What She Deserves

          There are a lot of things that I love about Gambian culture. I love the sense of hospitality. I love that relationships are more important than work. I have even grown to love greeting everyone I pass and asking them how their family, morning, work and weather are all fairing.

            Like any culture, however, there is something that I don’t love, and it honestly surprised me. When applying for Peace Corps, my recruiter asked me how I would respond to women in traditional roles. I told her that I didn’t expect it to be a problem. I’m from a big family, and my mom stayed home with us. I respect women who stay home to care for their families. Of course, I believe women can have careers and all that jazz, but I didn’t anticipate living in a culture with traditional gender roles to be an upsetting challenge.
            But it has been, and there’s more to it than traditional gender roles.

Caveat, I have met Gambian men who are respectful and believe women to competent and equal. These are not the men I am about to take about.

            Women do not have equal opportunity. Yes, legally, women can go to school, have a career, obtain a driver’s license. But if you look at my school’s log of dropouts, the vast majority are female students. The reasons listed for pulling the child out of elementary school include helping with chores in the compound, babysitting younger siblings, and early marriage. Yes, women can have careers. My school has four female teachers and about twenty male teachers. That ratio is similar in all fields here. Most teachers, nurses, cooks, restaurant owners, and bankers are male. I’ve never seen a female shopkeeper or tailor. I’m told Gambian women can have a driver’s license, but I have yet to see a female behind the wheel.

            If I am honest, though, these aren’t things that upset me. I am upset that women, denied these opportunities, work harder than anyone else early morning till late night, sweeping, gardening, farming, collecting firewood, cooking, laundering, pounding, fetching water, caring for the compound, and raising the children, and all this isn’t considered work. Meanwhile I see many (admittedly not all) men sit by drinking attaya, sleeping on the bantaba, and complaining that dinner is late. Not to worry, though, because once dinner’s ready, they’ll be served first while the women wait. I’ve heard a lot of nice lip service from men about how women work hard, but I have hard time considering it anything beyond lip service when they sit by watching them do it.

            Soon I will return to the US and begin my career teaching. I am excited to live independently and relieved that I will soon go about my business without the perpetual verbal harassment I have come to expect here. But there’s another feeling there too. I’m not sure whether it’s guilt, anger, or heartache but whatever it is, it comes when I think about the women and girls here whom I have come to love.

            I think about my best Gambian friend. She’s her husband’s first and only wife, but she doesn’t expect that to last. She tells me it is selfish to want a husband to yourself, that women should share their husbands because there aren’t enough men to go around. I think about her telling me she cannot come to an event in the village because her husband wouldn’t like it, because if he found out, he would become angry and beat her.

            I think about my little sister. She is in 5^th grade. She’s smart, sassy, sharp. She works hard and is serious about school. Her parents actually live in another village, but she stays in our compound to help her grandmother and to go to school. Her chores often steal her time to study. Her grandmother has an unpredictable temper. Sometimes my sister has a fat lip.

            I think about another brother’s wife. She married him last year when she was in 11^th grade. She seemed serious about school and even had a European sponsor who was supporting her schooling. When she came to our compound I asked her if she planned to finish her last year of school. She told me of course. Shortly into the school year, she became pregnant. Her baby was born just before the exams she needed to finish high school. She says that maybe she’ll take the exams in the future when her son’s older, but I’m not holding my breath.

            Maybe there will always be extremes. I know girls forced to marry men who could be their fathers. I know women who are raped by their husbands repeatedly, but it’s not considered rape because he is her husband. On the flip side, I know fathers who have stood up for their daughters and intervened when their husbands abuse them. I know husbands who genuinely love their wives and show them great respect.

I don’t know what will happen to my friend or my little sister, but I know what I want for them. I want my friend to be in love with her husband and know what it is like to feel confident in his love for her. I want my little sister to finish school and pursue her heart’s desires. If her heart desires getting married, staying in the village, and raising a family, all power to her. I’ll be very proud. Whatever they do, I hope they know their dignity and their rights. I want them to command the respect they deserve. I want them to seize opportunities. I pray they experience joy. No, I don’t know what will happen, but I know what they deserve.

           

The Transition Begins

I leave soon, next month kind of soon. Now that two years have passed, I have moved out of my village and into the Peace Corps training center to spend my last two months leading the pre-service training for new batch of education volunteers.

Leaving Ngayen Sanjal was hard. I felt ravenous for every detail during my final weeks. I savored moments writing by candlelight, the call to prayer sounding from the mosque over the drumbeats of Nigerian pop music at a wedding on the far side of the village. Moments sitting outside my door after an evening run in the bush, watching my host sister chat while her 18 month old on her back leans around to see the bats awoken in the evening twilight as they swoop past corners. Moments visiting a friend, lying on a mat as chickens peck and squawk all around. My friend sits with her newborn, Ebrima, lying beside her as she takes out a little girl’s braids with a stick. Lizards round the tree. Vultures circle the sky. Her co-wife brews attaya, the smell of burning sugar fills the air. We chat a little about work, the fields, the heat, and my impending departure as she repeatedly pours the tea from one small cup into another. But mostly, I just lay and listen while they chat about who’s doing what in the village.

Then came my last week in Ngayen Sanjal, and it certainly was memorable. It is no surprise that sometimes Peace Corps Volunteers get sick. I have pooped my pants twice during my service. Once during training, and the second time was that last week. I guess you could say I came full circle? The week also saw the president pass by three times on his agricultural tour. When the president travels, all the school children go to the road to welcome him, along with most of people from the village. They put on their best outfits, many of them wearing fabric with the president’s face on it, to stand and wave as his hundred plus vehicle motorcade drives by. I stood at the road for three hours in the morning waiting for him to pass in his white robes and dark sunglasses. He passed by again in the evening and once more the next morning. Each time the students went to greet him.

 

My last day there was busy visiting many families. The father of my good friend had passed away the day before. I covered my head and went to their compound to offer condolences. I also greeted the chief of village and thanked him for his hospitality. I went to the compounds of my closest friends in village and at their request, gave them pictures of me to remember me by. I received parting gifts of photos, peanuts, and fabric. I spent the night as I spent most nights, lying outside with my family, staring up at the stars. Some of my friends over to drink attaya and listen to the radio.

The next morning was emotional. Once the Peace Corps driver arrived, my little sister began to wail. She didn’t cry; she wailed! Tears escaped my own eyes as my head teacher, family, and friends came to pack the car. People prayed for my wellbeing and safe travels and thanked me for the work I’d done in the school. They asked me to greet all my family and friends in America for them. I thanked them for their hospitality and for their patience. Tears continued to flow as we drove away.

There is a Mandinka proverb that says no matter how long a log lies in the river, it will never be a crocodile. For two years I lived in this village, a member of a family, a part of the community. My biggest fear when I started Peace Corps was that I wouldn’t be a part of the community, that I’d remain on the edge without making genuine connections with people. Now as I reflect, I see that this is not important. I can live as a Gambian as long as I want, but I will still remain an American woman. But while I can’t say that I felt completely integrated into the community, I still made genuine connections with people I won’t forget. I played the role of teacher, student, mentor, friend, and sister. Maybe the log will never be a crocodile, but that doesn’t mean that relationships can’t be formed, experienced shared, and lives impacted. There are people in Ngayen Sanjal who will forever remain in my heart. Below are a few of them.

I like to think that they feel the same way.

Aret, Hincha, Mam Tutti and Me

Yago and Me

Me, Kodu, Mam Tutti, and Hincha

Musa and Me

Pa Kebba and Me