unemployment etc.). And I decided that no matter what, I can only capture so much through writing and I might as well just dive in and try my best. I hope that you will all be patient with me as I ramble.
Here is how it started.
About 2 weeks ago I was invited to a conference on girls’ schooling. A dynamic and educated young woman I met while drinking tea at my counterpart’s house invited me. I quickly accepted the invitation and agreed to put on my best Senegalese outfit, headwrap and all. To boot, I was going to get a ride from my counterpart’s husband who has a car. So Sunday I went to my counterpart’s house to check on when we’d be leaving. I walk in and she’s lying on the floor resting at 10am and looks horrible. She’s about 7 months pregnant and she’s older and has been really tired and in a lot of pain lately. I tell her that she should spend the day napping and rest as much as possible and try to eat more frequently and stay hydrated etc.
She laughs/groans and says she has to prepare lunch. I look around. There are not one, not two, but 6…count them 6 able-bodied young strapping men LAYING around in their living room watching TV doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. And SHE gets up, nauseous, in pain, and spends the ENTIRE day preparing their food, cleaning up, and then preparing dinner. I almost went nuts. So being the assertive toubak I asked them all why they weren’t helping. “Men don’t cook,” was the response I got as they changed the channel on the TV. Brilliant.
So later that afternoon when I headed back to her house I was already annoyed and worked up about her feeling so badly and not having any help. I was all dressed up in my grande bou-bou, (Senegalese attire) wearing my headwrap, and my desperately uncomfortable hot, wrap skirt. I was sitting around waiting for my counterpart’s husband to get going (Senegalese time. At least an hour late) and I started talking to one of his guests. Now, I’ve met this man before and I knew that I was in for a conversation about polygamy and why I would never ever in his dreams be his second wife.
Maybe it would be better to write out the conversation. This isn’t ver batem but it is the best I can remember. (It was all in French. He doesn’t speak Pulaar).
“Caitlin, you still won’t accept polygamy in your life and be my second wife huh?”
“Nope. Never. Not a chance. Not even in your wildest dreams.”
“But why? Polygamy is good!”
“Yeah it’s good…for the men.”
“Right. So?”
“So? That’s entirely unequal. If men can have multiple wives, why can’t women have multiple husbands?”
(Hilarious outbursts of laughter from the men in the room).
“No Caitlin, that’s not right.”
“Why not?”
(Be prepared for this one…)
“Because it’s in men’s very nature to NEED to have sex with more than one woman. It’s our right ordained by Allah.”
Fact Check: Islam does NOT promote polygamy outright. It merely tolerates it. And limits it to 4 wives.
(Stunned silence from me).
“That’s ridiculous. I do not agree. Polygamy is merely legalized infidelity. In my opinion it should be one person for one partner. I will never be your second wife. Quit asking. I’m bored of this conversation. I get asked every day and the answer will always be no!”
Then the conversation dissolved into laughter (his) and I excused myself from the room. Normally these conversations are routine and I can bounce back from them, but I was already in NO mood to tolerate anymore patronizing “maleness.” It was hot, I was waiting to get to this conference and nervous about having to try and understand all of it, and I was just done defending myself. It becomes exhausting to talk about 10 times a day.
But some days, there is just no rest for the weary PCV.
I went outside hoping to find some comfort in the younger brother who I often talk to because he is extremely patient with me and always wants to talk about America and asks lots of questions and helps me with my Pulaar.
Unfortunately, he was the straw that broke my back…
We started talking about the conference, and that it was promoting the importance of girls schooling. He asked me why it wasn’t about boys schooling too, and brought up the scholarship program that the PC offers to girls of middle school age, but not to boys. So I told him about the statistics, about how many girls drop out after middle school because they are given a husband by their parents. How there are many more boys in high school than girls and this conference and the scholarship program were designed to encourage people to let their daughters and wives continue their schooling.
He chuckled and I knew I was in for a tiring debate. (This time in Pulaar and French).
“But girls don’t need to go to high school.”
“What? Of course they do? Why would you say that? Boys and girls are equal.”
“WHAT? No they are not. Boys and girls are not equal.”
“What are you saying? Seriously? So then what you’re saying is boys are better. They deserve an education. Is that what you mean?”
(Nervous laughter on his part.)
“All I’m saying is that they are not equal. I won’t say who is better. Besides, girls don’t need to go to school because they get husbands and they work in the house. They don’t need to be educated.”
“That’s ridiculous. I definitely don’t agree. Besides, the more education a woman receives the higher chance of survival of her children. Don’t you want your children to survive?”
“That is up to Allah. Besides, girls need to be married early.”
“Early? But here it happens as early as 13! Another volunteer’s brother (age 25) just married an 11-year-old last week! Is that okay?”
“Of course.”
“But she’s just a child. She probably can’t even conceive yet. Ask ANY teenage girl. None of them want to be married yet. When I went around and did my scholarship interviews I did not meet a single girl who wanted to leave school and be married off to some man twice her age and leave her family. That is no future.”
“No. Early marriage is good.”
“Right, for the old men that are marrying them.”
“Yeah it’s good for the men. For us. (Chuckles). But Caitlin, Caitlin…early marriage is good because if they don’t get married they will start running out at night and having sex. You watch…they all do it.”
“At 13? That’s ridiculous. I have 3 teenage sisters in my house right now. And you know them, and you know that they aren’t doing that. They don’t even have time to study let alone have boyfriends because they’re working in the house all day long.”
“No Caitlin. You watch and see. I am going to marry a young wife. I want 3.”
“But imagine if you were a 13 year old girl, going to school, living with your family, enjoying time with your friends and one day your father comes home and gives you a husband. You’re pulled out of school, you’re dressed up and married off and terrified of the wedding night. You have to leave your friends and everyone you know, and live with his family and spend the rest of your life in the house, cooking, cleaning, and caring for children. I mean why do you think so many young girls sit and sob with their groups of friends on their wedding days? Would YOU want that fate?”
“Of course not. But it’s good for them. And I would because I would have to.”
You get the point. It’s not really worth continuing because it just gets me riled up. The conversation ended when I told him point blank that I did not agree. I think I actually stamped my foot and turned my back to him to avoid punching him in the face. And I know. I know that this is not being culturally sensitive, or accepting of his opinion, and his upbringing…but damnit I can’t always be on my best behavior. And sometimes silence is more harmful in the long run. I’d rather risk being rude and have a shot at making him think about what he’s saying. It was just that suddenly, the reality of the kind of centuries of ingrained teachings I am up against loomed in front of me and within seconds I was fighting off tears of frustration and desperation.
This whole thing was so devastating. Not just because of what he said, but also because it came from someone who I enjoy talking with and who I looked forward to sharing experiences with. It was so disappointing.
Thankfully we headed to the conference. My counterpart’s husband, his friend, and myself. Of course they were joking the whole way that the three of us were going to spend the night there and that I was going to have to sleep in the middle of them. Gross. And patronizing. And the joke is old and was never funny in the first place.
The Conference.
As I said, no rest for the weary.
Upon arrival men and women are separated and seated on opposite sides of the compound. In the middle sat a bunch of men on huge cushy couches and were served ice water and tea. They were marabous and Imams mostly. The women meanwhile are sitting in plastic chairs and must share a few sachets of water between themselves and the babies they all have on their backs and in their laps.
Within five minutes I realize that the whole conference is going to take place in Wolof, so I won’t understand a single thing. And it’s not exactly about GIRLS schooling. It’s about the role of Islam and schooling.
3 hours later. I am bored almost to tears. Only ONE woman has spoken the entire night and only to briefly explain her role in organizing this event and that she wants to see more girls kept in school.
On the way home my counterpart’s husband briefly summarized the event (and only after I pestered him). Basically the Grand Marabou talked the entire time. His point was that Koranic schooling should come first. He did not speak a word about keeping girls in school.
Koranic school? Are you kidding me? I want those 3 hours of my life back. I just couldn’t believe it.
I mean, what kind of skills do these kids get from going to Koranic school? Young boys are sent away by their parents during some of the most fragile years of their life (6-10) to sit all day long, filthy, hungry, exhausted, reciting the Koran, and begging for food. I just can’t wrap my head around this idea. I mean what skills do these kids leave with? None. What prospects do they have for employment? Zero. Senegal can’t have thousands of marabous, or Koranic scholars. And they can’t go back to normal school after they’re finished if they’re over 10 years old because they’re not allowed in after 10.
This just baffles my mind. My counterpart for example, chose to put her eldest son in Koranic school instead of regular school. When I asked her what he was going to do afterwards for work, like maybe be an Imam, or a marabou, or teach the Koran, or continue his studies at University, she sort of laughed and said “Oh no. He’ll move to France and work and find a French wife.” Great.
Not to say that everyone has to have schooling to be productive and have successful careers, but we all know it makes it that much more possible. The sort of unreal expectations and the lack of planning and the total absence of logic all for the sake of studying the Koran…I just cannot relate to. And I don’t even know where or how to start.
But maybe I don’t have to relate.
And I’m not here to change anyone’s beliefs or pass judgment on his or her decisions. That’s not what I’m getting at. My intellectual challenge is to find ways to transfer the knowledge and skills that my community asks me for, despite these enormous obstacles I have laid out in this entry. As I said at the beginning, my frustration comes from trying to work through and with these ideas, some of which are entirely contradictory to the work I have been asked to do and see tremendous need for.
If you’re still reading, thanks for your patience and understanding as I grapple with how to sort through of all of my emotions and thoughts from that day. (Remember, that was all just one day). I hope that I have at least made all of you think!
Finding the silver lining. (Because that’s what I do best).
Through it all, even at my lowest moment of the day, even though I was so discouraged, I still didn’t want to leave. Yes, I was overwhelmed and wondering how in the world I was going to be able to affect change. But I am in no way, shape or form going to call it quits. I have made a commitment and I am in this for the long haul.
Wish me luck!
“My site is turning me into an atheist man-hater!”
I didn’t think it was possible, having grown up with atheist parents in a liberal town in Northern California, but I think that living here in a conservative, Pulaar, polygamous, Muslim, region of Northern Senegal, has actually made me less religious and turned me into more of a champion of all things women’s rights related. And I realize that addressing this topic in this public forum has the potential to get ugly, so let me qualify what I’m about to say. This entry is about my observations, and the frustrations I encounter as a development worker working, living, and trying to integrate into a culture wholly unlike my own. I am not passing judgment or criticizing. I mean only to share my experiences with you all at home.
I’ve been thinking about this entry for over a week now. Thinking about how to write it and how to dive into a topic that is so complex and sensitive. Because ultimately, religion ties into this, but this entry is mostly about a culture of male dominance and female subordination (in my opinion, partly due to religion and of course many other factors such as lack of education, unemployment etc.). And I decided that no matter what, I can only capture so much through writing and I might as well just dive in and try my best. I hope that you will all be patient with me as I ramble.
Here is how it started.
About 2 weeks ago I was invited to a conference on girls’ schooling. A dynamic and educated young woman I met while drinking tea at my counterpart’s house invited me. I quickly accepted the invitation and agreed to put on my best Senegalese outfit, headwrap and all. To boot, I was going to get a ride from my counterpart’s husband who has a car. So Sunday I went to my counterpart’s house to check on when we’d be leaving. I walk in and she’s lying on the floor resting at 10am and looks horrible. She’s about 7 months pregnant and she’s older and has been really tired and in a lot of pain lately. I tell her that she should spend the day napping and rest as much as possible and try to eat more frequently and stay hydrated etc.
She laughs/groans and says she has to prepare lunch. I look around. There are not one, not two, but 6…count them 6 able-bodied young strapping men LAYING around in their living room watching TV doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. And SHE gets up, nauseous, in pain, and spends the ENTIRE day preparing their food, cleaning up, and then preparing dinner. I almost went nuts. So being the assertive toubak I asked them all why they weren’t helping. “Men don’t cook,” was the response I got as they changed the channel on the TV. Brilliant.
So later that afternoon when I headed back to her house I was already annoyed and worked up about her feeling so badly and not having any help. I was all dressed up in my grande bou-bou, (Senegalese attire) wearing my headwrap, and my desperately uncomfortable hot, wrap skirt. I was sitting around waiting for my counterpart’s husband to get going (Senegalese time. At least an hour late) and I started talking to one of his guests. Now, I’ve met this man before and I knew that I was in for a conversation about polygamy and why I would never ever in his dreams be his second wife.
Maybe it would be better to write out the conversation. This isn’t ver batem but it is the best I can remember. (It was all in French. He doesn’t speak Pulaar).
“Caitlin, you still won’t accept polygamy in your life and be my second wife huh?”
“Nope. Never. Not a chance. Not even in your wildest dreams.”
“But why? Polygamy is good!”
“Yeah it’s good…for the men.”
“Right. So?”
“So? That’s entirely unequal. If men can have multiple wives, why can’t women have multiple husbands?”
(Hilarious outbursts of laughter from the men in the room).
“No Caitlin, that’s not right.”
“Why not?”
(Be prepared for this one…)
“Because it’s in men’s very nature to NEED to have sex with more than one woman. It’s our right ordained by Allah.”
Fact Check: Islam does NOT promote polygamy outright. It merely tolerates it. And limits it to 4 wives.
(Stunned silence from me).
“That’s ridiculous. I do not agree. Polygamy is merely legalized infidelity. In my opinion it should be one person for one partner. I will never be your second wife. Quit asking. I’m bored of this conversation. I get asked every day and the answer will always be no!”
Then the conversation dissolved into laughter (his) and I excused myself from the room. Normally these conversations are routine and I can bounce back from them, but I was already in NO mood to tolerate anymore patronizing “maleness.” It was hot, I was waiting to get to this conference and nervous about having to try and understand all of it, and I was just done defending myself. It becomes exhausting to talk about 10 times a day.
But some days, there is just no rest for the weary PCV.
I went outside hoping to find some comfort in the younger brother who I often talk to because he is extremely patient with me and always wants to talk about America and asks lots of questions and helps me with my Pulaar.
Unfortunately, he was the straw that broke my back…
We started talking about the conference, and that it was promoting the importance of girls schooling. He asked me why it wasn’t about boys schooling too, and brought up the scholarship program that the PC offers to girls of middle school age, but not to boys. So I told him about the statistics, about how many girls drop out after middle school because they are given a husband by their parents. How there are many more boys in high school than girls and this conference and the scholarship program were designed to encourage people to let their daughters and wives continue their schooling.
He chuckled and I knew I was in for a tiring debate. (This time in Pulaar and French).
“But girls don’t need to go to high school.”
“What? Of course they do? Why would you say that? Boys and girls are equal.”
“WHAT? No they are not. Boys and girls are not equal.”
“What are you saying? Seriously? So then what you’re saying is boys are better. They deserve an education. Is that what you mean?”
(Nervous laughter on his part.)
“All I’m saying is that they are not equal. I won’t say who is better. Besides, girls don’t need to go to school because they get husbands and they work in the house. They don’t need to be educated.”
“That’s ridiculous. I definitely don’t agree. Besides, the more education a woman receives the higher chance of survival of her children. Don’t you want your children to survive?”
“That is up to Allah. Besides, girls need to be married early.”
“Early? But here it happens as early as 13! Another volunteer’s brother (age 25) just married an 11-year-old last week! Is that okay?”
“Of course.”
“But she’s just a child. She probably can’t even conceive yet. Ask ANY teenage girl. None of them want to be married yet. When I went around and did my scholarship interviews I did not meet a single girl who wanted to leave school and be married off to some man twice her age and leave her family. That is no future.”
“No. Early marriage is good.”
“Right, for the old men that are marrying them.”
“Yeah it’s good for the men. For us. (Chuckles). But Caitlin, Caitlin…early marriage is good because if they don’t get married they will start running out at night and having sex. You watch…they all do it.”
“At 13? That’s ridiculous. I have 3 teenage sisters in my house right now. And you know them, and you know that they aren’t doing that. They don’t even have time to study let alone have boyfriends because they’re working in the house all day long.”
“No Caitlin. You watch and see. I am going to marry a young wife. I want 3.”
“But imagine if you were a 13 year old girl, going to school, living with your family, enjoying time with your friends and one day your father comes home and gives you a husband. You’re pulled out of school, you’re dressed up and married off and terrified of the wedding night. You have to leave your friends and everyone you know, and live with his family and spend the rest of your life in the house, cooking, cleaning, and caring for children. I mean why do you think so many young girls sit and sob with their groups of friends on their wedding days? Would YOU want that fate?”
“Of course not. But it’s good for them. And I would because I would have to.”
You get the point. It’s not really worth continuing because it just gets me riled up. The conversation ended when I told him point blank that I did not agree. I think I actually stamped my foot and turned my back to him to avoid punching him in the face. And I know. I know that this is not being culturally sensitive, or accepting of his opinion, and his upbringing…but damnit I can’t always be on my best behavior. And sometimes silence is more harmful in the long run. I’d rather risk being rude and have a shot at making him think about what he’s saying. It was just that suddenly, the reality of the kind of centuries of ingrained teachings I am up against loomed in front of me and within seconds I was fighting off tears of frustration and desperation.
This whole thing was so devastating. Not just because of what he said, but also because it came from someone who I enjoy talking with and who I looked forward to sharing experiences with. It was so disappointing.
Thankfully we headed to the conference. My counterpart’s husband, his friend, and myself. Of course they were joking the whole way that the three of us were going to spend the night there and that I was going to have to sleep in the middle of them. Gross. And patronizing. And the joke is old and was never funny in the first place.
The Conference.
As I said, no rest for the weary.
Upon arrival men and women are separated and seated on opposite sides of the compound. In the middle sat a bunch of men on huge cushy couches and were served ice water and tea. They were marabous and Imams mostly. The women meanwhile are sitting in plastic chairs and must share a few sachets of water between themselves and the babies they all have on their backs and in their laps.
Within five minutes I realize that the whole conference is going to take place in Wolof, so I won’t understand a single thing. And it’s not exactly about GIRLS schooling. It’s about the role of Islam and schooling.
3 hours later. I am bored almost to tears. Only ONE woman has spoken the entire night and only to briefly explain her role in organizing this event and that she wants to see more girls kept in school.
On the way home my counterpart’s husband briefly summarized the event (and only after I pestered him). Basically the Grand Marabou talked the entire time. His point was that Koranic schooling should come first. He did not speak a word about keeping girls in school.
Koranic school? Are you kidding me? I want those 3 hours of my life back. I just couldn’t believe it.
I mean, what kind of skills do these kids get from going to Koranic school? Young boys are sent away by their parents during some of the most fragile years of their life (6-10) to sit all day long, filthy, hungry, exhausted, reciting the Koran, and begging for food. I just can’t wrap my head around this idea. I mean what skills do these kids leave with? None. What prospects do they have for employment? Zero. Senegal can’t have thousands of marabous, or Koranic scholars. And they can’t go back to normal school after they’re finished if they’re over 10 years old because they’re not allowed in after 10.
This just baffles my mind. My counterpart for example, chose to put her eldest son in Koranic school instead of regular school. When I asked her what he was going to do afterwards for work, like maybe be an Imam, or a marabou, or teach the Koran, or continue his studies at University, she sort of laughed and said “Oh no. He’ll move to France and work and find a French wife.” Great.
Not to say that everyone has to have schooling to be productive and have successful careers, but we all know it makes it that much more possible. The sort of unreal expectations and the lack of planning and the total absence of logic all for the sake of studying the Koran…I just cannot relate to. And I don’t even know where or how to start.
But maybe I don’t have to relate.
And I’m not here to change anyone’s beliefs or pass judgment on his or her decisions. That’s not what I’m getting at. My intellectual challenge is to find ways to transfer the knowledge and skills that my community asks me for, despite these enormous obstacles I have laid out in this entry. As I said at the beginning, my frustration comes from trying to work through and with these ideas, some of which are entirely contradictory to the work I have been asked to do and see tremendous need for.
If you’re still reading, thanks for your patience and understanding as I grapple with how to sort through of all of my emotions and thoughts from that day. (Remember, that was all just one day). I hope that I have at least made all of you think!
Finding the silver lining. (Because that’s what I do best).
Through it all, even at my lowest moment of the day, even though I was so discouraged, I still didn’t want to leave. Yes, I was overwhelmed and wondering how in the world I was going to be able to affect change. But I am in no way, shape or form going to call it quits. I have made a commitment and I am in this for the long haul.
Wish me luck!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
