Hollow Words: Gender Parity in Rwanda

Swinging back and forth in the wind, the fuzzy tennis ball taunted them from 15 feet above. Each girl craned her neck and stared disbelievingly at the ball hanging from the tree. Meanwhile, the coordinator explained their group objective, grinning mischievously at each girl who let out an exasperated snort in return. They were supposed to do what? Kiss the ball? What type of camp was this anyhow? But when the whistle was blown, each girl began to examine the situation and each other anew. How could they, a group of 12 teenage Rwandan girls, facilitate success of this mission? After a short consultation, they selected Peace, a petite girl with a short haircut and sassy fashion sense, to be their first guinea pig, slowly lifting her above their heads. She yelped and closed her eyes in mock terror while a handful of girls from below shouted instructions. Trying to rise out of her squat position in the air, Peace suddenly became airborne as the support from below disintegrated, and the girls crumbled into a heap of winces and limbs akimbo.

There was some grumbling. Peace stepped back warily as Grace, a taller teen of similar sassy disposition, stepped forward. This time, those girls who before had contributed half-heartedly with one hand on their hips, sturdily planted their feet and reached up with both hands to support the girl who hovered nearer and nearer the elusive tennis ball. They were so close. Peace shouted advice, and other girls relayed words of encouragement as they pushed forward and Grace lengthened her torso, reaching toward the ball. SMACK. Grace grinned and lifted her arms in triumph while the girls screamed excitedly below. And then they were all the on the ground again, but, this time, as victors. Their smiles broke their faces, and carefully constructed cool posteriors vanished. They had won.

To my mind, this was the turning point of Camp GLOW [Girls Leading Our World]. Randomly assembled girls from all over Rwanda - of different religions, ethnicities, backgrounds, and talents - began to dissolve previously constructed conceptions and view each other anew for their inherent potential and worth. They also conquered a physical representation of the challenges which they will very likely encounter in their journey to become leaders and confident, self-assured women. Throughout the weeklong camp facilitated by myself and other health volunteers, we worked with the 70+ girls to develop communication, team-building, goal-setting, and negotiation skills. We also sought to increase their knowledge with regards to entrepreneurship, career development, and various health topics like nutrition, hygiene, and HIV/AIDS.

It is difficult to quantitatively measure the success of projects like Camp GLOW. Sure, by its conclusion, 70+ girls knew how to properly use a condom and negotiate for its use. This knowledge is wonderful and not to be undervalued; however, I count success in other ways as well. I found it in the desire of one young girl to become a pilot; in the close camaraderie of girls of Hutu and Tutsi decent; in the marked change from whisper to strong, confident speech in one girl; and in the general realization that the glass ceiling in Rwanda needs shattering, and they are the group to do it.

Some might say that women have already broken through the glass ceiling in Rwanda, especially those who measure gender equality by legal rights and political representation. If women divorce their husbands in Rwanda, they are automatically entitled to 50% of their joint assets. This economic safety net provides women with some security and independence if they find themselves in an abusive relationship. But this assumes that all women are aware of this right, which is not always the case. Also, some of you may know that an awesome fifty-six percent of the Rwandan parliament is currently comprised of female MP’s, one of whom came to speak to the girls at Camp GLOW. Moreover, several women occupy positions of authority as cabinet members, and President Kagame has openly committed himself to the issue of girls and women’s empowerment in the country. But, as most women and men admit, this is mostly rhetoric aimed at making the country appear progressive for the benefit of foreign aid. In reality, the vast majority of women in Rwanda remain boxed in, stifled in speech, action, and dream.

Of course, the degree of burden and discrimination varies depending on several factors, including socio-economic class, education, age, location, and even religion. Women of little means in rural areas are taxed the most, charged with a multitude of responsibilities from general cooking, cleaning, and raising of children to production of marketable goods and support of extended family. Often, their husbands “contribute” by spending all available money on beer at the neighborhood bar. I don’t want to say that this situation is the rule, but is not the exception either. Unfortunately, this group of women often has the lowest level of education and is, thus, ill placed to argue for a change in their situation. There are associations and NGO’s aimed at helping and educating women about their legal rights, but they are often located in the larger cities where rural women do not know they exist and, in any case, rarely venture.

Women in urban areas are situated a bit differently. More often than not, they have a higher degree of education. Some have finished secondary school and may have continued their education at one of the colleges in Rwanda or in a neighboring country. At the very least, this grants them a bit more independence and authority in negotiating relationships in addition to aiding them in their employment search. But society does not will them to continue indefinitely in these ventures. Regardless of ambition or potential, marriage is the end goal in this hetero-normative society (homosexuality does not exist according to Rwandans). To be complete, you must have a husband or, conversely, a wife. I have only met a handful of women for whom marriage is not a box on some checklist. Sandrine, a close friend, is engaged to be married, but she has no illusions about her relationship with her fiancée, Patrick. “I know he’s frightened by my independence. He worries that I won’t cook for him once we marry. Maybe I won’t. But I love myself as much as I love him, and he knows that too.”

I stand in awe of Rwandan women most days – their physical and emotional strength. As I huff up a steep hill, they jog past me with a full jerry can on their heads, smiling and greeting the tired muzungu. Which is why I am so frustrated by the situation of most Rwandan women. Their brilliant strength and potential cut off at the knees by the legacies (and present-day realities) of gender-based violence, HIV/AIDS (3.6% women, 2.9% men in Rwanda), and general discrimination. They receive little to no actual encouragement despite the lip service which the government continues to give to the issue of gender parity. I am reminded of two Rwandan beer advertisements which I recently saw. One features a giant beer bottle surging up through concrete and the message, “Turbo King: The mark of a man.” Another advertisement features a suited Rwandan gentleman holding a beer with “The taste of la reussité (success)” next to him. Of course, the underlying message of both ads is that power and success are the domain of men, not women.

It is against this backdrop of such overt misogyny and favoritism that Rwandan women live and fight each day. The government is progressively loosening those ties which keep women strapped down, but it is happening without any concurrent shift in mindset in the general population. Of course, Camp GLOW is a step in the right direction. We must expand the bounds of what is possible for future generations. In this way, we will be able to change Rwandan society’s conception and valuation of women not only as mothers and wives, but also as innovators and sources of novel perspective and strength. However, it is not enough to cheerlead from the sidelines. If Rwanda truly desires parity between men and women, then they must engage and provide women with the tools to do so – employment centers, maternity leave, girl’s education campaigns centered on awareness-raising, college counseling, and halting harassment by teachers.

On the last night of camp, one of the girls in my group approached and asked to speak with me. Diana was one of the more reticent girls in my group, hesitant to offer her opinion and self-conscious about her English vocabulary and accent. But her smart eyes and slow, expansive smile belied a wisdom earned only through experience and the trials of emotion. Sheltering ourselves in a corner, she quickly launched into a mixed French and English account of her specific troubles. She revealed to me that she was an orphan of the genocide and now resided with a catholic nun who was supportive, but could not help her financially. While she had finished secondary school and scored well on exams, she feared her dream of becoming a doctor would never come to fruition because of her financial situation. She understood the necessity of working her way through college; however, she was unsure where to begin her employment search. “I do not want to do prostitution,” she emphasized, but opening her hands and gazing at me searchingly, I knew that the possibility had crossed her mind.

In that moment, I struggled to come up with some advice and/or comfort that would be relevant to her, something that wouldn’t sound hollow. All weeklong, we had discussed “Dreams, Goals, and the Tools to Achieve Them,” but when these grandiose words met reality, they seemed like empty shells – beautiful, but useless. Is this what we have to offer the young women of the world? Beautiful words? They deserve more, and we must do more than simply affirm their equality if we want them to become global citizens.

Umuganda

Holding the fraying rice sack wide open, we waited as the man with the shovel began scooping up rusty dirt and dumping it in. One-fifth... one-quarter…half. My partner and I looked at each other, sizing up our joint strength, and then nodded at the man to keep shoveling. Three-quarters. We put up our hands for him to stop and began to carry the weighty gunnysack to its destination – a primary school classroom whose floor was presently two feet below the doorstep. Our collective objective this morning was to prepare this classroom along with four others in similar half-constructed states. The plastic cut into our hands, and our shoes caught on rocks, as we hauled the sack the 100 feet or so to the classroom. But we made it eventually, heaving the dirt over a wall and then retreating back to pick up another load. He said something indecipherable in Kinyarwanda at that point. A blank look must have registered on my face because he just smiled, shook his head, and said “murakoze” (thank you). That, I understood.

I really felt like saying “thank you” to him though. In the course of that morning, I saw an entire community rally together with the sole objective of serving others and building their community. Young and old. Rich and poor. Politician, soldier, and civilian. Everyone came out, arriving early and carting their own supplies – torn rice sacks, split jugs and canisters, shovels and hoes. I saw women weighed down in front by sacks of dirt but balanced by another weight in back – a baby; I saw the mayor ditch his entourage for a shovel and dig in, literally, next to men in torn t-shirts and promotional caps; and I saw incarcerated prisoners, wearing their scarlet letter jumpsuits, living and working once again in a community. They had temporarily traded their chains for gunnysacks and tools so that they too could contribute and help further develop the country. Excited to finally work their muscles again, they readily dove into the work and, after settling in a bit, began to exchange hesitant smiles and conversation with us. They were just as curious about us muzungus as we were about them, and, for a while, it was kind of like a zoo, with each group scratching their heads and observing the other.

The random assemblage of persons collectively intent on one purpose is probably one of my favorite elements of Umuganda. Everyone – every man, woman, and child in Rwanda – participates in this monthly service ritual. On the last Saturday of each month, Umuganda shuts everything down from 8 in the morning until 12 while Rwandans stream out of their homes and into their communities, onto highways, and into construction sites. Sometimes, they pick up trash outside their homes and businesses. Other days, they participate in neighborhood projects, building schools, community spaces, and the like. This past Saturday, my 35 fellow stagieres and I along with the Peace Corps Training Staff joined community members from a Nyanza neighborhood to fill in the floors for five new classrooms at the local primary school. About 400 people participated for the entire time with hundreds of others stopping by for shorter intervals, lending a hand to our project before continuing with another.

Throughout the morning, scattered showers interrupted our work and forced us under the awning of the nearby school. As we waited for the storms to break and our muscles to recharge, we attempted to chat in Kinyarwanda while the Rwandans, amazed that we were trying to learn THEIR language, guffawed at our verbal missteps and then generously offered advice. More than once, I unintentionally emasculated a man referring to him as an akagabo or “a small man.” His friends would then crack up and throw punches at his shoulders as they praised me for my witticism. Meanwhile, I stood bewildered, wondering what the hell I had just done to this poor man. They tried to practice their English too. The prisoners who accepted our full sacks of dirt with a quiet “thank you” early on were soon shouting “Good Morning, Good Morning!” to every passerby by late morning.

Upon the conclusion of work, the mayor threw aside his shovel and took up his usual prop. The drizzling rain muffled his voice through the megaphone, but his message and intent were clear as he stood, staring out into the crowd. He tried to make eye contact with everyone as he thanked those assembled and urged them to remind those few non-participants that they too had a responsibility. Everyone is accountable to their community. After some more praise sprinkled with admonitions, the mayor surrendered the megaphone to the community. Now, the second objective of Umuganda – to build community cohesiveness and communicate information - would officially begin. The meeting didn’t last much longer because people had begun to resemble sodden cats, but a few community members shared brief updates and aired concerns.

Even now, almost a week after our scant hours of gritty work, I’m still a bit in awe at the collective spirit and mission of Umuganda. Though we, as Americans, are often more than happy to devote time and energy to service each month and, for some, every day of each week, it’s different somehow. I can’t really put my finger on why exactly. Perhaps it’s the universality of their commitment that seems novel and refreshing. Or maybe it’s the fact that they don’t seem to perceive Umuganda as mandatory community service but more so as a civic responsibility.

Honestly, I’m curious whether a program like Umuganda would even work in the States. Granted, groups of people frequently gather to pick up trash and/or beautify areas in the US, especially for special events like Earth Day. However, I wonder if Americans would view something like Umuganda as infringement on their time and liberty, as a requirement rather than an opportunity. To those friends of mine back home who study service learning and/or examine the willingness of our generation to serve, I present to you another vision of service, one which seems very nearly wholly altruistic. Though introduced through a nationwide initiative, it is not mandatory and takes shape in the autonomous acts of individuals and communities. I wonder, is it possible to mold future generations of Americans to this concept?

Maybe yes, maybe no. In visiting other countries, I have come to better understand and appreciate the unique individualism which Americans often cultivate in their personhood and which may or may not lend itself to an Umuganda-like program in the States. Unfortunately, the greater world often associates this individualism with cocky moves and international missteps by certain Administrations, but I like to think that we, as volunteers, expose them to a different kind of individualism.

A few days ago, I was walking home after language class when the skies opened up and flooded the Nyanza countryside with blankets of rain. Every Rwandan took their cue and scuttled for the nearest shelter. Me, I decided to keep on strolling, savoring one of the few moments when I could actually embrace my Otherness. Maybe it was my rugged American individualism which kept me out there as my shoes slid every which way and my already loose pants began to sag. Or perhaps it was the two songs on repeat in my head – “Storms in Africa” by Enya and Carla Bruni’s “Plus Beau de Quartier.” As much as I’d like to believe that the Rwandans who peered curiously at me from windows and doorways saw my rainy day promenade as an act of individualism, I know they probably just chalked the incident up to another crazy muzungu move. For some reason, I’m okay with that label. As Carla Bruni would say, “Regardez moi, Je suis la plus folle de Quartier.”

Murakaze Neza Rwanda!

As we descended into Kigali, rain slashed at the airplane windows, blurring the twinkling lights in the darkness below. Through the night, I noticed a glowing, red crescent in the distance. Puzzled, I pressed my face to the window. Once again, I was a kid at the candy shop, eyes large with excitement and desire. It was too late for it to be a sunset and, besides that, it was raining buckets. What the hell is that, I thought. Turbulence rocked the plane, and the answer occurred to me as I was flung back into my seat. Volcano. I flew to the window again, catching one last glimpse of a fleeting orange line before settling back into my seat. So far, I knew only a few things about my new country of service – there was lots of rain, and there were volcanos – but it was enough for me to conclude that my time in Rwanda would be drastically different from my 14 months in Mauritania.

When I first told friends and family I would finish my remaining 11 months of Peace Corps service in Rwanda, they looked at me like I was crazy. “So you’re moving from terrorists to genocide?” some asked incredulously. Others queried, “Isn’t there a famous hotel there?” - a reference to the movie, Hotel Rwanda, I believe. Honestly, I can’t really explain all the reasons I decided to stick it out, first, in Mauritania, and, now, in Rwanda. “Masochism?” some of my friends replied decidedly. And, while Peace Corps volunteers do have a penchant for self-abnegation, that is not the answer. Suffice to say, I didn’t feel like my time with the Peace Corps was over. I still have something to contribute and am excited by the prospect of doing so in country which is actively trying to rebuild itself in the wake of a genocide which, quite literally, reduced it to rubble.

Speaking recently with the United States Charge d’Affaires in Rwanda, she compared the country to a phoenix rising out of the ashes. In the days which followed our arrival, proof of this rebirth was evident throughout the country, both in Kigali and in our training site of Nyanza. Touring Kigali - a city of verdant, cascading hills - I saw brightly colored billboards trumpet progressive messages of gender equality, AIDS prevention, and respect for children. Green space, gardens, and community art dotted the capital’s avenues and intersections. And the streets! Swept clean each night so that no trash besmirches the city’s appearance come daylight. In general, the country’s commitment to sanitation and sustainability is admirable, but it becomes that much more impressive when considered in light of the handicaps encumbering most developing (and developed) countries in their efforts to build sustainable futures. They’ve even outlawed non-biodegradable plastic bags!

This revitalization is more than some mere aesthetic face-lift though; it is also economic and emotional in nature. President Kagame has made no secret of his ambition to make Rwanda into the “Singapore of Central Africa.” In the near future, Rwandans see themselves developing into an intelligence driven society with business, technology, and science at its hub. To this end, the country underwent a mandatory sector-wide shift in 2008 from French to English. Almost overnight, nurses, doctors, government officials, teachers, and the like were expected to achieve an intermediate level in a language which before had been the privilege of those fortunate enough to continue on through secondary school and university. All schooling heretofore in French would continue in English regardless of level. Imagine the United States suddenly changed its national language and all existing operations to Spanish. Granted, the Hispanic community and a few bilingual Americans would survive the switch, but, in general, utter chaos and revolt would reign. One might expect Rwandans to react similarly, and yet they don’t! More or less, the gauntlet has been thrown, and they’ve accepted the challenge, enrolling in classes, practicing English with anyone willing, pushing themselves and each other in their combined efforts to build a brighter future for their country. The class of 36 English Education volunteers whom I accompanied to Rwanda will be a critical part of this initiative, invited by President Kagame who actually was taught English and Chemistry by a Peace Corps volunteer in Uganda.

But why this manic drive to change? This desire to overhaul history and create an entirely new platform? The answer is both deceptively simple and incredibly complex - genocide.

Many of you already know of the 1994 Rwandan Genocide when the majority Hutu population of Rwanda brutally massacred hundreds of thousands of the minority, ruling Tutsi population – an event in which the international community both contributed and failed to intercede. Prior to colonization, the distinction between Hutu and Tutsi was much more fluid, changing with economic status. With the arrival of Belgian officials and Catholic priests, those differences which before had been based on the number of cows an individual had – not necessarily physical characteristics – became the means of controlling a formerly autonomous and well-organized society. The Belgian government installed Tutsi’s in positions of authority over the Hutu population thus cementing division between Rwandans and sowing the seeds of jealousy and spite which would later produce inexplicable hatred and rage. I won’t delve any further into the subject right now. If you are unfamiliar with this sad episode in humanity’s history, I encourage you to research the wealth of material available on the subject. To help, I’ve included a few links to interesting articles and titles of books at the end of this posting.

Our second morning in country, we were fortunate enough to visit the Kigali Memorial Center which serves as both final resting site for hundreds of genocide victims and as a museum. Situated upon a gently slopping hill that overlooks the city’s colorful streets, chocolate soil, and sleepy banana palms, the museum would seem to proclaim the glory of Rwanda’s natural beauty. As it is, it is instead a marker, a reminder, and even a warning to all future generations of the dark capacity of mankind. Like the Holocaust Museum or the Isle de Goree’s Maison des Esclaves, the museum seems haunted by the spirits it commemorates. A Cornell University sweatshirt riddled with bullet holes hangs, empty of its model; a pile of femur bones lie, forever barred from fulfilling their potential; a picture of a smiling 6-year old Alfonsine tells us that her favorite food was biscuits, her best friend - her sister, and her cause of death - machete. Throughout the museum, an emotion magnet constantly yanks at your feelings and composure, stealing your breath, pushing and pulling you between rage and a sorrow that seems incomplete.

Even now, weeks after visiting, my emotions are still raw from the experience. When I see jump-suited genocidaires walking to gacaca trials or glimpse an angry scar on the arm of a colleague, I flinch. I can’t imagine how actual Rwandans must feel as they strive to move past their bloodied history. They all seem so stoic, consciously admitting that which they can and can no longer control. The government has prohibited the use of ethnicity, surrendering past divisions in order to build a cohesive national identity. In general, Rwandans have accepted these steps, recognizing their own need to move on. This in itself gives me and my fellow stagieres strength to move forward with them. At some point, we plan to begin English classes at the local prison which guards several individuals suspected of participating in the genocide.

I suppose this cheery stoicism despite tragic pasts and overwhelming odds has been one of the greatest similarities between Mauritania and Rwanda thus far. When I met my 61-year old host mother, Hilarie, this past Saturday, her energy and joy bubbled forth in everything she did – bouncing up and down as she squeezed me to her chest and rearranged my organs in the process, introducing me to friends and strangers while walking home. I’m pretty certain she also serenaded me with a song about the beautiful children I'll eventually have, but I was too petrified by the thought to ask her. After such warmth, I was shocked later to learn of the loss of some of her own family members during the genocide as well as her adoption of several children who were orphaned in the process.

Such generosity is unique, and I feel fortunate I will have the opportunity to live and work among such a compassionate group of people over the next year. While visiting my host mother’s house recently, I received a shocking yet endearing introduction to this element of Rwandan culture. I was sitting, sorting beans with one of Hilarie’s friends. As Hilarie left the room to fetch another bowl, her friend reached over and gently slapped me on the face, saying “Komera” as she did so. Needless to say, I was a little taken back and more than a little bewildered, wondering what cultural faux pas I had committed to deserve this rebuke. Then I remembered. My first day of class, and Zilpah explaining that the traditional greeting, “Komera” was often followed by a slap. It roughly translates to “Be Strong” and is intended to hearten individuals for the journey ahead. In retrospect, I can’t help but smile at that perfect baptism into Rwandan culture. Komera.

AIDS in the RIM

Sporting a gauzy melafa, spectacles and carrying a notebook and pen, Fatimata Ball sat among the other health professionals, ostensibly blending into the group. It was an intimate group of 20 – doctors, nurses, sage-femmes, and birth attendants - many of whom already knew each other. But I doubt any questioned her presence. “Probably, a newly assigned nurse or sage-femme,” they thought. That is until the introductions began, and she acknowledged the real reason she was here. In lilting, but calm and confident French, Fatimata introduced herself as both a fellow health professional and nurse as well as “une seropositif” (HIV-positive).

The reaction was muted, a few loaded glances and some shifting in seats. I was worried there would be an audible gasp or someone would walk out of the room, but this was an AIDS Conference, and they were trained health professionals, after all. Though silent at the start, Fatimata's presence was profoundly felt for the remainder of the two-day conference, and, I hope, is still felt by many attendees today. Her story is a powerful one, of conflicting identities and emotions. It is unfortunate, but I know she wouldn’t call her situation a tragedy. Instead, she would embrace her life as a story of trial and triumph, of rebirth and recognition of further purpose. Only she can do her story justice – her strong voice and warm, confidential manner - but in order to understand her impact, one must know her story. I hope you’ll click on the following link to learn more about Fatimata's story.

"Fighting AIDS in Mauritania"

But why was Fatimata's presence necessary in the first place? Plenty of individuals in Africa and, indeed, worldwide can grasp the tragedy of the AIDS epidemic without listening to the personal stories of those affected. A quick examination of the 2007 USAID report reveals more than enough to produce alarm:

- Number of people living with HIV in 2007: 33.2 million
- People newly infected with HIV: 2.5 million
- AIDS deaths in 2007: 2.1 million

These statistics are so horrifying that they almost defy imagination. It’s kind of like looking at the number of deaths that resulted from the Holocaust and the American Civil War; the numbers are so gross that they almost overshadow the events and stories couched within them. Which is precisely the problem. It is dangerous to reduce this disease (and others) to just statistics. To do so blinds us to the shifting realities and social trends that perpetuate diseases’ spread.

In the months leading up to the conference, I discovered through various conversations and observations that this was sadly the case among most of the health professionals and community members in my region of Mauritania. Ignorance, racism, misinterpretation of statistics, and a host of other factors had blinded the very individuals entrusted with the health of the community, to the reality right before their eyes. The epidemic just didn’t seem real. In their minds, AIDS was something that occurred in the rest of the world and among the black African population, not in their belani (white moor) subset. Furthermore, some individuals refused to believe that “good Muslims” could contract HIV. Needless to say, the implications of such a mentality are disastrous; it disarms the proverbial firewall and reduces health workers’ ability to effectively educate, motivate, and counsel the community.

And yet, to some degree, I can understand their conscious and unconscious reticence to acknowledge AIDS presence in their lives. Not only is it terrifying to accept AIDS as a legitimate threat, but the Tagant is a seemingly low-risk region. Centrally located in Mauritania and at the end of one of its primary highways, Tidjikja remains one of the more isolated cities in the country. Unlike higher risk environs, Tidjikja and the other cities of the Tagant region do not share an international border nor are its cities highly trafficked on the Road of Hope. Honestly, I do not doubt that the number of HIV-positive individuals in the Tagant is lower than in other regions; the last study was done in 2001. However, the number of individuals who have contracted the virus since then has undoubtedly grown. Travel in and out of the Tagant region has increased; divorce and remarriage are still common practices; and condoms are under-utilized as a means of birth control and protection. The dearth of HIV/AIDS educational activities and discussion in the community and a lack of motivation among community members to get tested merely compound the problem.

In discussing these factors with Ghallet, a local sage-femme, and with Dr. Moustapha ould El Moctar, the regional chief of health services, we came to the conclusion that the best way to effect the most change was with a conference. While any of us could venture into the community and do an AIDS sensibilization, we understood that those individuals closer to the community, the perceived authorities on health-related issues, would have greater success and exponentially increase our outreach. The primary challenge for us then was to shock these professionals out of their comfort zone and force them to confront this new reality. Enter: Fatimata Ball.

And Fatimata did exactly that. She hammered at their misconceptions and previously constructed walls and conventions. She said, “Look at me. I’m a good Muslim woman. I am a trained health professional. I am a Mauritanian. I am infected. And I’m not the only one!” On the last day of the conference, I sat, watching Fatimata share laughs and trade stories with some of the assembled nurses and birth attendants… Tirelessly working to tear down any remaining mistaken beliefs. As proud as I was and as hopeful as I wanted to be in that moment, I couldn’t help but question whether the attending health worker’s would actually take Fatimata's story to heart and implement the lessons of the conference? I didn’t have to wait long for an answer. The next day, my friend, Selem, called, asking me to accompany her to a brousse town to do an AIDS sensibilization. A week later, Hamoud, a math teacher in Gnimlane, requested AIDS materials and help in planning his village’s own AIDS conference.

I am immeasurably proud of these individuals and the others who have so wholly embraced the message of the conference, but my favorite moment was perhaps this past Saturday during my weekly Club Santé meeting. I was discussing HIV/AIDS and STI’s – still touchy subjects for Muslim students even though they are exposed to them beginning in primary school. Suddenly, in the midst of answering questions on protection and prevention, one student raised his hand and asked, “Teacher, est-ce que nous pouvons faire le depistage?” (Can we take an HIV test?). I was completely blown away. While testing remains free and confidential to all Mauritanians at the regional hospital, few individuals, much less students, know of this service and even fewer take advantage of it because of the stigma attached to it. Instead, the entire class jumped at the proposition! It may sound a bit morbid, but I'm honestly looking forward to next week when I will escort them to the hospital for their first test. Inshallah, all the results will be negative, and the students will feel empowered to encourage others to faire le depistage (get tested).

Two lessons that continue to resonate with me in the wake of these two seminars:
1. We must never become immune to the individual lives caught in the crossfire of disease, violence, and/or other tragedy… even if it does make it easier to digest and cope.
2. Nor must we let these tragedies rule our perspective, forever dampening our outlook. Never lose faith in the ability of individuals to adapt, to change, and to grow.

Title IX in the RIM: Women and Physical Activity

It would be the first volleyball game in the history of Gnimlane. The net was up and boundaries measured and marked to a tee in the sand; the invitations had been sent to village bigwigs; and the “toubab circus” had arrived in town to show off some mean skills on the court. Diego, another Tagant PCV, had organized the event with the help of the local PE teacher and had invited myself and the other volunteers to demonstrate the game. It didn’t matter that few of us had ever played volleyball outside of high school gym class. It’s an American sport, we thought. How can we lose against Mauritanians? Little did we realize what lay in store for us during our two-day tourney.

To kick-off the event, we decided to run a few practice sets and give the growing crowd an introduction to the game. But, before we even stepped onto the court, the two other female volunteers and myself had another challenge to face. Turning my back to the horde of onlookers and kicking off my sandals, I gingerly began to untie my wrap skirt. I honestly felt like I was doing a striptease even though I was wearing a pair of pants underneath and had my hair conservatively covered. The crowd of Mauritanians round us feigned interest in the warm-up, but the circle they maintained around our female subset betrayed the true objects of their attention. Wide-eyed, some blatantly gawked at us and exchanged looks with friends. “Women? Wearing pants! How scandalous?!”

We had decided collectively to wear pants, as opposed to skirts, for the event. Add a bit of female empowerment to cultural and athletic objectives of the match. After all, we would be judged bizarre regardless because we were females playing a sport. Why not enjoy greater mobility if we’re already going to hell in a hand basket? Once we were skirt-less and prepped for the match, we weaved our way through the crowd and joined the others on the court. We began to practice setting up and serving the ball while simultaneously trying to retrieve the rules of the game from the recesses of our brains. By the end of our 30-minute warm-up, pip-squeak children, wearing broken sandals and confused grins, were beating balls with their fists and watching them sail over their heads, into stray camels and patches of date trees. I had to laugh whenever they got really frustrated because they would resort to soccer moves, juggling and kicking the ball around the court.

We played a few initial matches in which the toubabs were divided evenly between the two teams. We performed decently enough, or so we thought, and the Mauritanians culled from the crowd seemed to get a knack for the game as well. Then our friend, Dehan, grinning mischievously, threw down the proverbial gauntlet and announced that we would now have a Mauritania versus Toubab match. The crowd sent up a whoop, and children scattered in search of absent friends and siblings who might miss the spectacle. And what a spectacle it was! We began the match just as the sun began to dip in the sky and continued to dig, serve, set, and spike until the sun was a slit on the horizon.

Without going into too much detail, suffice to say, that while we were able to take one set of the three we played, the Toubabs suffered a pretty humiliating defeat at the hands of the Mauritanian team. Yup, we actually lost at our own game. Granted, their team was lead by two very athletic men, and I was a better cheerleader than player, but these are just excuses for the real reason we lost... I think my sister-in-law hit the nail on the head when she joked that our loss was Allah’s revenge for wearing pants in front of good Muslims. Tsk, tsk, hobaras (sluts).

In all honesty though, aside from the initial gawk session, the Mauritanians didn’t seem care that much about the pants. As toubabs, we often get a free pass to do things Mauritanians consider inappropriate. We, of course, earned a few snickers from the teenage boys, but we were never at risk for a public stoning. If anything, they were more shocked that we were using our muscles and playing the game at all! Given my experience there a few months ago, their shock at our athleticism wasn’t really a surprise. While visiting Gnimlane in November, I was asked by the Math teacher there quite literally if I could walk 1km to the school (<1mile).> He was one of the more progressive members of the community, well educated, and a big joker, so I immediately dismissed his comment with a laugh. Just a bit of routine female ribbing, I thought. However, after a minute of him looking at me expectantly, I realized he was serious. “Of course, I can walk there!” I cried. In the moment, it was easy to laugh off the experience and chalk it up to ignorance, but in retrospect, Hamoud’s question strikes at a larger issue. Mauritania is an incredibly gender-stratified country and, as such, men and women harbor deeply ingrained doubts as to women’s capabilities.

As you might have gathered from my previous entry on body image or from Oprah’s recent interview with a Mauritanian woman, the concept of women being active, much less playing sports, is a kind of anathema to this culture. Ideal women are immobile masses and good Muslims focused on the hearth and home. A few months ago, I read a book called Feeding Desire about a group of Moors in Niger. In it, Rebecca Popenoe, an anthropologist and former Peace Corps volunteer, creates a window into this culture in which largess is beauty incarnate. Contradicting the western mentality that places obesity and laziness in direct correlation, she notes that, “women’s work is the work of the stomach.” By increasing their body mass, women increase their families’ social and physical capital and thus contribute to their own welfare and that of their families’. This type of social arithmetic understandably seems very foreign to our western mindset besieged by skinny models and diet fads. Indeed, it may be hard to believe women can increase their sex appeal by eating more, but it’s true. In the land of the Moors, cankles are cool, asses attractive, grossesse gorgeous, and fat is oh so fine.

Given how closely this society clings to traditional mores and perceptions of beauty, I have not yet confronted the issue outright. Between lectures on the beauty of stretch marks and having balls of cous-cous shoved in my mouth, there just never seems to be an appropriate time to discuss the health risks associated with obesity. Instead, I have to tackle the subject in a more indirect manner, namely through the promotion of exercise. With both men and women, I talk about ways to faire le sport - walking instead of taking a taxi, gardening, stretching, etc. I then go on to explain what it does for your heart and rave about how good I feel after I exercise. My audiences usually smile and nod. Surely, some dismiss my rants as Western mumbo jumbo, but, more often than not, the individuals with whom I’m speaking already know that exercise is good. Sometimes, they’ll even boast to me how far they walked that day and nudge doubtful onlookers, emphasizing, riadh zeyn is-siha! (sports are great for the health!). Yet, as with most every other issue here, the real obstacle remains converting knowledge into action, especially among women for whom playing sports necessitates a revolutionary spirit and much more planning.

Before exercising, women must think about several factors which could influence their activity. Specifically, they must consider what they can wear to allow for both mobility and cultural sensitivity (pants under a melafa?), where they can exercise out of sight of men, when they can find the time to do so, and what exercises they can actually do in the middle the desert, sans equipment. In light of these obstacles, it is no wonder so few women choose to exercise. Thus, in addition to informal conversations about the benefits of exercise, I also try to demonstrate feasible activities for women – walking or running at the airport in the morning, dancing, and gardening.

For example, at 6am each morning, my alarm goes off, mingling with the static-filled prayer calls from the nearby mosques. As much as I want to hit Snooze, I always groggily pull myself out of “bed” (i.e. get up off the ground) and prepare for my morning run. I’m not going to cloak my runs at dawn in altruism; I run for my own sanity and so that I can feel somewhat accomplished even if I drink tea for 6-hours a day. That said, I like to think my runs have a dual purpose – maintaining my own health and illustrating women’s capacity to exercise and push themselves. The men walking home from the mosque have grown accustomed to my shadowed figure jogging past. They no longer point their flashlight at me and query, dhaak shinhu? (what the hell is that?). Based on the comments I receive from women in the market, I also know that those men go home and talk to their families about the strange female toubab they saw running that morning.

More exciting than my morning runs though is the weekly ballet class I just started to teach at the Girls Mentoring Center. I’ll admit the classes are a little unorthodox. We often mélange traditional Moor dance with ballet’s plies and ronde de jambes, and we do warm-up to Estelle feat. Kanye West and floor exercises to Chris Brown. It’s more than a little odd, but I’m so ecstatic to see these young girls embrace activity and exercise that I just kind of go with the flow. We’ve only had two sessions thus far, but the girls really seem to enjoy the classes. They pull me aside afterwards to show me their perfected chainé turns and petition me to bring back my own dance videos from the States. Based on my interactions with this younger generation, I know that a progressive perspective will guide their response to issues like obesity, nutrition, and exercise. There is hope on the horizon, but in the meantime, another generation of women remains handicapped in their levels of activity.

Recipe for an Amazing Trip to Senegal

Ingredients:

- ¾ cup beautiful seaside vistas and scenery
- ¼ cup horse cart rides in the Senegal brousse
- ½ cup expats shocking me out of my RIM isolation
(substitution: foreign PCVs)
- 1 cup random realizations of global interconnectedness
(You went to UVa? You have a brother in VA and want to pay for my hotel room?)
- 2 gallons cheap Senegalese wine
- 5 doggie bags cheese and chocolate in varied forms…pizza, ice cream, pastries
- 2 tbsp Akon blaring from taxis
- 1 tsp clothing liberty – short skirts, bathing suits…FREE AT LAST!
- 1 pinch bemused annoyance while haggling at the market
(Really? You’re going to call me a racist for not buying your Hello Kitty backpack?)

Preparation:

- 3-hour ride by horse cart and pirogue, preferably with “Roll Out” and/or collection of Disney songs blaring from portable iPod speakers
- Add in shock and awe when confronted with Dakar’s beauty, BMWs, diversity, and good food. Stir ingredients until you become sufficiently awkward as a result of previous isolation
- Simmer Senegalese wine until 4am or till it a dreadful hangover residue appears. This will curdle the aforementioned shock and awe so that you can mix in new friends and the shared amazement that, “Yes, we do live in Africa.”


I’ve come to love Mauritania, to embrace its “quirks” and even call it home. And yet Senegal is a definite welcome respite from the desert, camels, and conservative Moor culture. In my several months of blogging delinquency, I’ve been fortunate enough to travel to the Promised Land two times – once during New Years and then again last weekend - and each time I cross over to the other shore, I am immediately stunned by the difference.

The land is verdant; dazzling birds and wax print flash and snap before the eye; men actually speak to women, shaking their hands congenially; some people even parlent le français. Oh, the novelty! At no time was this disparity more apparent than when I sat at a small resort on the Senegalese River, next to a sparkling pool, sipping wine, and watching trash burn on the opposite shore. Here I was, surrounded by blossoming beauty, wearing a bathing suit, trying to discern the natural elements in my rosé, and across the waters, Mauritania was literally burning to the ground. I had to chuckle at that moment and raise my glass in a silent toast to my dry host country. Salut mes amis!

I must note though that before we arrived poolside at our “plush” resort in Richard Toll, we experienced 3 intense hours of bumping and bouncing over an island in the Senegal River in our less than trusty horse cart. Gripping the edges for dear life and sorely feeling every miniscule anthill, we simultaneously battled passing Ballonites trees and jammed to tunes on our boombox. A cloud of copper dust announced our approach, and herders and small children often stopped to stare at the misplaced toubabs belting out “A Whole New World” from Aladdin. Their faces in those moments were nearly priceless. Of course, save for stopping our Disney sing-a-long, we were always thankful to descend from our horse drawn chariots, that is, until we saw the next mode of transport. Enter: the pirogue - a rickety wooden canoe unsafe for crossing by any reasonable person’s approximations. Yet, time and again, we loaded not only 10-14 toubabs with copious amounts of baggage on to this contraption, but also the aforementioned horse cart. We were accompanied on each watery voyage by a struggling horse that seemed to snort in panic and fury at its lot in life. As sorry as I was for those poor beasts, I was grateful for their company; watching them traverse the schistosomiasis-infested waters distracted me from my own precarious situation. Alas, even after our last pirogue kissed the shore, we had to pack in for another 2 hours of travel by taxi brousse. Suffice to say, we certainly earned our drinks poolside by the end of the voyage.

If Richard Toll (named for a former French Governor) was my first taste of the land of milk and honey, then Dakar was the Elysium Fields and Eden rolled into one. Site of the annual 4-day West African Invitation Softball Tournament (W.A.I.S.T), Dakar has the fortunate responsibility of playing host to a vast influx of Peace Corps volunteers and expats from neighboring countries including Mali, the Gambia, Guinea, Senegal, and, of course, Mauritania. Over the course of the 4-day frenzy of Americana, teams of oddly-outfitted and sometimes sober PCVs battle each other and expat teams to prove that malnutrition has not completely denuded our muscles of tone and ability. Yes, we can take a shot and then hit a ground rule double; yes, we can field hoppers and line drives in underwear; yes, we can coach and slosh white wine from the sidelines; in short, YES, WE CAN!

In past years, our rough and tumble crew of Mauritanian PCVs has earned a reputation for working and playing hard during the tournament. And, rightfully so. The intoxicated antics and pantsless playing of our “C” Team, the Scallywags, tend to draw both scowls and howls of laughter from dedicated parents and competitors while our “A” and “B” teams, the Pirates and Buccanneers, stun competitors with our ability to swig beer while rounding bases. We are further buffeted by our amazing fan base, the Seamen, who rake the ground with plastic hooks, run caped in pirate flags, and scream “YAARRR!” and “We’ll capture your booty” from the sidelines. This year, yours truly, was El Capitan of Team B, the Buccaneers. Sadly our team faired poorly, matched against the champions of the previous year and several other powerhouse teams, including a group of missionary children (ages 10-15). That was a low point, needless to say, and we definitely felt a bit judged. Fortunately, the Pirates, our “A” Team, avenged our honor, rallying to win the W.A.I.S.T Social League Championship by 11-5 against a local team of Senegalese sluggers. I wish you all could have seen some of the amazing plays turned by the Pirates over that weekend; their intensity and skill combined for an amazing chemistry on and off the field.

When not partaking in the gush of Americana which consumed the W.A.I.S.T tournament and its outliers, my friends and I tried to explore and savor the city of Dakar. We stuffed ourselves silly at countless patisseries, ice cream parlors, and pizza meccas while traversing the city’s exploding boundaries by foot. One such expedition led us to Sandafa Market, located in the heart of the downtown area. In retrospect, I can’t really recall what objective brought us to this notorious haven of fiercely persistent hawkers and pickpocket bandits - cheap wax print? knock-off designer sunglasses? lingerie which would make Fredericks blush? I forget, but I do remember the very real need for a massage and ice cream which followed our mad progression through the crowded streets. At one stand where, my friend, Julie, was bargaining assiduously for soccer jerseys, Yates and I had to simultaneously swat away the searching hands of peddlers and decry charges that we were racist because we did not want them to touch us and/or did not want to buy a Sanrio hatbox. Needless to say, we were happy to escape that area, relatively unscathed, no wallets lost.

Among the city’s other gems, one of my favorites was the Isle de Gorée. This deceptive island is located just off the southern tip of the peninsula and, despite its beauty, is the site of one of the world’s notorious breaches of humanity. Riots of flowers explode from the walls of tiny passages creating a chaotic harmony with the island’s buttery yellow, rose, and red colonial houses. Meanwhile, Senegalese continue to live and flourish on the island that had previously bred such vice. School children play soccer, their blue UNICEF backpacks jouncing as they juggle the ball; artists and boutique owners hawk wares on uneven cobbled streets; and brisk businessmen walk off the ferry to meet their families for dinner. Honestly, at first glance, it all just seems so quaint that it’s hard to believe the island was one of the most notorious slave debarkation points in West Africa.

Here, individuals were de-individualized - herded, discarded, raped, dehumanized. Like its sister spots in Guinea-Bissau, the Gambia, and Ghana, the Isle de Gorée’s Maison des Esclaves (House of Slaves) has an eerie emptiness to it. One touches the black stonewalls, looks out the narrow windows at the roiling sea, and feels, more than hears, echoes of past horrors…. Women, men, and children packed like sardines into small, humid cells; looking out upon the ocean which will either be your death bed or your carriage to another kind of death; wondering whether your weight will earn you passage to new horrors or a place upon the jagged rocks. I had the opportunity to visit Elmira – another slave debarkation point - in Cape Coast, Ghana a few years back, and I remember walking away with the same feeling of sad, quiet wonder at our capacity for evil. And, also, our ability to survive. It’s hard to describe, but, in my experience, the best comparison stateside is the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C.

Ferrying back, the sun’s orange globe began to set over Dakar’s well-developed skyline, and I knew that while justice had begun its revolution, turning the fortunes of many in this city, it was not nearly complete. And so I began my voyage home to Mauritania, where the simple needs of many go unfulfilled daily …