Sow Seeds

Wedding Day

2006-09-17T00:58:00.009+02:00

As soon as the sun rises, it is clear that today is a special day. The women spend the early morning working in triple time, carrying load after load of water jugs to fill the additional basins that have been brought over. The courtyard is full of women from the village, babies clenched to their backs, discussing the plan for feeding one hundred or so guests. They bring over extra cast iron cauldrons and wood for burning.

Fatou, a little distracted, quickly puts together a pot of hot water for my day’s ration of instant coffee. I pay close attention to the ladies, not understanding a word, but hoping to make a little sense of the massive orchestration. Once again, Fatou (honored guest because of the relative distance she traveled) affirms her status by starting the day in one of her prettiest and flashiest booboos. She seems a little more anxious than usual about getting me washed and ready for the day.

Not long after I’m cleaned up and dressed, we start to hear approaching drums. The bride is coming over from her village with a large entourage (probably half of her village). The women in the courtyard start to work a little faster. The bride’s parade is coming closer! Ousmane, though quite composed, wears an explosive grin. Kiné, his first wife, quietly retreats to her room.

Parade seen from afar, slowly making its way through the village.

Everyone seems focused on a task including all the young girls who are doing last minute brushings and wardrobe decisions. Syrah and Khadi must have changed in and out of different outfits at least 3 times.

When the sound of wildly beating drums could no longer be ignored, a stampede of women ran out from the courtyard to meet the crowd. The girls giggled, jumping around. The boys lined up, arm to arm, watching quietly. It was hard to see what was happening because of the many tall bodies bunched around the bride. I jumped up on a log and saw that she was concealed under a white sheet, standing behind a woman holding a rolled up bamboo mat that protrudes high above the crowd. The young woman thumps it mightily, following the cadence of the drums. Openings form in front of the bride. Villagers take turns dancing in the circle, stomping and raising their legs high, backs arched down parallel to the ground, arms straight out to the side.

The griots lead the cadence with their drums and short whistle blows.

Gender roles are so accentuated in Kissang that even as children, boys and girls play separately.

As the guests streamed in the courtyard, so did the gifts. Women carried iron pots, clay jars, mats, cups and bowls, fabric to adorn the walls, blankets. The men carried in a large chest and armoire. I hadn’t seen but a couple pieces of furniture in the whole village. Was his second wife’s family better situated? It's hard to know since often times, wedding gifts are bought with the dowry agreed upon in marriage negotiations. The Senegalese tell me that most often, a man’s first wife is chosen for him amongst the parents, even as early as birth, making negotiations a smoother affair. The second wife is the man's choice. The man pursues a woman based on personal interest and attraction which necessarily tips the scale in favor of the bride’s party when deciding how large a dowry he’ll have to pay.

Ousmane and his second wife, Ker, were actually married over a year ago, a quick formality done in the mosque with only the parents present. Today’s ceremony marks a more important event. She will finally join her husband. Why the wait? Ousmane first had to get the house ready (build the additional mud hut) and save enough money to provide for his new wife and young child (apparently Ousmane was allowed conjugal visits). And of course, he also had to get the money and food stock together for today’s grand affair. I’d calculate it at about a little over a year’s worth of (Senegalese) wages.

The bamboo mats are rolled out under the covered porch. Ousmane and his bride sit next to one another. Women and children fill in around them. The men cross over to the other end of the courtyard to find a place under the second covered porch. Then, after a series of symbolic offerings and benedictions, the young girl’s white shroud is pulled back. The singing and clapping continue for hours while different villagers take turns sitting in front of the new couple, offering them sage advice. Always followed by a trail of “amin, amin, amin…”

Meanwhile, groups of women pour in and out of Kiné's, the first wife's, room. The older women sit in front of her, giving her firm instruction on how she should treat her co-spouse. “Treat her as she is your own daughter, teaching her how to take good care of the home and the family!” I had peaked in on Kiné throughout the day. She was solidly stoic with heavy eyes. She remained aloof, even whilst the women yelled proverbs of domestic living. The women, packed tightly into the mud hut, after each lecture would break out in to high pitched singing and chaotic dancing, clanging large spoons on metal bowls. The loud din spilling out of the case made one think the women were trying to chase away Kiné’s sorrow with noise.

Eventually, the courtyard grew quiet for the marabout’s sermon. I learned later, when I asked the school teacher, that he spoke of the different roles between husbands and wives. He said this was the first ceremony he had gone to where the iman also stressed the importance of a man’s obligation to his wife (or wives).

After the speaker finished, the big moment arrived. The new wife would be taken into the first wife’s chamber. It was a moment I didn’t want to miss. Though I literally could not even fit my foot in the room, I did manage to sneak a look in from the hut's back entrance. They did the traditional side-to-side hug to the shrill of more proverbs, singing, and clamber of metal spoons and bowls. After a few songs, the bride and her entourage stream out of the room. Tucked behind the curtain, I wait. When the last woman in the hut steps out, a large stream of tears rolled down Kiné’s cheeks. It triggered such a strong emotion within me that my eyes quickly became a blur. This moment did not last more than a minute. Kiné knew the women would soon be back. She wiped her eyes and laid out a beautiful blue booboo, made special for the occasion.

Ousmane with his young new bride (Ker) on the left and first wife (Kiné) on the right.

Ousmane’s wide grin had not once left him since I had first spotted him in early morning. He was exceedingly proud of the great many guests that had shown up and of his beautiful brides. Ousmane introduced me to every single family member and to many friends. I took a great number of photos upon his request.

I asked him a lot of questions during the day since he was one of the few who spoke a little French. At one point, while we were sitting in his hut, he told me that I'm pretty and nice and asked if we could get to know one another better. I try to keep my sarcasm to a polite level. “Oh Ousmane" I say, "you already have two beautiful wives, that should be enough!”. “But,” he says, “there is always room for a third." I blink three times, too stunned to make an expression. He is not hitting on me on his wedding day, is he? Ousmane bursts out in laughter. Oh o.k., he must be joking.

No, he wasn’t. Later, he approaches me again and says, “Liliane, if you change your mind, let me know. At least stay in contact while you are still in Dakar. Give me your number and I’ll call you.” Senegalese men have a way of just telling you what to do. Very unnerving for a Western girl. By this time, I was ready to march out to that water tower where I could be alone and collect myself. I was eager to call my sweet heart since I wanted reminding that women from my neck of the woods had achieved emancipation and that polygamy, in my culture, is a pipe dream!

On my way back, I ran into the donkurons, the ceremonial dancers. There were three, covered in leaves and branches, their faces hidden. Everyone was particularly excited about the donkurons. I had heard talk of them weeks before the wedding from Mady and Fatou. Approaching the compound, the drums started again and a huge crowd formed. The dancing was like a competition. Each one trying to outdo the other. It seemed the victor was he who created the most movement. The speed at which they stomped and jumped around while staying in rhythm was incredible.

As the sun inched lower on the horizon, the freshly slaughtered mouton was getting cleaned and broken down by the women’s cooking squad. Most of the roughly cut up animal was thrown in the stew: head, innards, and parts unidentifiable. I stood around for a moment, as I did for most meals, but quickly realized I risked ruining my appetite for tonight’s feast. So instead, I followed cousin Khadi as she mingled through the crowd. Khadi is animated and energetic. I needn’t understand Mandingue to get the gist of what she was saying.

After my evening rinse, I put on my one and only booboo. I had saved it for the culmination point of the marriage cermony. Several guests complimented my Senegalese look. Khadi, on the other hand, surprised me with a very Western looking get up; tight black pants and a sleeveless black and white top with high heeled sandals. She looked like she was ready for the big city clubs! The two brides washed up and came out, each in a beautifully adorned booboo.

At 16 years of age, I estimate Ker is about half as young as her co-spouse Kiné who already has 4 kids.

Meanwhile, young Syrah was working doggedly. Being Ousmane’s eldest girl, she was always the person who got called on if someone needed something. She was up until 4am the night before brewing pot after pot of the traditional tea. Today she was up at 6 am filling water basins, running after toddlers, serving meals and sweeping floors. She was also in charge of watching after me. She spoke only a little French however the little bit she did speak was helpful. She served as a translator when I was amongst the women which was most of the time. Syrah’s in 6th grade and currently living in the nearest village with an upper level school. She came home special for the wedding. I asked her how she felt about getting a second mother. She thought for a moment, laughed lightly, shrugged her shoulders and said she was o.k. with it. Syrah works very hard and never complains. She has the smile of a genuinely happy heart.

The bride and the women of her entourage were not spared of work either. Even in their loveliest attire, they all shared the work of preparing for the night's feast.

Dinner was served late. I followed Fatou into Kiné's hut to share in the women’s platter. I was used to meat chunks in the meal, but this looked to be only connective tissues. I imagine the meat went to the male guests. The woman didn’t seem to mind, practically fighting over the hard chewy pieces.

Not long after bellies were filled, the crackly speakers spewed out the same muffled tracks as the night before. Mbalax! They never get tired of it. Khadi runs out to dance, dragging me along. Certain my mbalar dance moves have not improved overnight, I stick around for the beginning of the song which is slower and then sneak off when it crescendos into chaotic beats. Khadi persists however. Everytime she spotted me, she’d grab my hand and take me back out to the fog of dust kicked up the big group of dancers.

Eventually, I had had it. Exhausted by the day’s heat and the emotional boulversement, I was ready to once again find a spot on the mat outside nestled among a half dozen sleeping babies. Even with the loud ruckus, I slept soundly up until just before dawn when I am summoned to come to Kiné’s room. I squeeze in to a bed already filled with 5 sleeping bodies and drift back to sleep.

Ladies of Kissang

2006-05-19T17:34:00.002+02:00

I am again the last to wake judging from the loud commotion outside the hut. I hazily look at my watch, 7:12 am. Good grief. As the room comes into focus, I notice everything around me has been cleaned. The floor is freshly swept, sheets have been removed from the bed for a washing, my bag and other affects are neatly set in the corner of the room. Morning menu: left over mafé and a fresh pot of mooni.

The Thiam compound is filled with excitement. A continual flow of wedding guests stop in to announce their arrival.

After having spent time with Albert and his family, I could tell right away that these two fellas were from Peul country.

Around 11 am, Fatou and I pay another visit to her sister’s place. The sun is already out in full force. Unable to follow their conversation, which appears to be an exchange of juicy Kissang gossip, I focus my attention on the toddlers by my side. Poised and composed, they sit in a circle, beating contentedly on their plastic jugs. Drum practice for 1 and 2 year olds, incredible.

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An hour passes, the sun is getting hotter… and from the ladies’ apparent concern, my face redder. Fatou’s sister hands me her fan. Dafa tang! It’s hot! I assure her I’m fine. Futile. Each time I set down the fan, one of the two grabs it to send a breeze my way. And when we get ready to leave, Fatou’s sister refuses to let me out of the shade without covering my head with one of her colored scarves. Unskilled in stylish African head wraps and too embarrassed to even try, I just kind of plop it on my head and make my way across the village, looking a bit ridiculous.

Back at the Thiam home the women and girls are still busy with before lunch chores. My natural reaction is to want to help, but I don’t even know where to begin. Carrying water on my head is out of question. This takes a life-time of practice. Tending to the fire? Not sure how they adjust for temperature control. Cooking in general, appears way out of my league. Fatou, however, is not at all bothered by the scurrying of activity around her. She is a guest, and guests are necessarily exempt from work. Since her arrival in Kissang, she has transformed into Madame Dakar… big city girl regally strolling through the village in her sparkly booboos and extensive set of gold costume jewelry.

The entire morning a herd of young boys, with apparently nothing better to do, obnoxiously try to get my attention, gawking at my every reaction. I can't help but be perturbed that the girls slave while the boys’ utter boredom drive them to being a total nuisance.

After an interesting lunch of rice and a sauce made of dried, crushed baobab leaves and some kind of bean, the girls settle under the covered porch to commence beauty preparations. Several bags of different kinds of weave are scattered about.

Khadi, Ousmane’s neice of 22 years old, seems to be at the center of activity. A radiant smile and a natural sense of style, she is consulted before any coiffure begins. She surprises me that afternoon, as she begins to insist that I stay glued to her side. Each time she’d leave a room, "Liliane, viens m’accompagner”… "Liliane, come with me," one of the 4 phrases she knows in French.

Ousmane at one point, retrieves me from the ‘women’s station’ to show me he and his brother’s work. Kissang still operates on an ancient caste system. The Thiam family are the metal workers. The Camaras are of noble blood, supposed descendants of great warriors. And the Thiatchis, as explained before, are the griots. Hard to believe, but the village is still comprised of these 3 distinct classes. Marriage outside of one’s class (family) is still forbidden. Mady says it is even unheard of.

Of the metal workers, Ousmane and his brother are Kissang’s jewelers. Their work hut is set up for two and full of interesting gadgets in order to melt, shape and bond metal. With the village in a frenzy to get ready for the big wedding celebration, the Thiam brothers have several jewelry orders to finish up. Ousmane exudes pride as he shows me the family heritage, explaining the different steps of his carefully tended craft.

Back on the porch, the girls are still busy with their braiding session. But, uh oh, supplies are getting low. I couldn’t help to laugh when it literally came down to a weave tug of war amongst the girls with half finished heads.

Kiné, Ousmane's first wife, braids her daughter's hair.

The women elders have now joined in to help with the wedding activities, shelling a mountain of peanuts for what will become an army sized portion of mafé. Surrounded by at least 3 generations, they gaily share stories which intermittently produce load fits of laughter. I so wished I could understand.

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Shelling peanuts is an area where I could contribute but by this time, everyone had gotten used to Lili and her camera and wanted their photos taken. It must have been the first digital camera in Kissang. My, how the ladies were tickled to see themselves on the little screen.
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Thiam Family Portrait

As dusk settled on the village, I snuck out for a moment’s peace near the school yard. I am not used to being smothered with attention nor being inundated by foreign sounds. It was all a little too overwhelming, especially with the older women thinking that if they spoke louder, I’d be able to understand. I had a lovely day with them but I couldn’t help but to feel so, well, out of place. Psychologically, it was hard to live the stark division amongst women and men. And, I could not help but to focus my attention on Kiné, Ousmane’s first wife.

The great mystery for me was, ‘what is going through her head?’ Is polygamy a social practice that has come to be accepted by women or is it something always unwanted and only tolerated. To this toubab it just seems so implausible, even when taking into account deeply embedded cultural norms, that any woman could be o.k. with sharing her husband with another, and consequently the family resources (and in this case, extremely meager resources). I felt her heavy-hearted. However this did not impede her from diligently working to make sure the family and many compound guests were well taken care of.

After a moment of sitting alone in blessed silence, I was spotted by one of the village teachers. Kissang’s first school (primary level) was built 6 years ago, containing 2 class rooms for 80 odd children. The two school teachers, both young and handsome, live next door. They invited me to have dinner with them, explaining they wanted their turn at welcoming the village guest. I accepted, but only after notifying maman Fatou.

Conversation was rich and helped me hash out some of the cultural clashes I was experiencing. But, first I had to surmount the incredibly frustrating conversation where the men go on about how if only they could make it to glorious toubab land where money grows on trees and the women are low maintenance. I doubt I managed to convince them otherwise but maybe I at least, for a moment, tipped the balance towards reality.

This is Saibo Bâ's first teaching position. Given the scarcity of teachers in rural areas, local school officials went ahead and gave him the title of 'Director', of which he is very pround.

One thing I was interested to know was how they viewed their role as educators in Kissang and where they felt the potential lied. For example, I expressed my disgust of watching the boys spend their day doing absolutely nothing when part of that time could be used to reinforce learning. There has got to be extracurricular activities that could be developed; a book club, a garden project, etc. Did they ever try working with the parents to discuss the possibility of such activities? I was surprised to hear, that yes, they had put in an enormous effort to involve the parents but it hadn't gotten them very far.

One of the village ladies who volunteers to cook the children's meals. Yep, tchep (rice) everyday.

Why so difficult? School in itself is a foreign concept and therefore few are even convinced of its value. They reminded me that the school was only 6 years old and still a controversial subject. Education is not something viewed as necessarily good… it could disrupt the village’s traditions and values with all the ideas it puts in the kids’ heads.

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Regardless, the teachers assured me that they have Parent-teacher meetings at least once or twice a month and even ask the imams and village leaders to intervene. They believe change can come, but only with a lot of perseverance and time.

While we were in discussion, huddled around the communal platter, at least 3 women stopped by… dressed to impress. They came in, sat for awhile and then left. I finally inquired “so you boys must get a lot of attention from the Kissang ladies, aye?”. Response: “huh? uhhhh? what? why do you say that?” “C’mon guys, just in 2 hours time you get 3 visits! And, let’s think about this… Kissang, like so many other smalll villages, suffers from a severe shortage of young men. With no money prospects, it’s the great exodus towards the big city. You fall under the rare category of men in marrying age, the only two people in Kissang that make real wages, both educated and not so bad looking, in a village swarming with young, beautiful women!” They both laugh realizing the accuracy of my observation. I could tell they had never been called out on it before. Funny.

Not long after, we all went back towards the Thiam compound. The moon was raising and the teachers had been in charge of pre-wedding, night entertainment. The plan was to crank up the music for a village ‘ball’. But how, without electricity? The setup: A table with a mega speaker that had been carted over from the next village and being charged by two old car batteries. Music selection? 3 tapes of mbalax, a style of music unique to Senegal. Music, almost painful to try to dance to if you aren’t super familiar with it. Dancing mbalax is kind of like trying to learn Chinese.

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As soon as the music came on, crackly, muffled and super loud, the courtyard was instantly filled with dancing bodies. Khadi, came out looking magnificent. But more than her stylish attire, her beauty shone from the inside. Even earlier in the day, while I watched her toil in her tattered sarong, she glowed. And boy did she have presence on the dance floor. It was kind of inconvenient that she, one of the best dancers in the village, wanted me by her side. I would sheepishly try to get in the groove, realize the impossibility of it and find a way to sneak off. Usually, I don’t really care if I’m a good dancer or not, but in Kissang, every time I approached the dance area, all eyes were fixed on me. When I did dance, everyone would literally just stop to watch.

The loud music and dancing went on for hours. By 1 am, stomping feet had kicked up so much dust that you couldn’t see across the courtyard. I was tired. Not just from the long day but also from what seemed to be a line up of men, taking their turn in broken French and English, at flirting with the toubab. In Dakar, I’d gotten used to dealing with it by being cold and refusing conversation. But, as a guest in a small village, I had to put in maximal effort at being polite without giving a hint of interest.

So finally, needing peace and a place to rest, I wandered over to the area where a few women would take turns watching over the dozen or so sleeping babies… I carved out a spot on the plastic mat amongst the little ones, closed my eyes and instantly fell asleep. Fatou woke me up around 4 am and led me to the bed in Kiné’s case. We were 5 sharing a small mattress. It was hot and lots of elbows and knees came my way. Needless to say, not a very restful night’s sleep.

Intermission

2006-04-13T14:38:00.001+02:00

LES ILES DE LA MADELEINE

I am dying to give you all ‘la suite’ of the Kissang adventure but simply can't get to it. It's crunch time for my video project. I have to get all the clips in order and ready for my brother’s arrival, which is TOMORROW. I promise to try and get it done tonight, if my brain cooperates.

Thank you for all your kind comments. I get much joy from sharing my stories and along the way, discovering my writing voice.

I did manage however to squeeze in a few moments to post some pictures. I took them on Tuesday while visiting 'les îles de la Madeleine' with my Senegalese family and a volunteer named Brice. The islands make up part of the natural reserve off the coast of Dakar. It was one of the most beautiful excursions of my life.

We reached the island by boat (seen above). I was extremely proud of Mady. Like most Africans, he does not know how to swim and is scared of large bodies of water. Knowing it would not bode well for little Mor if he showed the slightest bit of fear, he remained very calm.

There were a lot of tourists the day we went, but we managed to find a small secluded beach. It was paradise... perfect weather, delicious picnic, cool white sand, lots of seashells hidden under sparkly black rocks...

Apparently, the last time Mor was taken to the beach, he cried the entire time. He was younger back then, and it was the first time he had seen the ocean. Mady, feeling more confident than ever after the boat ride, spent most of the time playing in the waves with his son.

The island is riddled with bird's nests. Here you see them perched in the brush with a direct view of 'les nids des hommes'.

The island, a result of volocanic activity long ago, has a grand variety of rock formations, colors and textures. Très, très jolie.

Taranga

2006-04-06T11:30:00.003+02:00

As the sun creeps over the horizon, a tacit crack of the whip jolts the women from their slumber. My eyes struggle open, but only long enough to notice the commotion. I quickly drift back to an impenetrable sleep, until menacing rays engulf the small hut where I lay.

I step out to the courtyard where there is a frenzy of activity. The women and children have long since started the day’s chores. Kiné, Ousmane’s first wife, is feeding wood under the cauldron to finish cooking the mooni. It is the morning dish… mill flour rolled into little balls, cooked slowly with water resulting in a stew of grey guck. At some point they add an inordinate amount of sugar, maybe to trick kids into eating it.

Syra, the eldest daughter (12 yrs old), and her cousin Khadi are already glistening in sweat, neck muscles fiercely flexed as they carry what might be their 7th or 8th round of water towards the stock of immense clay jars. Two or three are kept in the wash area of each of the four huts that serve as sleeping quarters. There is also a 4 foot metal barrel for cooking and drinking needs. The younger girls are busy sweeping the rooms and courtyard and watching over the troop of toddlers running about.

As soon as Fatou spots me, she precipitately starts some coals and hunts down the teapot. At the AFVP case, Mady is responsible for putting out baguette and coffee for guests. I suppose Fatou wants to show me the same courtesy. “Liliane, voilà café… viens manger!”. She has also managed to find me a piece of bread. Though doughy with a distinct flavor of dirt, I was impressed (and grateful) knowing that it was baked without electricity or fuel.

Still sleepy and lost in the cackling of Mandingue morning chatter, I sip my coffee in silence. Soon after, Kiné comes in with a big bowl of mooni. “Lekkel, Lekkel!” (Eat, eat! wolof) I try not to grimace as I soup out my first bite. Meanwhile, the other girls are devouring the puddle of grey goop by large spoonfuls. I’m watched like a hawk,
“ Lekkel! il faut bien manger!” the women yell in unison. (Eat! you must eat well! french)
“Woaw, lekkna bubar!” (Yes, I eat well! wolof)
“No, no Liliane, il faut BIEN manger!”
The exchange would repeat itself at least 3 times … It was the only phrase they knew in French. And the routine would go down, every single time we’d eat. Who knew it was possible to be more exigent than Italian ladies!

Our rounds visiting family and friends began early. Fatou tried to explain who was who, but with half the village being related, I quickly lost track. We received a kind welcome in every hut. Even though I couldn’t understand what was said, I was warmed by their smiles and laughter. The reason for our village tour was also so that we could present the wedding gifts to the family… executed in very specific order. First we went to see their (super old) father, then to the eldest uncle’s compound, then to the eldest brother’s home and finally to the mother’s hut. Each time, Fatou listed the items and the amount of the cash contribution. They’d touch the dresses… hold the sheets and then jet off into a 7 minute benediction. After each phrase, Fatou looked down and tapped her forehead, repeating “amin, amin, amin…” (Amen). They were genuinely moved by my participation in the gift giving. I thanked them in turn for inviting me to share such a special event with their family and for being so well taken care of.

There is just no way to explain the spirit of “taranga” (hospitality) in Senegal. You have to experience it. It is unreal to what extent they’ll go to take care of their guests. Mady says, “When a visitor comes, they feel so proud… that the person took their time and spent money to make the voyage.” Even in a family of 5 with only one bed, they’ll insist on sleeping on the ground so that the guest will sleep comfortably. “It’s a big honor for Fatou to have you come along with her... a toubab, coming to Kissang?! uhp, bup bup bup!”. (Senegalese version of ‘woohweeeh!’)

As I’ve touched on before, food is at the heart of taranga. Each time we went into a hut during lunch hours, we were made to eat. Unfortunately, I did not know this until after I had stuffed myself with those who first insisted we share in their meal. Man oh man, mafé three times, served extra spicy and piping hot, whilst the temperature outside climbed into the hundred plus range. The worst part was I had forgotten to bring my bottle of water along, making each fiery bite that much more painful. I had decided to bring my own supply to Kissang after being advised that drinking village water could make me ill. When we finally got back to the home hut I guzzled down a 1.5 liter jug… despite it having turned hot! The entire time in the village, I’d long for a fresh cup drawn out of one of the cool clay jars.

After hydrating myself, I noticed Ousmane had the mattress brought out again so I could rest in the courtyard. He, on the other hand, was busy at work, painting the new bride’s bedroom a shade of bright blue. Curious, I asked him,
“So, how does it work? How do you divvy up the nights?”
“Two nights one wife will sleep with me and then two nights the other”.
Ousmane’s living quarters are in the middle, a door on both sides connecting to each wife’s wash area with a door to their rooms. The children stay in their mother’s hut.

While relaxing in the courtyard, a great many passersby stopped to chat. After a morning and afternoon of constant Mandingue, I was thrilled when a man named Khalifa addressed me in perfect French. He presented himself as a long-time friend of Mady. Within minutes we had plunged into discussions on American culture and politics, French immigration and the woman’s role in Senegal. Without any prompting, he shared his disapproval for the inequality of the workload between the men and women. “The differences are even more exaggerated in small villages like Kissang” he says, “granted, the men can’t cultivate anything during the 6 month long dry season, but they could AT LEAST help gather wood in the fields for their wives! My wife never goes out to get her own wood”. I agreed that it was rather disturbing to watch the women and girls toil while the men rest in the shade, playing cards and sipping tea.

Folks from the village stop in and chat. The first thing the old man says to me in a proud voice, "You know, I was in Europe, I fought with the French!"
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Ousmane brought me into his future bride’s hut to show me the finished fresh coat of paint. His body pouring sweat, I comment, “whew, you must be glad to be done!”. “Oh no, I’m not done…” He signals over to wife number one’s hut, where a friend has already started carrying out the furniture. I couldn’t help but to laugh, “oh yeah, the wives treated equally thing…”

Ousmane painting the bride's room in what looks to be home-made paint.

As siesta hour came to a close, children had once again gathered in a circle outside the compound singing and beating on their home-made drums. Before venturing out, I spent 15 minutes on my mattress tapping my feet, trying to figure out how the heck I’d get my toubab body into the vibe. Eventually, I decided the best thing to do was just to jump in and go for it. I took my place in the circle, watching 5 year olds wildly move their little limbs in perfect synchronization. It wasn’t long before the “il faut danser” chant began. Taking a deep breathe, I jumped in the middle doing my best to imitate the dancers before me. My 4 minutes of toubab boogie ended in a barrel of laughs… but also with an encouraging, “merci, merci, c’est bien!”

I didn’t last long in the hot sun before wanting to return to my mattress in the shade. The children, ecstatic and still in complete fascination with their toubab visitor, followed me inside, reforming their circle where I sat. A young girl began singing the verses to a song to which everyone knew the chorus. I was amazed at the power in her voice… a 6-year old, singing with the grace and confidence of an old woman, already carrying with her a life-time collection of hymns. At one point, she even modified one of the songs and put in my name. I was touched by how easily the children found a source of joy in clapping, singing and dancing.

I was curiously watched by young villagers at all times.

In the early evening, I decided to make my way out to the water tower. Khalifa had informed me that if I climbed to the top, I might be able to get a signal and make a call. Eager to let my sweetie know that I had arrived safely, I asked Fatou to bring me there. As we went along, villagers stopped us to inquire where we were headed. When Fatou told them I was going to climb the water tower, first their eyes got real big and then they dropped what they were doing to join us. By the time I got to the ladder, at least 30 people had gathered, all in complete disbelief that I’d go up so high. Apparently no one in the village had ever dared. They watched me in complete silence until I got to the top and waved down below to let everyone know I was o.k. And yes, I did get a signal and did get to talk to my honey.

View taken from top of water tower. The village extends past the trees.

The villagers take turns filling their buckets with water. Don't let the young man fool you, he is holding an empty bucket to take part in the picture. I never once saw a male carrying water.

Back at the hut, I was told water was ready for my evening rinse. In Kissang you shower two or three times a day. The women wash up after their long morning session of chores, in the midday if they’ve gotten real sweaty while cleaning and in the evening after they have finished preparing dinner. And can you guess what we had for dinner? Mafé maybe?! Yep.

After eating too much, Fatou took me with her to spend time with her sister. We crossed the village under a sky of a million stars. Over the course of our visit however, the moon’s ascension transformed the scenery with its magnificent glow… meanwhile, we could hear the sound of approaching drums. “Ahhh… the griots have arrived! They were in the bride’s village yesterday and tonight Kissang will dance!” Griots have a very special place in society. They are responsible for passing down the oral histories of the families, usually in the form of song. They also lead the music in all the drum circles. In Kissang, the Thiatchi family are the griots. The little girl I spoke of earlier is a young Thiatchi.

Completely mesmerized by the thundering of drums, I couldn not look away from the direction from which they were coming. It didn’t take long for the ladies to get the hint that I really wanted to go check it out. “Ah Liliane, tu veux danser?” As we approached, I realized the whole village was participating. I immediately renounced the possibility of entering the dance circle. Rather, I hid in the back, climbing up on a pile of wood to try to see what was going on. The Senegalese are so dang tall! Honestly, the children I’d seen dance earlier in the day were just as good as the adults… but the drum beats, my goodness, were just incredible. I stood there, dumbfounded, until the ladies were ready to call it a night.

A rough journey

2006-03-31T19:35:00.000+02:00

BAOBABS OF KISSANG

8
6

6 a.m. We get the last of our bags together. Still half asleep, I watch an anxious Fatou, as she buzzes around making sure every detail is accounted for. She has been preparing the entire week: Trips to the fabric shops. Meetings with her brother who has tailored her garments; a day outfit and a shiny, glittery evening dress for each of the 5 days. There was also the beauty appointment, 3 hours of taming wild hair into intricately designed braids, twisted back into an elegant bun.

Fatou is not able to make many visits to her native village, so she has scoured the Dakar side-walk markets for gifts to give to her numerous family members. There was also, of course, the wedding gift… or rather gifts, since Islam preaches that wives should be treated equally. “The beginning of a polygamous marriage is very delicate” Mady explains, “it can quickly become ‘complicated’ if jealousy arises”. In order to avoid any potential problems, Fatou has 2 identical dresses made. With no experience in African weddings, I asked Fatou to purchase my gifts as well; two sets of flower-print bed sheets.

7:20 a.m. We hail a taxi. Mor pouts as Fatou throws her bags in the trunk. I kiss him on the forehead, “we’ll be back soon, it’s just one week”. Fatou has already climbed in the taxi, giving the driver directions in a tone that would make one think that the President himself was waiting on us.

We are taken to a huge parking lot where one can catch a ride to all corners of Senegal, using transportation that range in quality and in price… Maurid buses, vans, taxis-brousses. We have opted for the 7-places, a station wagon that, as the name indicates, seats 7 people. The advantage is that passengers are grouped by destination, thereby cutting down on travel time… that is, if there aren’t any breakdowns on the road. After haggling over prices, we squeeze in to the back seat… and 6 hours later, we arrive in Koupentoum, the town on the main highway closest to Kissang.

Everyone warned me that it would be a lot hotter in the interior. But, I had NO IDEA it would be quite this hot… around 118 degrees (46° c), with scarce shade and zero breeze.

2 p.m. The sun shows us no mercy. Sleep deprived and already light-headed, I squint hoping to spot a haven from the heat… a cyber café, if I’m lucky. Apparently, we aren’t going to make the 7-mile trek through the wilderness towards her village until there is a truck full of people ready to go, which won’t happen until folks doing business in-town are done for the day. I can’t help but grumble to myself, “and why the heck did we have to leave so freakin’ early?” I do find a cyber-café but, there is only one computer and it doesn’t work. Shocking. I resign myself to following Fatou as she peruses the road-side stretch of stands, searching out last minute provisions… a flash light, a bar of soap, a small mirror and instant coffee.

6 p.m. My head pounding, nauseous, I pray for nightfall… yet 2 more hours go by before the sun sets, around the same time the truck finally cranks up for departure. Except, it doesn’t start. I have difficulty hiding my irritation while the other 20 odd people packed in and hanging on all sides remain calm as cucumbers. Eventually, the motor roars and a push-off gets us rolling.

8:30 p.m. I am jerked from my sleep, “Kissang! Ici! Kissang!” I can see nothing but swirls of flashlights. We are greeted by a high-pitched cacophony of voices. As I hop out the back of the truck, I am immediately surrounded by 30 screaming children, grabbing my arms, fighting to get a look at the toubab. Moments later, a shrieking order disperses them and like agile worker ants, they grab our stock of heavy bags, lift them over their heads and scurry towards the family compound.

Fatou’s brother, Ousmane welcomes us to his home, composed of a large dirt courtyard surrounded by 7 mud-straw huts and enclosed by a straw fence. Ousmane tells the children to bring us out a mattress. Exhausted and overwhelmed, I plop down, relieved to finally get some rest. 10 minutes later, a small troop calls for me to come. Ousmane says they have fetched water for my bath. Fatou follows behind. Mady has surely given her firm instructions to make sure I am closely watched over. “Liliane doesn’t know about brousse-life, she will need your help”. She accompanies me to the wash area, a small sectioned off square, attached to the outside of the living quarters. There is a bucket and a cup. Fatou explains with hand motions how it works. As I get undressed, she just stands there, apparently unconvinced that I can figure it out. She doesn’t budge until I tell her, “it’s o.k. Fatou, I understand the drill”.

Washed up, we take our seats back on the mattress and are brought dinner. We are served couscous made of mill, their staple means of nutrition, with a mafé sauce. Mady said I’d eat a lot of mafé while here, an inexpensive accompaniment to rice or couscous made of puréed peanuts, tomato paste and a few other condiments, depending on availability. In Kissang, a village where a total of maybe 4 or 5 people make wages, recipes contain the bare minimum.

After filling up on gritty peanut couscous, I lay my head down and instantly fall asleep. After an unknown period, I am awakened by a drum cadence outside the hut compound. The moon is full and has now risen high in the sky, illuminating the entire village. I peer outside the gate and see a gathering of 15 boisterous children forming a circle. 2 girls effortlessly create rhythmic beats with sticks and large empty jugs. The rest take turns making their way into the middle, showing off their limber, electric moves. Still delirious, and ill to my stomach, I hesitate to go out and join them. However, I am quickly spotted, brought towards the group and given a prime spot by the drummers. “Danser! Danser! Il faut danser!”. “Oh no, not tonight”. In my best Wolof (hoping someone will understand since the native language here is Mandingue) I explain, “dama sonn… dama feebar”. I am tired and I don’t feel well. The eldest girl, smiles, “graoul”, it’s o.k.
I was sorry to disappoint them. I knew it wasn’t haphazard that they had set up next to the Thiam home. I promised them I’d dance tomorrow. Soon after, I slipped away and went inside to rest my oh-so-weary head.

Back home...

2006-03-27T19:48:00.000+02:00

Mangroves of Ziguinchor
-

Phew, am I drained! I just got back in this a.m. from a 2 week trip. The first 5 days were spent in a tiny village, way out in “la brousse” … total wilderness. No electricity, only 2 water fountains, 120 degree weather, small huts, rudimentary tools. I was accompanying Fatou to her native village for her brother’s wedding, a 4 day affair. Needless to say, it was an incredible experience. Expect to hear of the adventure, hopefully by the weekend.

Groom and (second) Bride

-
Afterwards, I went off again with Albert and Karim on a few missions in Bakel (southwest Senegal) and Ziguinchor (southeast). I went along to do some filming for the volunteer video project. Luckily, there was also time for fun… we got to see tons of monkeys at the big national park Niokolo Koba and on my birthday I went out on a Senegalese canoe for some bird watching and to visit a village on an island hidden amongst mangroves. I felt like I was back in Florida… underdeveloped Florida.

So, my loyal blog fans, I hope you can make it through another week of silence… For french readers, I strongly recommend a fascinating and beautifully written book called “Une si longue lettre…” by Mariama Ba. This will help you understand the context of my experience in a Senegalese village with strong patriarchal roots and polygamist practices.

Dependency and delusions

2006-03-13T17:32:00.000+01:00

I should preface that the following excerpts are just recent examples amongst a multitude of similar conversations I've had while in Senegal... so, I've met my limit and am now very direct with people. I realize I simplify things in my answers but often times I don't have much choice. I just don't have hours to spend with every person that comes up to me, which is several times a day, full of misconceptions.

And since, I recently took a long walk along the Corniche (West coast of of Dakar), I also take this moment to share with you the gorgeous views.
-

Young Gambian, 27, enters the closet size take-out joint where I am waiting for my Senegalese version of a burger.

“Good evening beautiful lady!”
“hello.”
“Are you French?”
“No.”
“English?”
“No, I am American.”
“Ahhh… American. That is very nice, very nice.” 15 second pause.
“I love you. Will you want to love me too?”
“What? No. I don’t know you and I have a fiancé.”
“So, you are not officially married. Well, give me your phone number. I want to be your friend.”
“No can do.”
“You don’t want to be my friend? I am here, I like to meet people. I like to talk with people. You see… we can talk, here is my number.”
“I don’t want your number.” Another 15 second pause.
“O.k. I want to give you my picture. Will you take it? When you go back to the United States, you can show the picture and get me a wife.”
“Woah, listen, let me tell you right now if you don’t already know, American women and Western women in general don’t work that way. We are educated, we have jobs and when we marry, we take the time to get to know the person. Marriage isn’t, as it is so often times here, a question of utility. We look at the man’s personality, his goals, his interests, his values...”
“Ah. No problem! I will also give you my biography! I will write everything about me… I will even write all about my family.”
“No, no. It isn’t that easy. It is upon meeting someone, exchanging with them that people start relationships. Friendship and love grows out of time spent together.”
“Ah. You Western women are way too complicated. Life is so much more simple than that! And, I am living with an American, a black American, and he tells me that I am a good looking guy, I should have no problem!”
“Well then, let him go look for a wife for you.”
Lady hands me my burger.
“Have a good night!”
“Wait, my picture!!!”

Abdoulaye Basse, 35, entrepreneur in audio industry. Collects African poetry, oral histories, sermons given by famous marabous, speeches of African leaders and records them on cds in French and local languages.

After a tour of the Institut Fondamentale de l’Afrique Noire, we sit in a café for a drink. During our conversation, I ask:

“are you married?”
“no, not yet. I am waiting. smiling I am going to find me a white woman.”
“a white woman?”
“yes, and then I’ll get out of here”.

I feel my blood rise, my heart start to pound. I hear this discourse over and over again. But no, not this one; smart, educated, active in his community.

“Listen, Abdoulaye, what do you think you are going to find over there? Success? The easy life? Wrong! It is a struggle man. A struggle. And your brothers, sisters and cousins who manage to make it to Europe or America, they aren’t gong to tell you how hard it is. They can’t bear to break the illusion, the hope people cling on to here. They feel responsible for keeping the lie alive that if you make it out, you automatically become more respectable because you will be able to send money home. I worked at an association in France where everyday I met ‘sanspapiers’ and legalized immigrants. I can not even begin to describe the misery. People stuffed in small one room apartments in massive cement towers found in polluted industrial zones. Huge communes of shabby apartment towers with no outlet for productive human activity. People living off of tiny welfare allocations in a place where everything is expensive. You think you are going to find a job there with a 35% unemployment rate amongst foreigners and where discrimination runs rampant? Do you know how long it takes to find affordable housing? On average, 7 years! 7 years! Or would you rather go to the US? Leave all your family behind… all that you know, for what? To become a taxi driver? A dishwasher or cook? You can make it out there, sure… but at what price? Listen, I am not necessarily saying this to you, maybe you would be part of the very small percentage that actually finds a decent life… I’m saying this to the millions of people here who just don’t get it. Your family members over there send you money, at the expense of themselves not eating or not being able to use that money and invest in something. They just struggle, struggle to survive in a country that is not their own, far from their family and friends.”

Café owner, 55, spent 10 years working at a hotel in New York City. Upon hearing our conversation, he interjects:

Looking at Abdoulaye, “she is right”, then turns towards me, “but until you give us jobs here, we will continue to want to leave, it is as simple as that.”
“Until WE give you jobs? What about YOU creating your own businesses, investing in education, holding corrupt leaders responsible?”
“US? We have nothing. We have nothing with which to create. It is the Western countries that took everything from us. They have all the money. They have to give us the jobs. Even when they say they are helping, they hoard the money. They come and build schools, roads, hydraulic systems, industries, but the money circulates only in their hands. Western aid organizations partnering with Western companies… the only income it helps generate here is the crumbs they give for manual labor. All we are left with is quickly degrading infrastructure and debt.”
“Well, maybe it is your fatalistic mentality that is the problem, as if things can not improve here… you are victimized and so you are going to sit on your ass until someone comes and fixes everything. That day isn’t going to come!”
“What do you want us to do?” He pauses, looks at me with forceful eyes. “We are UNDER-DEVELOPED!”
“You are under-developed? As if you had a medical condition making you exempt from effort! Bullshit! Look at other supposed underdeveloped countries, for example in Asia, who started with little but were able to harness their man power into productive activity.”
“Ahhh… but they have science and technology!”
“Do you think it just dropped down from the sky? No, they worked for that, they made it a priority.”
I look at my watch and realize I am going to be late for a meeting so we say goodbye.
The café owner stretches his arms out, “Please, come back, come back and talk… I would like to continue our conversation!”

-

While walking down the road to catch a carrapid, I continue my conversation with Abdoulaye.

“Abdoulaye, why do you want a white woman? I don’t understand. I think the Sahélienne women are quite possibly the most beautiful on earth!”
“It’s a question of taste. White women… we see them in all the movies, you know. They are more laid-back. And they have their own money so there is less pressure on the man.”
“But, movies are fictional! They far from represent the average ‘white women’. Movies are made to sell… pumped up with sex and pretty things. A guy in St.Louis told me that men here believe Western women have voracious sexual appetites… that we are all sex fiends. Is that true?”
Abdoulaye looking embarrassed, “Lots of people believe that.”
“Well, I guess I can understand false perceptions if people only know shows like Desperate housewives, Baywatch… not to mention our huge pornographic industry, and smutty music videos... but, I assure you, it is far from reality. It is a show, a façade, to make money.”
“But, it is also reinforced by Western women tourists, who come here knowing that with just a little money and the fact that they represent a ticket out of here, they can find a man, often times half their age, who will ‘satisfy their needs’. They come here, exploit our desperation, for sex.”

Before hopping on board my rickety ride, I thank Abdoulaye for accompanying me to the Institute. I tell him I think it is wonderful that he is working towards something… that he has goals. But, I remind him that his country desperately needs people like him to stay and work and build things. And, if he makes a list of all his productions, I will take it with me and give it to the Language department, the African studies department and anyone else who might be interested in his work. That way, though I can not make any promises, he might be able to make a little money, without having to leave.

Malcolm Versel, 50s, National Director of the U.S. Peacecorps. In charge of the 150 odd peacecorps volunteers in Senegal. Served himself as volunteer between the years of 72-75. I was accorded a couple hours to discuss with him the principal objectives of the Peace corps and their approach to development work.

“You know Liliane, I am not sure I am the guy you want to talk to because I have a very cynical slant on ‘development’. Development work never seems to have been about helping people, it is an industry. ”
“no, on the contrary, if that’s the case, I think we will get along just fine.”
“And it is funny, right before you came in here, I had a meeting with a group of people in several different domains discussing work to do, and I told these guys, I am so frustrated. Money gets pumped in, and things are only getting worse. Do you know what hard-slate it?”
“No”
“It is what happens here when dirt doesn’t get turned and worked. It becomes like clay. Then, when it gets hot, it bakes in the sun and turns hard as concrete. When it rains, water just shoots right off the surface. Hard-slate is becoming a big problem. Nothing can be grown in it. When I think back to 72’ when I was a volunteer, we were still trying to teach rural villagers the concept of animal traction (using animals for farming), but man, they were so much better off than they are today. It is so disheartening to see people suffering.” Pause. “And, I assure you, you can choose any school you like, you’ll never find in one establishment the 3 following ingredients reunited:
-an actual building and material
-a qualified teacher
-a teacher who has actually gotten paid
I don’t know why… The State has just dropped education as a priority. It’s like they’ve just given up on public works because there is just too much to do”.
“Granted, development has failed. Westerners came in with their Western priorities and Western solutions… forgetting that ultimately it is the people who use what they build and install that decide on its efficacy. And how silly to put in some expensive machinery in that is meant to make people’s lives easier but that local people have neither the technology nor money to keep operational… And of course, there is the fact that Western nations have never been too judicious about whose hands the money touches… in countries known for outright corruption. But what about the thing we don’t talk enough of… the cultural factors that block progress. For example, Senegalese live and breathe Islam… they are taught to value charity. Begging is an honorable activity… thousands of children run around, spending their entire youths asking for money for their marabous. It is a cult of dependency. And what do you do when something needs to get done? ...if someone falls ill or if there an emergency requiring serious action… INSHALLAH!, ‘if God wills it.’ They always have their inshallah to fall back on… removing the responsibility off of themselves.”
“Woah, I see the direction you are going… but be careful what you wish for!!! Can you imagine what this country would be like without the inshallah? It is the people’s resounding faith that keeps this place from being another Iraq or Kosovo. It is their belief in God that allows them to endure their hardship without resorting to violence and chaos. It is a religion of peace.”
“I am not saying that they should rid themselves of religion, I am only saying that we have to recognize it’s place when attempting to do anything for these people… and the people here have to come to express themselves their needs and see that there is a better way.”

…. Just a part of a long discussion. Looking forward to hearing your thoughts too.

Matam

2006-03-06T11:50:00.000+01:00

Part two of a week journey through Senegal

Saturday morning, Karim, Albert and I hit the road in the car my boss affectionately calls « Le presidentiel ». The sun beats heavily down on us, the skies are at their bluest, large expanses gleam gold in every direction.

As we head towards the small villages of the interior, the road quickly degrades. Le presidentiel, must at points veer completely off of it to avoid massive potholes… it must also, at many reprises, halt completely to let pass herds of august, staunchly composed cattle. We have entered Peul country. The Peuls, an ethnicity that has long dominated this region, pride themselves on being the care-takers of these large, regal beasts.

-
I first heard about the Peuls over dinner with a Senegalese friend. He commented, laughing, that the beef I was eating was probably stolen. Stolen? Yes, not much beef on the market in Senegal… the Peuls own all the cattle and they refuse to sell them. For the Peuls, it is about prestige, how many heads you have. Large quantities of inaccessible cows coupled with a great demand for beef has resulted in an extensive network of cowsnatchers. Prestige? Yes, the Peuls have a very special relationship with their cows... a long tradition of sharing the land, of raising and of accumulating. If a Peul lets go of one of his cows, it isn't for money but given as a gift. Cattle are still offered as part of the dowry to the parents of the bride-to-be.

The second thing I heard about Peuls, from a young man in St. Louis, is that they are all xenophobes. Why?, I ask my interlocuteur. "Because, they refuse to learn Wolof!" Frustrated, he explains, “ they just don’t want to let go of their language, even though everyone now uses Wolof to communicate! They won't even acknowledge someone speaking to them in Wolof, even if they understand.”

Fact check: Wolof, over the last 40 years, quickly spread through Senegal as religious leaders and merchants traveled inwards from larger cities. However, Pulaar is still spoken by over 2 million of the country’s inhabitants and by 16 million + in West Africa.

Before leaving for Matam, I learned at the volunteer committee meeting, during our after-lunch siesta, that Albert is Peul. I had been watching him for a moment, lying on the mat, fingers interlaced on his chest, a serene, even joyful, regard on his face. I ask, “Albert, do you dream?” Though usually quite reserved, he answers promptly, “yes, I’ve had very vivid dreams lately, especially right before I wake. I dream I am surrounded by my animals. A big circle of them… I am in the middle. And I talk to them”. Maybe I had interrupted him right as he was pleasantly recalling his morning’s vision.

Albert is from the Matam region. His grandmother recently passed away. Part of reason he was going with us to Matam was so to pay his respects to his (very large) family. “If there is a little extra time”, he says, “I’d like to visit my animals”. "Do you have a lot of them?" "Oh yes… we have at least 200 cattle, as well as moutons and goats”. Albert explained that in his family, young boys train with the shepherd starting at the age of 6. Up until the age of 12 they are given lessons on how to care for the flocks and herds, how to milk the cows, how to teach the little ones to stay with the group. There is even a system of calls to which the different animals respond. “We learn respect for our animals.” I asked Albert about the Peuls hording all the cattle… "is it really just about prestige?" "Yes, it is mostly about prestige, but also a deeply engrained affection". They can not bare commoditization of an animal they view almost as sacred. Albert describes his family as particularly traditonal in this sense. And though he says they are also devote Muslims, I found his discourse more like that of a Buddhist.

On the road, we crossed paths with Sylla, the coordinator of an NGO in Matam. With so few cars on the rural road, he was easy to spot. Sylla and I had met at the case soon after my arrival. He gave me my first lessons in Senegalese culture.

_
As we rolled along, the three of us talked a great deal about cultural differences between Americans, the French and Sub-Saharan Africans. They had lots of questions about the U.S. Are there few poor people? What percent of the youth are aware of global events? What kind of people support Bush and WHY? Is everyone really overweight? Someone told me if you don’t have money in the States you are nobody, is that true? Do you really think the US is ready for a woman president? This last question, spurred many others. I was also very interested in the topic, since in Africa the women are by and large still fixed in traditional roles. So, what do these two men, involved in the collective progress of their people, think about it? Karim was adamant that big changes needed to be made… and that things can evolve rapidly if action is taken, using Western nations as an example. Albert, on the contrary, thought the change would have to come slowly. People just aren’t ready yet. It was a lively debate. My feeling is that if women themselves are content with their current position, convincing them they should adhere to a different system will be quite difficult. Are women happy with their status, their role in society? I don't know. But, I imagine many women do not give it much thought, since they are too busy just surviving. The one thing we all clearly agreed upon is that girls should have the same access to education as boys. That’ll help move things along.

Ouro Sugi

Arriving in Matam, we first stopped off in the small town of Ouro Sogui for lunch at Albert’s family home. As soon as I stepped out of the car, children ran towards us, squealing with glee, TOUBAB, TOUBAB!!! I asked Albert why do they always do the Toubab chant? And how is it that every child, even as young as 2 years old, knows the term? He laughs… “I don’t know how, does it bother you?”. It doesn’t bother me on a personal level but I just don’t understand how or why they are taught this distinction. Albert tells me that I certainly shouldn’t take offense. It is their way of making you feel weclome, it’s like a term of endearment. He goes on to say that way back when, toubab (which literally means foreigner) was the name for a doctor who came and helped people. Good thing I asked because for the next 3 days I was singled out, pointed at, danced around by children of all ages singing “toubab, toubab, toubab!” everywhere we went. And I did stop minding, since they were so full of smiles, and unlike in Dakar, they weren’t asking me for money.

Albert, shows a local effort in his home town of planting banana fields.

Luckily, we managed to get most of the official business taken care the first day, leaving Sunday open for downtime. Albert invited us to spend the afternoon with him at his grandmother’s house… then later, we could go out in the “ brousse” to visit his animals. Karim and I, knowing it was a delicate time with the recent passing, thought it better to decline. But, he insisted.

That night, Albert stayed with his family. Karim and I lodged at Sylla's home. When night fell, my breath was taken away by the millions of twinkling stars in the sky. Very few times in my life have had I been in a place with close to no artificial light. I could have stayed up all night, gazing up at the heavens… shooting stars flashing by every few minutes.

Having lunch at Albert’s grandmother’s home on Sunday helpd me better understand his reasoning in the prior day's conversation. After the usual extensive greeting process, we took our seats on a mat with a few of his uncles and brothers. Not long after, the women and children across the courtyard were huddled on their own mat around a communal platter. I said jokingly to Albert “shouldn’t I be eating with them?”. Looking relieved, he exclaims, “oh, you want to eat with them, no problem! Come, come, I’ll introduce you”. Woah, wasn’t expecting that. But, one need not be very perceptive to understand that Albert was uneasy about this Western woman guest colliding with his home world of "traditional" values… so I was happy to bring him peace and to just go with the flow. The children and women smiled and giggled, expertly palming the rice into little balls, making it in their mouths with out a drop. I, refusing the spoon they had offered me, clumsily tried to do the same. More giggles and laughter. It didn't take long before one of the women sent a child to get me a cloth to cover my clothes.

I stayed with the ladies the whole of the afternoon. Within 10 minutes, they wanted to marry me off to a Senegalese man and were ready to send me home to the US with one of the youngest children. The little guy, already a little frightened by my pale appearance, would let out little screams when maman would say “don’t you want to go with her to les Etats Unis!”.

Notice the posture of the young girl cleaning the big bowl. Legs completely straight, back forming a graceful S curve.

But that was about the extent of our communication. No one spoke more than a few words of french, and Albert had warned me sternly to keep my Wolof under lock and key. No matter, I was happy just to sit and observe. 3 families live in this large home, each couple with about 8 children. My goodness, 24 kids plus visiting cousins and friends made for a full house! 7 men sat together, appearing to be in deep reflection, speaking one at a time, long pauses in between.

The younger boys sat a little ways from the men, preparing the 3 service tea. The women and girls stayed busy with domestic chores, the kids ran around and played. And even though all the activity made for a super boisterous afternoon, there was an underlying calm, a sort of harmonization. Everything executed in perfect orchestration, with out the need of a conductor.

The Diallo family... kids everywhere!

Around 5pm we said our multitude of goodbyes, and made our way out to small patch on a huge piece of land where the shepherd and his family lives.

Getting there wasn't easy... but thanks to heavy procreation, we had loads of little guys to help us out of sand spots!

As we headed further in to the wilderness, It was like being whisked off in a time machine to a world of long past. As the sun was setting, the animals trotted back towards their night refuge. We watched the procession in silence. I was moved by the beauty, by the simplicity and by seeing Albert so content.

ALBERT'S TROUPEAU

Senegalese Cows... majestic.

Talking with Albert and the Shepherd

No running water, no electricity. Food is cooked in large cauldrons over wood gathered from the fields.

The Shepherd

So there you have it, a glimpse in to the world of the Peuls… to a village of Africa still doted with the traditional practices of long ago. A life-style founded upon rites, rituals and roles, of balance and harmony… a life-style on the verge of extinction.

Bye bye Matam...

St. Louis

2006-03-03T16:43:00.000+01:00

Part One of a week long journey through Senegal

I went on a week trip with the National Delegate, the person in charge of all the AFVP activity in Senegal, and another colleague who does followup/support for half the volunteers in the country. It was a good deal for me because I was able to ride in a super nice vehicle up to St. Louis rather than take public transportation. I avoided paying for a crammed spot in a rickety ol’ van that usually takes double the trip time (from 4 to 8 hours).

On the road, stoked not to be in the van.

I was also glad that I’d have the opportunity for exchange... compare what my western education has taught me about international development with the thoughts of a Malian and a Senegalese who work in the field.

Karim, Nat. Delegate

One of the volunteers, Céline, also made the trek up with us. Our first stop was St. Louis, where we would join the 20 odd volunteers getting together for a tri-annual reunion. Each meeting, they choose a different location. The volunteers stationed in the host town come up with 3-4 days of activities for the whole gang. St. Louis is a small island in the North of Senegal. It is one of the old “colonial” establishments, which is evident by the bright yellow and pinks of Nice/Marseille style villas, cozy restaurants and bars. It has a warm, relaxed feel… much more agréable than chaotic, polluted Dakar.

View of the mainland from St.Louis

Nothin' but blue skies.

A river runs through the island... fishing boats line both banks.

Celine tells me, "Lili, sit on your left hand!"

Céline arrived in Senegal one week earlier than me. She and I enjoyed sharing our experiences on the way up. She managed to pick up on some details that, unfortunately, I had not. Though, this was not her first time in Africa. For example, I could not understand why in all the bathrooms you always find a big bucket full of water and a cup floating in it. I figured it was related to plumbing problems. I wondered if you were supposed to add water to the ceramic tank if you noticed it was low. Well, she explained that Senegalese do not use toilet paper… which, finally accounts for the total lack in bathrooms here. It also explains why there is always water everywhere ! Apparently, the ritual is to clean yourself up with water (and soap, though there is rarely ever any) using your left hand. That is why the left hand is regarded as “impure”. Then she rattles off, “you know, that is why you never eat with your left hand when eating the communal platter...” I cringe, hard. She continues, “if someone touched the food with their left hand everyone would stop eating!”. ackk! I didn’t know! I didn’t know! Thankfully, my Senegalese hosts apparently were able to forgive my ill-mannered toubab ways.

You can go about making your purchases with much less hassle in St. Louis

She also told me about a little secret your average visitor would never find out. Senegal, a country anchored in Muslim cultural codes, requires women to be very discrete about their sexuality. Revealing clothes are rare. And, you will never see a women displaying public affection to her sweetheart. Never. However, since polygamy is widely accepted, women have to work harder for their man’s attention and to keep them around in general! You’ll notice women burning pastes of exotic aromas to lure the man inside the home. Another means of seduction is the binbee, a string of beads of various textures and colors, worn around the waste. Indiscernible to the eye, but as the saying goes “nothing excites a man like the cry of pearls”. A man hears the beads brush against one another in her natural movement… a subtle yet very effective reminder of her sexuality. Très charming.

I am happy to have Celine, a "cool chick" with whom I can discover Dakar.

The comittee meeting started with a talk by a guest professor who explained to us the potential of using the nearby river water to sustain local agriculture.

Little boy curiously stares in to get a view of a full herd of toubabs chillin' outside. Not long after, he was joined by 7 others.

All in all the reunion was a success. It gave the volunteers a chance to meet the newcomers and discuss a bit their projects.

And, a moment to get away from the workload for a few days of fun in the HOT sun.

Sunday night dinner

2006-02-22T12:49:00.000+01:00

I prepared dinner for Mady, Fatou and Mor Sunday night. Boy was I stressed because Fatou is such a good cook (I didn't want to disappoint her) and I know that their pallets are only used to a certain range of ingredients and styles of cooking. They NEVER, EVER go to restaurants and haven't once left the country. So, I was worried they might not be able to handle something too "not African". So, I made a Curry soup with kurri squash (the big orange ones) and roasted a whole chicken. In a big platter I put down spinach, put the soup on top and laid the chicken in the middle. Well, everyone was waiting in the little one room studio surely wondering “what is this toubab gonna bring us”. After some hesitant bites by all, Fahtou says “Nehrna lool” ....very delicious. Though, even if she didn't like it, she would say it was good. They had never tasted a curry sauce before so I think they were a little wierded out by the coconut taste. Folk don’t do sweet/savory dishes around these parts. But I made sure to make it with a nice level of heat (spice). And they were totally not down with all the green stuff. They had never eaten spinach before so the taste was too strong for them. Parsley and cilantro were a no go either. Basically, the only green they eat fresh is iceberg lettuce. The roasted chicken however was A HIT!!! They rarely eat that much meat in one sitting since it is so expensive. The bird came from a European grocery store (the only one). The white meat was super juicy and tender, prepared with lots of herbs and spices. They ate the whole thing... broke down and chomped away at the cavity, sucked on the bones to get all the flavor.

I picked up the wishbone and asked them if they have any beliefs about it here... They said no. I explained to them how we do it: two people each grab one end and make a wish, once you pull and it breaks, whoever has the largest piece gets their wish. Fatou's eyes got real big... "ooooohhhh". I wasn't expecting her to take it so literally but I guess I should have known better in such a superstitious country. So at the end of the meal she and I took the wish bone and Fatou ended up with the bigger piece. She throws her hands up in the air with joy. Then she gets serious, and says in wolof, "I wish to be pregnant before the year 2007, and if I have a girl her name will be Liliane". Mady translates, I say, “ooohhhhh that is such a big honor, dejedieuf! (thankyou)” . Fatou is 36 and they've been trying for a baby for 18 years. Mor is Mady's brother's son. Inner family adoptions are super common here. Anyway, the whole thing was very touching. Mady got so excited that he decided we had to celebrate with some drinks... Coke or Fanta, whichever you like! These sweet drinks are serious luxuries for the family since usually no frivolous spending is allowed. After several rounds of chin chinning Mady gets serious. Liliane, I have been here for 20 years, Fatou has been here with me for 18 years and this is the VERY first time that anyone from the AFVP has cooked for us. The French, they are nice people, they have been good to us, but HIP HIP HURRAY for the Americans! I'm calling the embassy to tell them! LOL. It was a fun night.

In other news, I'm taking off tomorrow for a one week trip throughout Senegal. I'll be way up in the north for a few days (St.Louis) and then to a small village on the western border (Matam). The first stop is for a comité de liaison, a get together of all the volunteers in Senegal, and then off to Matam to discuss the possibility of a volunteer working with an association out there. It will be good to see outside of the big capital… get away from the pollution. I am sure I’ll come back with loads of interesting experiences and a camera full of shots to share…

Post Office

2006-02-22T12:29:00.000+01:00

Last week I decided it was time to go out on my own, find a post office and mail a small something to my chéri. During my lunch break, I resolutely march out across the huge sand field towards the VDN. The VDN is a big bustling highway with a wide dirt strip separating the two directions. There is a constant frenzy of taxis, buses and vans rapidly stopping, picking up a few passengers and zooming off again. I suppose the Senegalese government decided maintenance is not a priority seeing that traffic lights are all non-operational and the long row of light poles haven’t worked for who knows how long.

The post office is directly across the VDN. As I approach, running across random goat legs (hoof and hair still in tack), I try to figure out what will be my technique. Mad chaos, constant lines of vehicles are buzzing by and I know as soon as I get close to the road I’ll get mobbed by hungry taxi drivers. Ahhh, I know, I’ll pretend like I’m with those 11 year olds about to make the fatal sprint. 12 minutes or so later, we all make it over to the other side. I continue across yet another field of dirt… aaahkk! wind blows orange dust in my eyes, nose, and mouth. And what is going on? More random goat legs! Maybe they are in fact mouton legs, left over from the ceremonial practices of the Islamic New Year celebrations. I scurry towards the big building with the enormous sign: POST. Hmmmmm… I only see Western Union tellers inside. I walk outside, walk around to see if I missed the entrance. Nope. I look for stairs, maybe it’s on the second floor. Nope. I walk back in and ask the man sitting calmly in the hallway preparing the traditional 3-service tea on pieces of coal.

“Sir, could you tell me where the post office is?”
“The post office?” (long silence) “…the post office has not started yet.”
“You mean it is still closed for lunch?”
(looking down, visibly a little embarrassed) “No, we haven’t got it going yet.”
Oh…huh. (starring up at the large sign)

I ask him where I can find the closest functional post office. I don’t understand his broken french, so after thanking him, I head out, exasperated, as I look on towards the daunting obstacle ahead.

Post Office: Part TWO

Next day, during lunch break I am once again determined to find a way to mail my envelope out to my sweetheart. The secretary tells me exactly where to tell the taxi to go. I have to catch one on the other side of the VDN. Ugh! After some price haggling (that’s right, I’m not gonna get cheated out of my 40 cents!), I jump in and he speeds off. Pictures of famous imams are plastered all over the dashboard. The taxi is like all the others, disturbingly loud and rickety. You literally feel like if one screw came out, the whole thing would just collapse. A friend told me that junk cars have become such a problem that a recent law makes it illegal to import cars older than 5 years old. It’s probably a good idea since there in an inordinate amount of private taxi cars racing around, spewing out dark trails of carbon monoxide, just trying to make a few bucks. The only positive is that the huge supply keeps taxi fairs really low… To go all the way to the other end of town, a 25-30 minute ride, it is about $4.

At the post office, Senegalese crowd the teller windows… One is open and no one seems to notice so I approach and give a big smile to the rather large woman sitting at her computer behind the glass. "Salaam Malakoum!" She pauses, glances up at me only long enough to give me a "can't you see you are bothering me" look. "Umm… aheem, I would like to know the price to mail this to the United States?" After a few minutes of disinterested tapping on her keyboard she grabs my envelope, throws it on the scale. "It depends, how you want to mail it." "Well, can you please tell me the different prices?" Big roll of the eyes. She talks to a colleague for a while (probably making snide comments about the needy toubab) and eventually gets around to mumbling some prices. "Sorry, what was that?" Another big roll of the eyes. After not understanding a third time I ask her to just send it regular airmail. Whew, finally mission accomplished.

*** note to reader: this is the first and only time in Dakar that I’ve dealt with such an unhelpful person. I don’t understand how post offices all over the world all seem to find and hire the most miserable people!

MORE NOTES TO SELF:

2006-02-19T17:08:00.000+01:00

1. La Case is not like home, ALWAYS use caution before sitting on the toilet seat.

2. You can love spicy all you want, but it ain’t ever gonna love you! In order to avoid further toilet drama, stay away from the neighborhood restaurant that only seems to know only one way to cook food, extremely hot!

3. To deal with the bombardment of male solicitations: “lovely gazelle, what is your name!”, “Charmante, where are you from?”, MEMORIZE the phrase “AM NAA JEKERE…” I have a husband!

4. Children screaming “FOTO, FOTO” doesn’t necessarily mean they just want to be in a picture, but rather that they will expect compensation. tug, tug: “200 Francs Madame! 100 Francs!” tug, tug “Bonbons?!”

5. Furthermore, just learn to accept and ignore kids running around you. “toubab, toubab, toubab, toubab…” As if they were calling a pet over to play.

6. Regularly look over Wolof book. You will not learn the language through osmosis. Mastering a few small phrases will help you out in sticky situations.

7. Though you are now far away from the Parisian poohp side-walk obstacle course, do not lose vigilance! Careless steps here could land you in to a big pile of horse or mule dung!

8. Reconsider buying vegetables somewhere other than the big downtown market where the old ladies selling you their produce will ALWAYS give you double (or triple) what you ask for. The buyer has absolutely no power over these aggressive 80-year old grandmas.

“I’ll take a lb of spinach”
“ah, beautiful spinach!” (old lady precipitously stuffs a bag to overflowing)
“no, no… I only need ONE lb”
“here you are, 3 lbs!”
“but!”
“ah, I give you an incredible price! What else, carrots? tomatoes… here 10 tomatoes”.
“no, no, thank you but I don’t need any tomatoes! ”
“o.k., here 5 tomatoes, don’t worry, not expensive at all”.

My Senegalese Family

2006-02-16T17:41:00.000+01:00

Not much Valentine’s Day festivities going on in Senegal. The holiday came and past what out seeing any pink and red decorations, V-day cards or boxes of chocolate… didn’t even spot one single heart. No matter, over the years I lost my attachment to this commercially created holiday. I was quite satisfied with the explosive grin on Mor’s face when I offered him a box of chocolate covered cookies. Though, I did decide to treat myself to a bottle of red wine… Senegalese wine. Kinda tasted like cranberry juice with a kick. Not incredibly delicious.

I am very grateful for having Mady, Fatou and Mor next door. Fatou speaks French about as well as I speak Wolof so communication isn’t always very clear, but we understand each other. She has different clucks (which are common here) for answering yes, for saying she agrees, for sympathizing, etc. Anyway, this evening she prepared another fabulous feast… a huge salad with lots of savory levels and topped with whole fried fish. I thanked them for their kind invitation to dinner saying “it’s kind of sad cooking for just yourself and then eating all alone”. Mady exclaims “ooooh yes!, it is even sad for us when it is just us three! We are used to having company. And life is just too short, too short!”. Fatou clucks.

I asked Fatou if her muscles ache… like I said before, I never see the woman stop working. “Cluck, EnnHeeem!” She points to her ankles and her shoulders. So, as a gesture of respect and appreciation I gave her a foot massage one night and a shoulder massage another. For those who know me well, it is my specialty and something I honestly enjoy doing for others. Though, I could tell Fatou was a little uncomfortable. This might have been her first ever massage. But once I loosened up her knotted back a bit, she relaxed. She has an amazingly small bone structure but with very solid muscles. She is 37 but has legs of a 21 year old!

The family is very religious, quite pious. Having been familiarized with Islam and its practices it is not a cultural shock. Except for one thing. Polygamy. Mady loves to make jokes. When I said, “Oh Mady, you are so lucky to have a wife that cooks so well, everything she makes is delicious!” He replies, “yes, but imagine if I had two! ” Geez.

A tour of Sacre Coeur 3...

2006-02-13T10:16:00.000+01:00

This weekend was calm. I got a pretty bad cold, probably from the change in temperature. Thrilled by the warmth, the first thing I did when I got off the plane was to strip off layers of clothes. However, the Senegalese all had on sweaters and jackets, the 70’s here seem quite chilly! So, last week when folks here were all bundled up, stubborn Lili refused to wear any long sleeved shirts so as to soak in some sun. And now, go figure, I’m sick.

So, I had a quiet weekend. Saturday, I went to a fabric store with a couple ladies and bought lovely textiles so I can have a few outfits made. Yes, yes I know I was complaining about the bougie life-style and now I’m participating in it, but I’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO DESIGN MY OWN CLOTHES!!! And, it seems down right foolish not to invest a small amount of money on garments while also stimulating the local economy. Heehee.

Sunday, I spent the day looking over my Wolof book, cooking and writing. I also took a walk around my neighborhood, Sacre Coeur 3 and snapped some shots. Enjoy the tour!

Everywhere you go people are selling things… in my hood there are a few “nice” shops and a multitude of small shacks. With only one real grocery store in Dakar (frequented mostly by toubabs), most people find what they need at “bitiks”, closet size stores selling the essentials. You can find a motley array of goods and everything is adapted to small revenues. Little sachets of vinegar, milk and butter are sold for cooking. Cigarettes are purchased individually rather than as packs. There are tin closets on the outside where they keep fresh baguettes.

So far, what most impresses me about Senegal is the strength of the women. Starting from a very young age, around 5 years old, young girls learn the secrets of African cooking. They help their mothers with the many domestic duties. They learn how to balance heavy objects on their heads. One of the volunteers had his Senegalese (22 yr old) girlfriend over and at dinner time she ran out to the butik and in less than an hour had a large dinner prepared for everyone at la Case. And it was oh so delicious. Very impressive to a gal from the new generation of women who are raised without the confinement of traditional gender roles. I don’t know where I stand here… my feminist tendencies do not align with watching women toil all day. However, one can not help but have a great deal of respect for the grace and quality of their work, passed down from many generations.

tall, solid and strong women

young girl follows behind, proudly immitating her mother

I am also so impressed by Senegalese women's amazing style. I just can not get over how well people dress here. Ladies in stylish gowns of brightly colored silk and satin for everyday affairs.

I always get a chuckle out of the vast span of tools and transport. Though we are in a big city with loads of cars and buses, people continue to regularly employ horse and cart for hauling people and goods. Since trucks can’t make it through the narrow neighborhood streets, these carts also serve to pick up people’s trash. You hear them holler as they make their rounds. Horses and mules hang out and feed in the gaps between large modern houses. Goats are often found tied to lampposts or trees.

Soccer has got to be the main extracurricular activity. This large terrain is always full of young guys kicking the soccer ball around. When I told my Senegalese friends that I played soccer on a team when I was 13, they were SO IMPRESSED. You, (a female!) played soccer? What I didn’t tell them was that I was absolutely horrible, the twerp of the team, spending most of my time on the bench. I really had no chance with all the very large, muscular Afro-American women running around at the speed of lightening!

The orangish colored dirt covers most of Dakar. Though the lush plants and flower bushes adorning homes makes the area feel tropical, the conditions and landscape are desert-like, especially during the dry season.

Young kids wonder what is this toubab doing taking pictures of the neighborhood. They eager to participate ask me to take their picture too.

And last, here is the mosque, the bane of my… restful night’s sleep!!! It is just across from la Case. I know the little speaker on top looks small, but there are LOTS of them and the sheik blasts them!

Voila for now! Tonight Fatouh will teach me how to make Yeppah... some sort of smothered rice with chicken. Yum.

What am I doing in Sengal? Prensenting the AFVP

2006-02-12T23:56:00.000+01:00

While in Paris, I never wrote a blog to explain exactly what I’m doing at l’AFVP. I have a few drafts but was always reluctant to publish them because my tone, no matter how objective I tried to be, sounded critical. And since my colleagues are welcome to visit my website, I feel it best to keep my opinions to myself. However, I will give you a general summary of the Association.

The AFVP was created back in 64, not too long after the emergence of big multilateral and bilateral accords (Bretton Woods, Marshall Plan) to manage global affairs. The U.S. had their peace corps and Charles DeGaulle, convinced it was necessary to protect French influence in newly independent francophone Africa, secured the money and politicians necessary to launch l’Association des Volontaires du Progres. Back in the day, most volunteers left on missions concerning agriculture. When the volunteer arrived in the African village the first thing he would do was build his house. Over the next 15 years, as aid became more accessible for developing countries, missions expanded to include infrastructure (building of dams, schools and hospitals, etc). The Minister of Foreign Affairs (MFA), the "unofficial" head of the AFVP board, decided the Association would be operator of development projects. This meant that from then on, not only would they be in charge of recruiting volunteers and following up on them, but they were also to place bids with large organizations like the IMF, World Bank and the UN to run and execute large projects. Their work mostly involved initiatives in francophone Africa but in the last 10 years extended towards Latin-America and Asia. The AFVP has an impressive list of partners co-financing their activities.

In 2000 everything changed. The MFA told AFVP that it was no longer to take on projects. The main reason for this, they say, is that developing countries are now able to find solutions to their own problems with the explosion of local NGOs and associations and the growing number of educated Nationals. The AFVP, with their 30 years of experience managing projects must return to their first objective of recruiting volunteers and placing them throughout the world as beacons of international solidarity. No longer should the volunteers be the ones in charge of projects, but rather will offer their presence as technical and organizational support for local initiatives. In making this change the government sliced their subsidies by half saying that the large structure running the Association was no longer necessary. Whereas the MFA used to give them a nice fat sum every year, they now peg their contribution to the number of volunteers on the field. AND, they now only finance 2/3 of the cost of volunteers. AFVP is required to find the last third themselves. To make a long story short, these massive changes caused an Internal CRISIS. Right before I arrived at the AFVP, they had just laid off half of their workforce… approximately 55 people.

My 2 months at the headquarters consisted of an intensive study of the Association’s history, its goals, structure, management, and activities. I spoke at length with department heads and employees. Most folks there have worked for the AFVP between 10-30 years! I really wanted to take advantage of the great accumulation of experiences and competencies in the development world. And I must say, I learned a lot. However, if I had to sum it up in one sentence it would be "by in large, the occidental method of imposing projects designed to solve occidental objectives didn’t work".

So what are my concrete actions? At the headquarters I worked closely with the Director of Communications and Recruitment. I prepared project descriptions for presentation packets aimed at establishing partnerships (w/ associations, municipalities, regions, businesses, etc). Now that the AFVP must secure funding with a partner before the government puts in their two-thirds, it is extremely important to establish these "cooperations". I also went to a couple University job fairs to help recruit potential volunteers. And, I did some translation work. The need for their documents to be translated in English has grown with the increase of Asian partners.

In Senegal, I’m working with the Regional Director. He checks up on projects in 7 West African countries. Once again, I’m working on updating project descriptions. However it is also in the plans that I do some work synthesizing ongoing projects by theme… for example, women’s health, eco-tourism, youth programs, etc. It will be a enriching experience. I will travel quite a bit, visiting project sites throughout Senegal and maybe in a couple other countries. Finally, the last goal is to produce a 20 minute recruiting video to replace the current super dull powerpoint presentation shown to graduate students. The video will try to capture the spirit of working in Africa… introduce the variety of projects, show volunteers talking about their experiences, share some culture. I’ve been given the o.k. to have Phil come over and put it together with his mad digital media skills. The AFVP can only cover his plane ticket though… which is very expensive.

My website says Ill be helping the destitute of Senegal. I plan on changing this promptly. I really had no clue, nor did the AFVP, as to what my concrete actions would be. It is actually quite the contrary, for it is the Senegalese who are helping me. They have shown me a world completely different from anything I’ve ever known. I admire their amazing work ethic, especially the women, their family values, their gaiety of heart. It is refreshing to be surrounded by folks with a decisively communal spirit. Sharing is the only option here. Yes, there is an amazing amount of potential to be harnessed on this vast continent. The key is in education. It is the youth who will build the better tomorrow. Bringing awareness and dignity to women’s status and role is also of utmost importance. I’m jumping off my soap box now. Tomorrow, I promise little text, lots of pictures :-)

New Year- Wolof- Disparities

2006-02-10T19:07:00.000+01:00

Wednesday was the Islamic New Year’s Eve. Each household makes couscous… but not like any couscous I’ve ever had. They use mill instead of flour. Mady and his wife had about 10 people over. Very festive… once everyone cleans out the large platters of couscous covered in mountains of braised mouton and veggies, the children run around the neighborhood clanging the large dishes. La fete!! They were out until near midnight, even really little guys dancing around, making music with whacks of serving spoons.

I’ve been quite occupied the last two days with my Wolof classes (3-day intensive course) and meeting the many volunteers and partners coming through La Case. One just finished her 2 year mission and is departing, an other is celebrating a birthday so a group of us went out to celebrate. We had super fresh seafood right on the ocean… refreshing salty breeze, soothing waves. It felt a bit weird because all the folk in the restaurant were toubab. I love being immersed in Senegalese culture… there is so much to learn from them. Going out with groups of Europeans in a way taints this experience. However, it has been extremely interesting to talk with the volunteers, hear their stories of integration and about their work with l'AFVP.

A typical dinner with French folk... lots of alcohol and chain smoking... ending with a loud off-key choral of a cheesy French pop song.

My privileged life-style also bothers me. To think, before arriving I was worried that the conditions might be tougher than I could handle. But alas, I have the huge bedroom with a balcony, a big kitchen, maids that pass everyday to keep things absolutely spotless. (They even wash the dishes volunteers carelessly leave behind.) Every morning a fresh baguette and coffee await me. Mady’s wife will wash, iron and fold clothes for cheap. Delicious food is sold at bargain prices everywhere. The volunteers all use the same tailor who makes outfits based on a picture or description with the textiles they purchase at the market. Each garment costs only a few dollars to make. The toubab life-style is so flagrantly disproportional to that of the average Senegalese. It is disconcerting.

NOTES TO SELF:

2006-02-10T18:23:00.000+01:00

1. when using the work toilet, never again forget to step WAY BACK when flushing to avoid crashing splashes… ESPECIALLY during upset stomach times!

2. try to avoid using work toilet all together.

3. if running an errand near dusk, remember that once the sun goes down there is absolutely no light in the streets other than your own strikingly stark-white self. Lili light pole, Lili light pole!

4. careful when pronouncing tchok nga… meaning –works very well- as not to mix it up for tchuk na and have to embarrassingly explain that you didn’t mean pubic hair!

5. always remember, shoes off before sitting on the mat or in someone’s home so as not to offend with the potential misunderstanding that you do not feel welcome. Hospitality is what people pride themselves most upon here!

6. keep in mind a lot of people pass through La Case… completely unequipped. Fancy ($14 a bottle) Parisian shampoo half used. Same goes for the towel… back in room after each use!

7. even if there are only two mosquitoes in all of Senegal… they will find me!!! Mosquitoes love Lili. Never ever go anywhere without bug repellent.

8. figure out a solution to keeping the smallest ever Senegalese cockroaches out of the fridge.

Soccer madness

2006-02-07T16:40:00.000+01:00

During my 2 minute walk to work, I never know what I'll run in to. Horses, chickens, goats... I find this funny since we are nowhere near the country side. It definitely changes things up from Paris. My trained ears became oblivious to the motors and honks of the city. Now they are adjusting to the loud clamour of birds and the goats baaahhhhhing outside my window, and errrrhhhhh the painful blarring of Islamic prayers coming out of the bull-horn style speakers next door. First call to prayer, 5 am!

Big day in Senegal… their soccer team has made it to Semi-Finals ! They’ll be playing Egypt at 5 pm this evening. Since we have a big t.v. at La Case, the house will be packed. The superbowl of soccer is on Friday.

Last night, I watched Fahtou prepare dinner. During the process she washed and rinsed probably 50 lbs worth of mill. Women here are very agile and strong workers. They bend way down, legs completely straight for long periods of time… they cook, sweep nonstop, wash dishes all in this same posture. I’ll try to get a picture of it to share.

After observing Fahtou in admiration, I was once again invited to have dinner with the family. This was the first time I sat with them inside their one room home. The sports channel was on, of course, showing the highlights of this week’s matches. Fahtou comes in with the dinner… mill, water, salt cooked up into a big pile of grey moosh served with milk (consistency of yogurt) that has been mixed with some sort of juice and loads of sugar. I was impressed that dinner, just about as unappetizing as a dish could possibly look, was enthusiastically gobbled up by little Mor. And ironically, to me at least, today when I made myself french bread pizzas for lunch (with my European sauce and European cheese) and decided to make an extra one for Mor, he looked at it strangely and hesitated before taking it. His mother even had to prompt him to say thank you. I got such a kick out of this.

Anyway, back to last night… after finishing dinner (btw, I ended up eating left over rice since foreigners are strongly advised against eating non pasteurized dairy products… phew. ) Mady says “Oh no! I ate too much!” (I think to myself, is eating too much possible around these parts?) He explains, “When my belly is too full, I am not able to dream. I wanted to find out who will win the big match!”. I laugh. His friend, in all seriousness replies, “It’s o.k., I remembered, I’ll come by and tell you tomorrow morning”. Fahtou, methodically pulls out her wallet and hands him a few coins to close the deal. As I was leaving for work this morning I ask Mady “so, what did your friend report?”. “Ah, Senegal 1-0!” then a pause and a troubled air “but it will be a very tough game, very hard match”. So there you have it… I’m posting the score an hour before the game begins.

Learning to be “débrouillard”

2006-02-05T20:31:00.000+01:00

Saturday morning, after my coffee and Wolof review I got a call from Alexandra inviting me to run errands with them in downtown Dakar. I was overjoyed since I am still shy about venturing out on public transportation. It's crazy… there are official buses but most transport is controlled by random folk driving a colorfully painted bus that won’t actually go anywhere until it is not just full, but overflowing. You usually see at least 3-4 people hanging out from the back. Same thing with taxis… the informal sector here is much more prominent than any official business. It is a country of “débrouillard”… relying on ones own creativity in dealing with everyday needs… getting things done using whatever means available. Anyhow, you get on a bus and unless you’ve lived here forever, there’s no way to know where they are going… so #1. Must ask direction. However, this remains tricky because Dakar is a constantly changing landscape so there are no real maps since only half the streets have names. And, there are no real “stops”. You have to YELL from your smushed spot, “I get off here”. # 2. Must learn phrase in Wolof. Now do you understand my relief when a couple volunteers offer me a ride?

Bus waiting for at least 10 more people to squeeze in before taking off.

We went to a market covered by a HUGE pavilion, constructed by the French long ago. You can find everything here. Except pork products. This area of Africa is 86% Muslim. I must admit to already be suffering from withdrawals after having adopted the extremely pork-heavy French diet. And dang it, beer, or rather alcohol in general, is super expensive since Muslims don’t drink either.

Alexandra shows me the ropes.

I watched Brice (volunteer who has been here a year and 6 months) buy his fruits and veggies. Each purchase, seller and buyer must negotiate. MUST negotiate. It is part of every day life here. What a pain for a shy person. HA, it takes me going to Africa to turn timid! So, after they finished buying everything, they nudged me along, “Lili, go for it, you just got to jump in!” So, I did… I bought carrots, green beans, potatoes, garlic, onions, tomatoes, clementines, bananas, parsley… each time they gave me a price “oh, that seems too expensive, 600 francs a Kilo???, no, no, 500 francs!, 550 francs, I’ll go broke! Ok fine, fine 550 francs” Or, “Brice, how much did you pay for your carrots? 300 francs? I’ll pay no more than 300 francs. What?, 350 francs? Ahhhh.. ok. ”

Lady selling mangos on the street. I know everyone has already seen a picture of this type, but let me tell you, when people all around are carrying big buckets or bags of rice on their head, including kids, it is VERY impressive. On the right, Brice and Alexandra.

I tagged along for the rest of the volunteers errands… my eyes wide, my mouth hanging open… the energy is electric, colors bright, women with magnificent builds and dressed like Queens, and stuff everywhere.

All the streets are lined with small merchant stands. Whew, they are a bit aggressive as you walk buy. They are very polite but they just don't let up. Alexandra says it's the vicious circle... the more aggressive they are, the less you want to buy, the less you buy, the more aggressive they become.

Afterwards we stopped at a “restaurant”, more like a shack for lunch. Brice pulls out a big serving bowl, goes in and has them fill it with rice and sauce for 3 people. We ate at La Case. So delicious! And this time there was a good bit of meat. Brice had paid the equivalent to 5$ and we had leftovers. Not bad.

The rest of the day I relaxed with Mady’s family outside. I’m trying to pick up on the Wolof but it is really hard. They speak so fast. The sounds are not easy to replicate. But at least I know the essentials… I might butcher it but I think toubabs who at least try are more respected.

Oh funny story. Mady had his friends and family over yesterday… they have visitors hanging out all the time. Well, as I mentioned before, people are soooooo soccer crazy here. Last night, there was an important game in the early evening so all the guys were packed in to Mady’s little one room house intensely watching the match on his small screen. So I decide to retire since no one is outside. I ask Mady if he’ll show me how to work the t.v. in the Case. So he comes in with me… and shows me how to turn on the cable. La Case is only subscribed to 5 channels: movie channel, sports channel, Senegal, Nigeria and Mauritania channel. So, as he is telling me the numbers for the channels he shows me the sports channel, then the movie channel, the sports channel, then the Senegal, the sports channel… you get the idea. He finishes with the sports channel, stops for a couple minute to watch before reluctantly handing me the remote. After he leaves, I get comfy on the couch and flip through the channels several times before finally deciding on watching the crappy movie playing. Not too long after I hear all the men back out in the courtyard area. That’s weird. Well, it wasn’t until way later, when Mady came in saw I wasn’t watching t.v. and turned it back to the sports channel that I finally got it. I felt so bad… The tv in the Case controls what shows on their tv!!! Duh! I apologized profusely to Mady for making all the 12 guys miss their game. I promised him not to change it from the sports channel ever again!

Sundays… ahhhhhh… so relaxing. Today I followed Fahtou around as she prepared rice with a fish sauce for their large family. Mady is the eldest of 5 so brothers, nieces, nephews, cousins and grandchildren come to his place on Sundays. Their kitchen is in a small concrete block across the courtyard. It didn’t seem so hard to prepare… but that’s cuz masters in the kitchen always make it look easy. I was just impressed by how she could easily gage how much of each ingredient was needed in proportion to how many people there were to feed. So, I learned their sauces are made with a base of oil, the juices rendered from fried meat, tomato paste, salt… and then you add your paste that has been mashed in a gigantic version of a mortar and pestle. It could be peanut based, or okra… today it was garlic, onion, pepper, and a couple nut looking things and herbs I’ve never had before. This is mixed in and then the veggies are thrown in until softened a bit. Then, water is added, bouillon cube, it is checked for salt, a couple red HOT peppers and once it’s back boiling a colander type bowl is placed on top to cook the rice. The rice here is thai, small and cracked looking. And voila! Once the rice is cooked, it goes on the platter, sauce with veggies and the meat is added. Mady asked me when am will I make it all by myself. I said I have 4 months here… I need one month of being the assistant.

Fahtou, always smiling!

Ok… I think I’ve given you plenty to read for the day. Thank you for your emails and comments. Even though I’m not really all that far away with modern technology… it still brings me so much joy to hear from you all.

First impressions of Senegal

2006-02-03T21:30:00.001+01:00

My second day in Senegal. Wow. What an experience. The change happened as quickly as I transferred flights in Milan towards Senegal. As soon as we were in the air, the ambiance became that of a pre-party… folks hanging out in the aisles, drinking and talking convivially. I was seated between 2 impeccably dressed young Senegalese men, both doing business in Italy. Dress is very important to most African cultures because it signifies status. I felt it a little overboard though… c’mon leather suits in the tropics? Even on the plane, they were hurtin’!

I arrived at 3am. An AFVP colleague picked me up and we rode across the bumpy dirt roads towards La Case. I really had NO CLUE what to expect so I was pleasantly surprised to find hot water, clean rooms, nice kitchen, courtyard… There is a full-time guardian, Mady who lives in a little studio next door with his wife and child. In the morning they gave me my first lesson in Wolof. Incredibly friendly… nothing like I’ve ever experienced.

Mady

Around lunch time I was invited to eat with them. Everyone takes off their shoes, sits on a mat around a large platter. (Utensils are apparently optional.) Maybe since I’m a toubab (whitey), we were given big spoons to scoop up piles of steamed rice smothered in palm oil, smashed okra, spices, mouton and potato. Very little meat. Most families live on small revenues. Though, this does not stop them from feeding 2 friends that pass by. Food here is to be shared.

Mady's wife Fatou and son Mor

Before heading off to check out the office, (a convenient 2 minute walk from La Case) I set up my stuff in one of the 4 rooms upstairs. I chose the one with the big french doors to get in maximal light. If I’m lucky we’ll find the key so that I can also enjoy the huge balcony. It’s pretty humorous. Every single room in the house, including the kitchen and dining room has a lock and key. Not to mention, there are lockers in the hallway and locks on every single closet and cabinet. Not too sure why this is necessary since the neighborhood is safe, the locks on the front door are good and La Case is closed in by a high white wall. Anyway, I’m very comfortable and am looking forward to decorate the place. Before checking out my new work place I sat and had some tea with Mady and a few of his friends. Though, I didn’t make it through the 3 servings. First is a strong bitter tea, symbolic of death, the second less pungent symbolic of life, the third super sweet symbolic of love. Each brew takes a long time. Two small cups are used to mix the tea by pouring one in to the other from up high. I only got through the first before I had to go. Tastes like dirt, mmmmmmmm.

Friends stop by for tea and talk about the BIG of the big soccer: Senegal vs Guinea, which they won 3 to 2. The ENTIRE city cheered when they made a goal. The intensity in sound was impressive.

Everyone at the office seems nice. Again, extremely approachable, easy grins. Since I got arrived so late in the day, I didn’t spend much time there. Though, it was long enough to get an invitation to share dinner with a colleague and his wife. Once again, same scenario except this time there were 10 people around one platter, I being the only toubab. After a quick rinse in a bowl of water, everyone dug in with their hands. A little strange, yes, but since I’ve ALWAYS been a messy eater it was almost liberating. And the food was quite delicious. I really want to know all the spices she used to jerk the chicken. Yum.

This morning the other volunteers from the AFVP came to the office to welcome me over coffee and pain au chocolat. It was nice to hear about their work and experiences. One volunteer invited me to have lunch at her place… steps away from the ocean.

Hot sun, cool breeze, beautiful view

I can't wait to spend the day lounging by the water. Though I remain a bit nervous, my SUPER pale skin is bound to attract a lot of attention.

SO JEALOUS! Once again, fed to my delight. She and I shared good conversation. It takes a little work to psychological adapt to such a change in environment. She, having arrived 6 months ago was fresh enough to understand exactly what I was experiencing but also been here long enough to have good bit of helpful advice. I feel like a child. I must relearn everything. Nothing is “evident”. Luckily, the folks here are so, so friendly that it is no problem. But one thing is for sure, for a gal who has always been confident (at times to my own detriment) this really shakes things up. When going to the store to buy water alone seems daunting, one quickly feels fragile! But, Alexandra assures me I’ll get through it. Just need a little time to get used to things.

Right now, I’m at La Case. I decided to be tough and go to a little “suprette” and buy what I need for dinner tonight and breakfast tomorrow. Whew, Western products aren’t cheap. I’ve got to learn how to cook Senegalese food!

We live right next to a mosque. Mosques are everywhere. Man, is the call to prayer LOUD. They have huge speakers that echo on all the concrete buildings and walls and they repeat the same two phrases over and over for lets see… how long has it been now? Too long. Whew, they stopped. Now comes the sermon.

There was lots of photos I wanted to take today to share with all, but I’m still too timid to pull out the ol’ camera. Already, I attract too much attention for my comfort level. Plus, folks here are extremely superstitious. Some believe bad things will come upon them if they are captured in a picture.

That’s all for now. I’m going to go back out and see if I can post this at a cyber café.

Christmas in Ireland... very late!

2006-01-18T18:46:00.000+01:00

I'm quite ashamed of myself for not posting sooner. "Diz iz nut possible!" as the French would say! The last month + has been pleasantly jam packed. Particularly the last two weeks with my very special visitor in town. So, let me back-track a little and first off post the Christmas blog (with lots of pictures) for my lovingly nagging family and then I'll get to some more serious issues (with lots of text that they like to skip over!). My time at l'AFVP, French Association of Volunteers for Progess, has been enriching so far but in a much different way than at l'ASSFAM. I'm looking forward to sharing some reflections with those interested readers.

HOLIDAYS WITH THE MCNALLY FAMILY

I must admit, I was close to in ecstasy upon debarking the plane and hearing english voices. It was almost as if I could feel my brain instantly decontract. And as I waited for my sister in the airport (always late, that girl!), I found myself unconsciously seeking out the color green. I laughed once I realized what I was doing. How silly… as if leprechauns would start popping out at any moment.

Sarah lives in Dublin with a handsome Irish lad named Daire. They have been dating for a good while now and I was so pleased to be invited to spend the holidays with his family. I met them once before in Chicago when we all went sailing out on lake Michigan and watched fireworks just yards from the barge. Lovely people.

The first day I arrived I got to check out their town. Dublin seems like a fun place. Lots of young people, pubs, street entertainment, parks and charming Trinity college. It was all the more festive with the cheery holiday decorations and sounds.

DUBLIN

I was completely entranced by how this puppet master made his stringed figurine come to life... as was the little boy just one head taller.

SKERRIES

The next day, after stopping off at Grandpa’s place for a good laugh and a hot cup o’ tea, we went to the family home in Skerries. I can’t explain nor can I capture in pictures the warmth and beauty of this small town hugging the craggily rocks of the sea. I quickly understood why I felt such calm and sweetness exuding from Daire… it reflects perfectly the spirit of his home town. Kindness and sincerity are the rule rather than the exception, whether you are a long time inhabitant or a mere passer-by. I was also fascinated by the social structure… there are no boundaries between ages or gender. Everyone is welcome to share a pint and lots of laughs at the local pub.

The house is a perfect retreat… set back from the road, huge fields of grass, warm fireplace… singing, instrumentals coming from different rooms, delicious smells pouring out of the kitchen, and always, always a pot of tea ready to be shared.

JOYEUX NOEL

Christmas was as special as any of past… Sarah and I were treated to a full stocking, an amazing Christmas dinner and an unreasonable amount of chocolate.

CHRISTMAS DINNER

JUST GORGEOUS...

I’d have to say my favorite memory of Skerries are the long ballads along the coast. The bright green grass contrasted with an eerie gray, fog covered horizon is as enchanting and inspiring as it is mystical and mysterious.

The boat culture is deeply embedded in this old fishing town. Daire’s father is an avid sailor… even does competitions. The McNalllys all enjoy being out on the ocean. It requires a lot of teamwork, but this family does it with ease and grace. The harbor is full of boats of all shapes and sizes… making for a colorful landscape... or rather, waterscape.

Yes, I'll never forget my Irish Christmas... And I'm holding Brian (papa McNally) to his offer of teachin me how to sail if ever I get around to making another visit! (I hope so!) Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your kind welcome. And now, a few more pictures to share :-)

gorsh, how sweet.

3 ducks

the stinky dock... would you two cut it out with all the smoochie-smoochie!

For Sarah, its treedeeetion

U.S. NGOs versus French Associations

2005-12-08T20:02:00.001+01:00

Recently, I was asked about the difficulty of finding information about NGOs in France by a student in the States. In preparing my answer for her, I realized that the answer is kind of complicated but very interesting nonetheless... so, I decided to share it with all.

In France, organizations involved in humanitarian work rarely fall in to the category of NGO. Actually, most all of them lie in the grey area in between government-sponsored and private. France, a social State, upholds a system of solidarity. This means State monies (coming from taxation mostly on families and businesses) are set aside specifically to help those in need.

The government has also gone through a process of decentralization so that these government funds are accessible at all levels… regional, departmental and municipal. Therefore, each community can see what their specific needs are and finance projects/missions in those areas. By in large, it is associations who apply for these funds by presenting their service (offre de service) to either the mayor or a general council. There are associations that operate nationally such as l’ASSFAM, whose basic mission is to anticipate problems specific to new immigrants and take proactive measures to help resolve them (individually and collectively). Offices are located in several departments in France but are linked to the central headquarters in Paris. There are associations who operate internationally, such as l’AFVP who recruits volunteers in universities and technical institutions to participate in development projects all over the world. And there are a MULTITUDE of associations acting independently on the local level, people of a neighborhood joining together for a common goal. Associations can be religious in nature, sportive, cultural, charitable, political, etc. There are quite a few associations considered “militant”, meaning they actively fight for a specific cause: women's rights, immigrant's rights, etc. Associative life in France is the backbone of their system of solidarity, their belief that everyone should share in the responsibility of caring for the disadvantaged (poor, handicapped, elderly, minorities) and defending individuals’ rights.

Since most of the associations funds come from government aid, usually in the form of contracts renewed yearly, some of their autonomy is taken away. For example, l’ASSFAM had to completely reframe their mission in their 2006 proposal because of the political current of toughening up on immigration policy. However, a positive to this close tie with elected officials (in all levels of government) is that it makes it necessary for an association’s projects to stay transparent. This then lends to efficiency and accountability. It also allows for great collaboration amongst organizations and people of the community. L’ASSFAM has a whole list of partnerships they’ve developed within their individual localities to help accomplish their goals. This visibility and coordination makes it much easier to effectively tackle problems.

Now, coming back to the American conception of NGOs. Basically, in the US, where a capitalistic, privatized system rules the day, NGOs take the place of government supported structures to fill socio-economic gaps. Some NGOs and/or our famous 501(c)s get government subsidies but to a much greater extent, they exist due to the financial contributions coming from private sources. The most important donors are usually foundations (Gates, Guggenheim, Heinz, Ford foundation). Yes, it is often times excessively rich companies and individuals who decide who gets the money and thereby what humanitarian efforts are worthy of support. That is why, in the States, grant writing has become an extremely important profession. As is tradition in the good ol’ US of A, the procedure is very competitive and often times political. NGO’s needing sponsorship must learn how to sell themselves, to network, and to present their service as a product.

On the one hand, this probably raises standards globally. Organization must really make the case that their cause is important and that they are capable of making changes. Also, since sums come from the private sector (and not directly tied to public demands), there is less constraints on a NGOs activities. This probably encourages people to get involved in humanitarian work. But on the other hand, foundations act as separate entities, giving their support to who they will, and thereby fragment efforts. And, unfortunately, small players, those with the closest ties to local communities don’t make it in the running. To secure funding is to have influence. All these negatives are why in a country as wealthy as the US, we have an astonishingly high rate of poverty, illiteracy, troubled teens, gangs, etc. Communities that most need resources have no outlet. In France, financing of associations is adapted specifically to each communities needs. Granted, France has its share of problems, but considering the very high employment rate and the huge immigrant population, they make out o.k. In my master’s thesis I am going to try to show (I only have statistics proving it for a couple city’s right now) that banlieus with greater presence of associations correlated with less violence during the recent rioting.

Voila for now… Please, I encourage your feedback… any and all comments are welcome.

Afterthought: Private sectors contributing to NGOs are often times tax write-offs so it would appear that in the end the US government largely finances the aid sector like in France... So the only big difference is, in the US those who have capital choose who will get the monies, in France elected officials in each community have a budget for financial aid and can distribute it according to need. hhhmmmmm.....

Lyon

2005-12-06T21:22:00.000+01:00

In order to give me a moment to process my thoughts and look over my notes before writing an entry on immigration and work at l'ASSFAM, I'm going to (buy a little time and) go back a few weeks and present to you the lovely city of Lyon... Hope you enjoy...

As promised, finally a blog on Lyon, Yann's hometown. I hadn't heard much about the city before going, so I wasn’t too sure what to expect. I was very pleasantly surprised. It resembles Paris in that it has a vibrant restaurant scene, lots of great shopping, a lovely river (actually two) crossing through it (keeping me perpetually confused, unable to figure out which was which).

However, Lyon is smaller, much cleaner and a stone's throw from the beautiful countryside. Some of its most distinguishable features are the provincial style rose/reddish roofs covering the whole of the city and the hillyness creating a layering affect, giving the town depth and contrast. Both can be appreciated going up towards Croix Rousse, where you will stumble upon super old Roman ruins and eventually reach a (not so old) immense white Baroque-stlye Basilica, Notre Dame de Fourvière.

Yann, and surely many other Lyon residents, thinks this big white domed-block on the top of the hill is distasteful and ridiculous. It absolutely perturbs him that they would dare build a church as late as the 18th century in such a style... there is no baroque influence in Lyon! Nonetheless, though my Lyonnais friend will never admit it, the originality of the church alone makes it quite impressive and the mosaics adorning the interior's walls are sublime.

So, for Yann, I will also mention the ol' "respectable" gothic-style cathedral (Saint-Jean) found down below which houses one of the oldest clocks in the world (13th or 14 century). It operates based on an astronomical calendar, functioning with most of its original parts.

In the old section of Lyon, the cobble streets and medieval style buildings are in pristine condition. Even though a great deal of commerce is geared towards tourists, it still holds a lot of charm. One neat feature about the town is that there are a lot of hidden passage ways that cut vertically through the stone-lined streets. Apparently, back in the day this made transporting weaving materials and goods through the town much easier. For a long period, Lyon's wealth came from its textile production.

Lyon is also known for its excellent cuisine. Yann said we'd eat well and he did not let me down. We had a very nice meal in one of Lyon's traditional-style restaurants called "bouchons".

But, more important than appreciating Lyon's loveliness was getting to meet and spend some time with Yann's parents in their home. The house is welcoming... spacious and comfortable with a lovely garden in the back. His parents are fortunate... their professions (both doctors), 3 beautiful children and life-styles afford them a really superb quality of life. While enjoying good food and fantastic wines over dinner and sipping tea in their cozy den, I had the opportunity to hear about the family’s adventures and travels. Conversations were always lively with Yann's father, who loves to talk... the man seems to know something about everything. Now I now where Yann gets it from! Yann's mother is very sweet... she is an excellent example of a woman who manages to balance her career and caring for her family. And, I really enjoyed testing out her new oven that uses induction to heat. Somehow it only warms metal so even when on high you can still touch the burner with your hand. Way cool.

Our last day, we shared what Yann calls a typical Sunday... a rather large lunch and a fun family excursion. Ahhh, how relaxing... wake up late, eat a nice meal together, drink a strong coffee before heading out to the countryside for a brisk hike. Lyon is right near wine country. Yann's dad took us up and down windy roads (at race car speed, eeeeekkk!) to a spot with a few different trails and lots of great views. In this semi-mountainous region you can find pre-historic fossils of mollusks from when the area was submerged by sea water. We gathered up quite a few during our walk. Though my search was not as fruitful as Barbara's magnificent find, I found inspiration in a bright orange snail shell I collected from the wood's damp floor. Our mushroom hunt was much less successful, all three of us came up empty handed.

All in all, a very nice trip... a peaceful place to think and a welcome change in scenery during the 11 days of banlieu rioting.

Immigration policy... pre-reflection

2005-12-05T03:23:00.000+01:00

REFLECTIONS - immigration in the metropole

Hard to believe, I only have one week left at l’ASSFAM. I’m quite sad. The relationships I’ve formed with my chères colleagues these last 3 months are so dear to me. I’ve learned a great deal from them. I also got a real peek in to the hidden demographic of Paris… struggling peoples coming from all over the world, making huge sacrifices to come to France and then trying to legitimize their abysmal existence.

I’ve decided to reflect upon my activities, the things I saw, the stories I heard in the form of a short paper. This is why I’m starting with an explanation of the cases we deal with concerning French immigration legislation. Afterwards, I’ll more easily be able to explain the specificities of situations we encountered. First important fact,

FRANCE CLOSED ITS BORDERS IN 1974, OFFICIALLY ENDING IMMIGRATION. Since, non-French persons are only allowed to come and live in France if they meet very specific criteria. The most common procedure is family reunification.

CASE: LEGALIZATION OF SANS PAPIERS

Everyday we field dozens of phone calls and have appointments with people asking for help with a myriad of problems. Many want to know exactly what they need to do to get legal status. In a lot of instances, people are sent to us by someone who knows they have a chance of getting papers, but only if their request is filed with impeccable credentials. There are but a few ways in, and the conditions are strict. For example, if an immigrant is asking for a residence permit under the pretext of medical necessity, he must justify that his illness is severe enough that he needs regular check-ups and that medical care in his home country is not suitable to treat him. In order for him to have a chance, he needs a medical certificate signed from a doctor working in the government sector dealing with immigrants to validate his situation.

Another example, a young Hatian woman has a baby with another Haitian “sans papier”. They have been living in France clandestinely for 6 years. A recent French law allows for the possibility of a residence permit if you can prove 5 years of stable, communal family life. The only way the request will be taken seriously is if all the documents proving presence on French territory are very official. You have to have at least 2 proofs a year (one for the first and second part of the year). If you are not part of a family but have been present on the French territory for 10 or more straight years, and can prove it well, you can also file a request for papers. These are just the base conditions for a very long, complicated procedure that must be executed with the utmost care. In short, it is very, very difficult to get a positive decision from the Prefecture (administrative body ruling over decision to give resident permits). A large percent of the cases we deal with at L’ASSFAM are appeals made after an immigrant received a refusal or was given expulsion papers.

There are a couple other special cases we often confront. First, there are those immigrants trying to get refugee status. This requires them to prove the argument that their life is in danger in their home country usually due to their political position. Second, immigrants who can show their baby has a French parent (either mother or father), making the child necessarily French, automatically fall under the category of ‘parent of a French child’. Parents of French children are systematically given permission to live in France. This is probably the most exploited of all the conditions which allow one legal status. Great numbers of women from sub-Saharan Africa, especially Cote-D’Ivoire, come to France with a tourist Visa, get pregnant and after the baby is born find a French man to claim the child as his. The law requires only a signed acknowledgement the child is yours. She can then begin the process of legalization and after, tap in to the social system which will allocate to her a nice monthly sum. But, it isn’t all that simple. Women must put themselves in compromising situations in order to first get pregnant and then bribe a French person to claim the baby, even in cases when it is really his. Of course, it doesn't always work this way, but I must say I was astonished by the number of women who had a French baby, the father nowhere to be found.

Those who have the greatest chance of receiving permission to live in France are those who do it through the Regroupement Familiale (family reunification) procedure. If an immigrant has had a residence permit for at least 2 years and meets other specific requirements, they can request their children (under 18) and/or spouse to join them in France. Lodging must be large enough to house the newcomers comfortably and they must make a minimal monthly salary of approx. $11,000. French Nationals can of course marry a foreigner and their spouse will receive a green card. French nationals can also request to have their non-French parents join them in France.

In the mix of a lot of legislative counsel, we piece together the diverse migratory stories of the many people that pass by our small office. Days I sit in for 4-6 appointments fill my heart with heavy emotion. Life as an immigrant can be tough, life as a “sanspapier” is much tougher. I have a thick notebook full of all the different situations I’ve encountered while at l’ASSFAM.

In an upcoming blog, I will share some of these stories with you. I’ll also bring up questions they made me ask myself… for example, why the heck do people come to France, especially Paris, if life is so difficult? No housing. No jobs. No money. Overcrowded schools. Run-down public spaces. Is France really pictured as an “El Dorado” in the mind of millions of people to its south and east? Is there such a thing as an over-saturation of immigrants causing a society to fall in to disequilibrium? What are the most durable and efficient ways to reduce the level of social malaise plaguing immigrant-ethnic dense communities? My attempt to tackle these questions (and more) in blogs to come… hopefully in the not so distant future!

Multicultural Streets of Paris...

2005-11-21T15:36:00.000+01:00

BOULEVARD BELLEVILLE

After long a due, I will take you on a tour of less visited areas in Paris... to the heart of a few multicultural districts. The avenue I live on parallels Boulevard Belleville, one of the principal "ethnic" veins of the city. Here you will find Moroccan tea salons, Tunisian dining, Algerian pastry shop, small storage-type stores selling every herb, spice and grain of the Orient. You'll also pass by a small strip of of Jewish merchants, clearly distinguishable by the Star of David on their signs. You'll spot many groups of old men, arms crossed, holding what "appears" to be serious discussions.

On Tuesdays and Fridays this colorful, vibrant street is home to one of Paris' largest markets. It is nothing like the Saturday market in the 17th arrondissement. There are no rules, no codes. However, there is some variant of order in what first appears to be mad chaos; men shouting over one another driving their fruits and veggies down nickels and dimes throughout the day, loads of heavy set old ladies shoving their way through the crowds.

The nose is overwhelmed by the melding of strong odors from bodies, tobacco and streams of hot exotic foods. The ears stress to decipher who is actually speaking french and who is speaking in a foreign tongue. African women travel together with packs of children, either comfortably tied to their back or dashing around nearby.

ASIAN DISTRICT

Going up the boulevard, eventually you cross a street and are magically transported in to Asia. One street separates a sea of Arabic and African faces from a densely Asian populace. One beautiful Sunday, I spent several hours discovering the area. I can't help but to be very curious about these people and their culture. For one thing, I have so little exposure to them. I work in an office that offers aid to immigrants but we never see any Asian folk. I asked my boss lady about this because it makes no sense when you consider the large communities residing in and around Paris. She explained that first and foremost, there is a deeply embedded distrust for all that is State institution. For many, especially the Chinese, generations experiencing only persecution and corruption by their governments have taught them to depend only on themselves for whatever their needs might be. This also translates in to a genuine fear... apparently many would rather pay a person in the community designated to handle all administrative dealings, than inform themselves and take advantage of the vast social aids France offers.

But where do they all come from? How come we never see them pass through the immigration office? There are huge numbers of Asian "sans papiers" but they are a lot harder to catch or expulse because they remain below the radar. They do not disturb the system. They are extremely communitarian and very self-sufficient.

One of my boss lady's goals is to help this community realize all the goods and services available to them, many of them free of charge. We are working on creating a guide for immigrant dense communities that would break down all the associations and organizations, what they do and why. We are also trying to find ways to encourage exchanges so that these people don't suffer needlessly in their alienation.

RAMADAN

Ramadan in these predominantly Muslim neighborhoods is a huge event. I took a small detour almost every day after work to walk the streets during the festive hours just before sunset. Lots of people set up tables along the side walk selling home-made breads, butter, olives and pastries. Dried figs are sold on every corner.

There is also an abundance of beggars... mothers and children, old ladies and men taking advantage of this holy month for alms giving, one of the 5 pillars of the Muslim faith.

CRETEIL

Working with l'ASSFAM, I travel in many of the banlieus to attend workshops. They are aimed at helping new immigrants understand how France operates; social aid, the school system, how to find housing or a job, taxes, public transportation, healthcare, etc.

Unfortunately, whereas in the past workshops were taught over the course of several months, allowing educators to go in depth on different themes (by incorporating field trips and special guests such as school administrators, representatives from the power company, etc.) the government now wants all the classes to be uniform and all the info crammed in to one day. I've sat in on about 5, serving as a translator in 3. Since the workshop is based on voluntary participation, most people attending are pretty positive about being in France. A large portion are there primarily for information on how to find work. Unfortunately, there isn't too much we can do for them other than make them think realistically about what they are qualified to do and what types of opportunities exist. But regardless, the class is helpful... I'm sure some immigrants leave knowing more about how the different french institutions works than many citizens.

Questions

Southern Bretagne

2005-11-15T00:31:00.000+01:00

Weekend in Barbara's Terre Natale
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Last weekend I spent 3 1/2 days in Babara's hometown, beautiful Croisic. I already know that my short vacation with her family, walking along the coastline, eating delicious regional foods (mussels marinieres and crepes .....mmmm) will be amongst my most memorable.

Coast line by Babara's house. Picture taken by Yann Ranchere.

Barbara's mom has a full house, 3 super adorable Yorkshire terriers and a parrot from Gabon. Meet Lilu and Lala. Lilu is the sweetest pup ever. She just loves to hang and cuddle. And Lala is quite amusing. It's amazing how accurately she can imitate the dogs barking and then Bab's mom telling them to shut it. I had such a nice time in their cozy home. We even roasted marshmallows in the fireplace!

Charming Croisic

The small town of Croisic is centered around fishing. As you walk along the small port you come across young and old with pole in hand, motley fishing boats, old nets and chains laden with years of rust, crab traps... cool salt air and bright colors are accentuated by the solid grays and blues meeting along the horizon.

Barabara's stepfather comes from a family of fishermen. One of there old boats sits in the harbor. During months at a time, he is off the coast of Africa filling the boat with tuna.

He brings back lots of gifts from local markets. The house is full of wooden statuates, shells, paintings, colorful prints... quite lovely.

Babara's sweet mom gave me an ESQUISITE shell from her collection. It's from the islands of Seychelles... all in pearl. Unbelievably beautiful.

Barbara explained that though she loves her small city by the sea, there are drawbacks living in such a small community. With only 4,000 residents during off seasons, news travels quickly. It's hard not to run in to people you know. While walking along the jetty towards the lighthouse, Barbara ran in to her old prinicpal, also the father of her friend.

La Côte Sauvage

(The Unruly Coast)

Climbing the ragged coastline, discovering seashell species altogether different from my native Florida beaches was a real thrill. I could have spent endless hours kneeled down, examining the unique varieties and conglomeration of colors and textures.

Yann and I also made good use of our walks for extensive photo sessions. It was impossible to stop shooting. Unfortunately, they do not capture the intensity of the cold chill, heavy clouds and wrestless waters.

La Baule

Nearby Baule is a swanky little town with lots of boutiques along one main stip. The street runs in to the beautiful beaches of Baule... a relatively wide coastline of speckled sand, prefect for a tourist retreat. We were graced after our hour of shopping with a stunning sunset.

Favorite pass times: shell hunting, picture taking

Cool blue... serene skies

A Perfect Sunday

Our last day in Bretagne was very special. The morning greeted us with beautiful blue, sunny skies. Yann and I decided to take advantage of the gorgeous weather for crab hunting! Well, rather, Yann searched for crabs while I looked for shell treasure. Meanwhile, Babs was in the kitchen making a declicious apple crisp to bring over to the family brunch. Grandpa, aunts, uncle, cousins and pets were all united to share in a huge meal of raclette. This involves lots of charcuterie and potatoes with slices of cheese (raclette) that you put on individual mini pans and place on a warmer. Once it starts to bubble you ooze it all over the meat and potatoes. Yummy and very convivial. After the meal was over I felt my chest tighten... I wondered why was I all the sudden struck with sadness. It was not until we got in the car to leave that I realized being around Babara's family, so friendly and happy made my heart ache for mine.

Valentin

One last walk on the beach... On the other side of the house in the picture above, there is a very pretty small sandy beach called Valentin. We took a long, brisk walk to try to work off a bit of the mid-day feast before the 4 hr car ride home.

Much Thanks Babs and Yann...

I feel priviledged to have visited your home towns, met your families, shared in your life's joy. Sweet thought of these trips, your kindness, will remain with me always.

PICTURES AND BLOG ENTRY OF YANN'S LYON TO COME!!!

Banlieu Paradox

2005-11-09T21:59:00.000+01:00

HLM in Seine-St.Denis where my ASSFAM office is located

In thinking about the recent events, I've been struck by what I call the Banlieu Paradox. In the rough and tough banlieus exist two worlds; those who are ready to fight in contest of their miserable living conditions, others making huge sacrifices, sometimes risking their lives just to get in.

Banlieus are found on the outskirts of a great number of french cities. They usually contain a few nice communities but are mostly composed of cités. Cités are conglomerations of about 5-8 tall, austere concrete block buildings subdivided into as many apartments as will fit. My boss lady took me and the other intern on a car tour yesterday to check out the neighboring cités… we quickly realized our building (seen above) is quite nice compared to the others. We came across street after street of depressing, massive, institution-like complexes. The cités have extremely dense populations crammed in to a small space… huge amounts of human energy with no outlet for diffusion. In the banlieus, there are too few jobs, very few centers for activity… just a sad looking gymnasium here and there.

Take for example, a cité called "les 4,000". Imagine a street the length of a block, with large towers composed of 4,000 apartments, each housing an average of 3-4 people. Now imagine on your suburban street, those of you who get mad at the guy down the street for things like leaving trash out (or vice-versa), having 12,000 neighbors!

These buildings, called HLMs, are provided by the government. France, being a State of “solidarity” – meaning those who have more help those who have very little, construct HLMs in order provide cheap housing for those with small incomes. Unfortunately, they are often built cut-rate, too quickly, with little planning in terms of integrating them in to a viable community. No commerce, few parcs, etc. Poorly designed housing goes back before the 30s when large influxes of immigrant arrived in France. They were encouraged (or forced in the case of many Algeriens) by French officials to come and fill low-wage industrial jobs. These immigrants were always considered temporary employees and therefore the government never bothered to make available adequate lodging. But as years passed, families settled permanently. It is in large part the children and grandchildren of these earlier generations that today are out on the streets vindicating the miserable condition of their communities.

However, the government has put forth great efforts in the last 10 years to rehabilitate these areas. The most dilapidated of towers were demolished, replaced with smaller, more convivial complexes. Extra funds were given to schools in “priority zones” to incite more teachers to come to rough areas and also so schools would be just as equipped as those in richer communities. But, these efforts have done nothing to tackle one of the biggest problems, an extremely high rate of unemployment (40%). It most clearly shows the huge socio-economnic gap between the immigrant dense banlieus and the rest of French socity. And understandably, it leaves a great number of people frustrated and undervalued. That is why Prime Minister Villepin, when he was on the national news the other night, added in his pack of goodies (meant to calm rioters) tax breaks for companies agreeing to build and hire people in these struggling communties. It has been done in the past and with relatively good results.

Now, there is also a huge population of sans papiers, immigrants residing illegally in France. No one really knows how many there are. But, from my experience at work, where we have people knocking at our door every day asking us for help getting them legalized and from the huge sans papiers street protests, I gather there are a large number. They all tell us how horrible it is to have to live in the shadows, always fearing being forced back in to their country. As said before, many arrive because of extreme hardship in their homelands… civil wars, lack of medicine or food, etc. But MANY, come with the false illusion that France is paradise, the land of opportunity. A taxi driver from the Congo explained to me, “you see, they leave with these false ideas, they tell their loved ones they will go and get a good job, make a better life for themselves and their families. Then, they arrive and life is hard, very hard. But, they don’t want to admit it to their families. You see, it is less hard to stay and struggle than to shatter the image, the hope, their loved ones hold back home. Returning to their country would be seen as a defeat."

So for whaterver reason they come to France, often times leaving all their friends and family behind and then struggle for the most basic needs. It is extremely difficult to find shelter. It is not easy to get someone to agree to lodge them. Legal immigrants found housing sans papiers risk expulsion, French citizens risk heavy fines. And though there is a substantial amount of under-the-table jobs such as working in an illegal textile plant, selling vegetables at the market, working construction jobs, they are never stable in pay nor permanent. And since their precarious situation is known, they are easily exploitable. So you see, for the many sans papiers of the banlieus, having their own little space in one of these towers with cheap rent, the right to look for a real employment, the ability to benefit from the enormous financial aid packages the government doles out is the dream. Quick note; for those immigrants that we can help get legalized, they still must face the current 6-7 year waiting list for a spot in an HLM! There is a HUGE housing crisis in France.

You see, it is very difficult to hold a stance when there are so many sides to juggle… the government who has done tremendous work to try to rectify social ills but unable to meet the roots of the problems, the young kids acting out of rage and frustration for their alienation and discrimination and finally the poor individuals who have absolutely no voice and no rights, just struggling to survive.

BANLIEUS IN FLAMES -Part 2

2005-11-08T23:51:00.000+01:00

Over the course of past 12 last nights of violence, reporters have gotten closer and closer to hearing the thoughts of the young men responsible for so much destruction. Yesterday, there was a several page spread in the French paper, Le Monde. A reporter followed a group of 10 young guys (ages 17-25) through the night as they put cars and trashcans on fire. Why were they destroying their own schools and public spaces? Because to them it is all worthless, a symbol of the community’s failure. Declaring, “we are ready to sacrifice everything, because we have nothing”. All 10 of the guys finished school, yet not one could find a job. One calls out, “I sent out 100 resumes, I got 3 callbacks and still ended up with nothing”. “Listen” another says, “we aren’t doing this because we want to, it is because we feel we have to. No words can express our frustration, our rage.” Another explains, “yeah, I even put my buddy’s car to flames”. The buddy steps to the front, replies “yeah I was pissed, but I understood”. He then pulls out his cell phone to show the reporter a picture of his own doing, a police car burnt to smithereens. “When we throw the Molotov cocktails in to the window of these cars, it is our cry for help” says another. “Fire is our voice, symbol of our rage. You can only pin a dog to the wall so long before he becomes aggressive, we are not dogs, but we are animals”.

Another article features a group of young girls, all sisters of young rioters, who say their brothers are chameleons. “They are so respectful and sweet at home, then they go out on the streets and terrorize”, says one. Another adds, “my brother would never do this kind of thing if he was acting alone. There’s a lot of pressure from les grand-frères. (“big brothers” or gangs of the banlieus). It becomes a pride thing… if they don’t do it, they are called chicken. Even girls provoke them. They all nod with approval when one of the girls comments, “and things got a lot hotter when Sark (nickname given to the Interior Minister) addressed them all as racailles (thugs). The French politician’s insensitive and war-like talk is believed to have spurred many more rioters to action all over France. These so called “thugs” are mostly minors, even as young as 10 or 12 years old.

People of the community are understandably disturbed, but refuse to just sit around and endure the destruction. Many have signed up as volunteers to patrol schools, gymnasiums and commercial centers. “We are not the police, but we can’t just stand by and watch our children’s schools go up in flames” says one with fire extinguisher in hand. “Where are these kids parents?” screams another.

One parent makes a poignant comment. “Our Arab dense communities are often stigmatized as Islamists, our young men as potential terrorists. But the guys committing these acts are not doing it in the name of religion. They are like their other French compatriots; they just want to be consumers. They want to make some cash so they can buy all the stuff they see on t.v. Their poverty is accentuated by the inability to access the lifestyles constantly thrown in their face.

There is something positive in all of this… as one statesman remarks “it’s unprecedented, for the first time, the message of misery in the banlieu has been heard”. In fact, the Prime Minster went on the national news yesterday and told the public the State has decided to consecrate 5 billion euros to rehabilitate the banlieus and to reinstate all funding to local associations. With government assistance progressively cut over the last 2 years, many programs had ceased to exist. This is excellent news for my association because we too were on the list of organizations with unsure futures. The Prime Minister acknowledged the very important role youth centers, social workers, mediators have in these communities as the go between for inhabitants and elected officials.

And to finish with one more positive thought… I was also happy to hear a number of guys have gone on the streets to dissuade their angry co-residents from using violence, advocating them instead to get involved in their communities, use their voice through their vote.

BANLIEUS IN FLAMES

2005-11-04T13:24:00.000+01:00

For all those of you following the news about riots in Paris and wondering how this is affecting me, my answer is: I’m safe and in no danger… however, it is nonetheless troubling. My mind is having difficulty grasping it all. Not long ago in the “Amendment Matters” entry, I wrote that the violence isn’t at bad as some think; the conception of the problem is over-inflated, “one car is set on fire and it creates a sensationalist nightmare”. With 1,275 cars set on fire just last night and the continuation of fires in several commercial centers and public buildings, there is no denying a real crisis.

To be clear, though these events are in reaction to the two young men electrocuted while hiding from police near a power transformer, there are much deeper problems driving the explosive and continued response. I've touched on many of these issues on my website. The violence and destruction are acts of protest specifically targeted towards the French institutions. They are angry with their government; its failed attempts to rectify the degradation, poverty and discrimination their communities face. The frustration has been building for a long time. 30% of the youths in the banlieus are unemployed compared to the 10% national average. The old adage, “trouble springs from idleness” in this situation, proves a miserable truth. I really can not predict what will happen next. It seems each night, new communities are getting involved. Putting cars aflame is most popular… these night fires, spectacular and morose represent a forceful voice, an inescapable message to the deaf ears of past.

I don’t think the French government knows what to do. First of all, with elections drawing near, all interested parties have reacted slowly and with caution. No one wanted to take a bold or controversial step, potentially jeopardizing their platform. Also, there are so many impoverished, highly ethnic suburbs that I believe they are afraid for what could happen next. It is hard to believe how this whole thing has been allowed to escalate. The people committing these acts constitute, relatively, a very small number… we are talking a few hundred people here and there in densely populated communities (of tens of thousands). It is baffling that the police can’t get it under control. This, in a country which regularly prepares itself for mass protests of hundreds of thousands of people!!! No disrespect but, from the video footage I’ve seen, I don’t think the police have any clue how to handle it.

Lastly, these events do hit very close to home. I work in Seine-Saint-Denis, where everything erupted. I know these neighborhoods well. No need to worry though, I am in no danger. By and large, the attacks are against the French institutions; post offices, commercial sites, public busses, metros. To date, there have been no fatalities. It is all very sad to me. Again, I don’t even know what to think. One of the most difficult problems the immigrants of the banlieus face is stigmatization and discrimination. Now, it is all the worse… leaving these communities, these struggling families, with the destruction, both physical and psychological, left behind.

Ode to ma chère Barbara and her sweetheart Yann…

2005-10-27T01:52:00.000+02:00

It was the beginning of my first semester at Madison, the moment where the students in my program were to meet their French tutor. What a treat, a personal tutor coming from one of Paris’ top commerce schools by our side for the entire semester. Barbara had my heart within minutes… offering me salted caramels from her region and a French fashion magazine. But, my admiration lay deeper than my tummy’s appreciation for her goodies. I was impressed by her knowledge of several subjects in my field of interest, her objectivity and open mind. But one thing shines above all the rest, her sincerity. She is a real peach… genuine and kind. I’ve showered her with compliments from the start and she never got any better at accepting them. I think this is in part, a French thing. If someone praises you, you down play it as much as possible, or just completely ignore it. Even now, Barbara will read this and feel a little uncomfortable… "ah shucks, Lili, you are exaggerating!" But no, not at all. It is my pleasure to provide a multide of proofs.

During Barbara’s semester abroad she had a lot more work than she was used to. On top of that, she was doing correspondence work for her internship based in Paris. Even with her very full schedule she made our weekly meeting a priority. She was a devoted teacher and helped catch even my most subtle errors. In the beginning, I must admit, I was intimidated. She was always on point… prepared and ready to go, with an answer for everything. If she didn’t know right away, by the evening I’d have an email in my box with the pertinent grammar rule and an explanation. When I was tired or a little lazy and repeatedly made the same mistake, she would get concerned. It still makes me laugh… so adorable, “Ah Liliane, oh no, I’m not a good tutor”. But on the contrary, it was the pupil who wasn’t rising to the occasion.

On top of everything else, she would always come through in a pinch. I had several papers to write over the course of the semester in french on some heavy topics. All together, I wrote probably 7 papers… at least 80 pages in all. A mix of procrastination and a super busy schedule resulted in many stressful late nights of racing the clock to finish my work on time. Babs never let me down. I could always send my work to her for one last revision before handing it to the professor. I have never felt so good about my work.

We shared her first “real” Halloween. My room mates and I threw a huge costume party at our pad. She also came over with her boyfriend Yann for Thanksgiving. They were completely dumbfounded by the amount of food… granted, it was a lot… hee hee, the sous-chef and I wanted to do it up right. 15 large dishes for 5 people… but it was the best Thanksgiving meal I’ve ever had! In France, turkeys are not common and I’m not sure that the big ones even exist. Yann was super cute repeating “That’s just the biggest chicken I’ve ever seen!”

Obviously, I was very sad when Barbara left. I remember driving her home on her last night in Madison. Their was a beautiful downpour of snow but it was making it hard to see, especially with eyes all teared up. But, we kept tabs on one another as I finished my year and got ready to leave for France. Once again, Barbara came through… she put me in contact with people looking for sub-leasers. I ended up with such an awesome deal… I LOVE my apartment and my sweet room mate, Fanny.

Since I’ve been in Paris, Barbara and Yann have completely taken me under their wing. In a foreign land, they are the closest thing I have to family. They invite me over for dinner on a regular basis. They include me on almost all their outings. They introduce me to interesting, cool new people. Gosh, I feel so lucky.

And, Baraba is a lucky lady, Yann is fabulous. He and I share 2 of my biggest passions; photography and food. He is an excellent photographer, he definitely has the eye. Eventually some of his shots will be on my blog. And he is a terrific cook. Even when Barbara was in Peru for 3 weeks, Yann made sure to keep in touch, check up on me… he invited me to the school bar for brewskies and pool, we made gourmet dinners together. Lot’s of fun.

I hope to keep these 2 precious people in my life… I’m excited for the rest of my time here with them. It will be great when my honey is here and we can do geeky couple stuff. And, they have each invited me to visit their home towns and to meet the family. Wow, what a privilege… so you can expect to see a blog on Bretagne and Lyon.

Merci Babara, Yann… vous êtes si chers à mon coeur…

Amendment Matters

2005-10-24T13:48:00.000+02:00

Sundays in Paris… just delightful. A day of calm and rest after a charged Saturday of running errands, making plans and a late night out with friends. Ahhh, I wake, make myself a cup of coffee, snuggle back in to bed with my laptop to read the news and write a bit. Today is particularly beautiful… blue skies with puffy white clouds, cool and crisp, and scents of autumn lingering in the air.

Yes, it is the perfect moment to stop and reflect on the bombardment of thoughts arising from the constant collision with new experiences, new people and changed conceptions. As I reread my “project” section on my website I realize it needs massive amendments. My work with l’ASSFAM and further research has made me rethink my entire master’s thesis.

During my studies, every article, book and essay on my topic underlined the difficulty of the young Maghrebins; their psychological rupture between Islamic values and those of the Republic, their rancour for the brutality and oppression of the colonial past, the “ghettoization” of their neighborhoods, the lack of good schools and resources necessary to get a decent education and job. Result: increased violence, alienation, rejection of French culture and acute poverty…. the perfect recipe for a fatalistic existence.

In my mind, all of these things made sense… clear causal chains. But, I was wrong. There are several problematics with my original understanding of the Maghrebin issue. First, is the use of the categorical term “Maghrebin”. Originally, Maghreb was just a geographical reference, but was appropriated by the French to designate a people. This offends many Algerians whose past differs greatly from their Moroccan and Tunisian neighbors. And worse, it doesn’t take account the various peoples, such as Arab populations and the original “Berber” tribes. It was pointed out to me that using this arbitrary label was short-sited and would only complicate my work.

Second, I was expecting the Algerians to be the most obstinate group when ceding to French lifestyles. With decades of bloody war and more than a century of subjugation by the French it seemed logical, as many sociologists contend about the ex-colonized Muslim world, that backlashes occur. This manifests as a revalorization of their heritage, culture and religion as means of protest, teetering towards fundamentalism. Again, wrong. I was taken aback on my daily bus ride to work with middle and high schoolers; Lacoste trainers, fancy sneakers and 3 carat cubic zirconia in their ears. So funny. I was anticipating an angry group of young men, rejecting Western values and instead discovered the most enthusiastic imitators of the American rapper.

At the same time, I had expected to find a much larger population of women adhering to “traditional” values. Rather, most of the girls with North African origins are extremely stylish and self expressive. Very French. Even those who wear the headscarf, such as the other intern at L'ASSFAM, manage to adapt their Islamic practice with the realities of French life.

There is however a group of immigrants in France that fills all the stereotypes I believed in; the Turks. From my observations, they are in large part closed and communautarian. At the welcoming platforms for legal immigrants, the government asks the newcomers to sign a contract proving their willingness to integrate in to French society. It obliges them to a one day course on French civics and to register for free language classes if their spoken French is weak. 95% of people sign the contract. The Turks very rarely sign and the women almost never do. Many are Kurd refugees, and all immigrants with refugee status must pass by an ASSFAM social worker. As a Western woman, I can not help but be disturbed by the relationship I witness between the men and their wives. In most cases the Turkish men do not allow their wives to sign the contract because they do not believe the woman should leave the home. They feel it unacceptable that the wife go unaccompanied to classes for a language they do not feel she requires. I never knew Turkey had such a large percentage of conservative Muslims. And, I never realized how many Turks are in France. Apparently, the Turks are growing in numbers all across Europe. Up until now, Germany has taken in the largest number, causing a very tense political scene.

Third, I thought I was heading for the projects. My readings gave me the impression the banlieus were crime ridden, dangerous. But, no. Granted, there is a dramatic change in scenery with the Arabic butchers, bazaar style shops, tagging and a lower standard of cleanliness. However, these densely populated burbs are mainly made up of families. As noted before, the most flagrant feature is the shared poverty. These neighborhoods have a high concentration of government subsidized housing; tall, depressing cement complexes that stuff in as many families as possible.

And in my more recent research, I’m seeing a change in tides since my first set of readings. A growing number of statistics prove an inflated conception of the problem. One car is put on fire and it creates a sensationalist nightmare. In banlieus with a large percentage of foreign populations (by and large descendants of immigrants) the violence levels are no more elevated than the national average. And the nature of the crimes are important to note. Young North Africans are most often implicated in petty crimes such as destruction of public spaces. They tag and less often, put things on fire. Moroccans, specifically, are involved in drug trafficking, mostly hash. Culprits of serious crimes such as grand theft, rape and murders are by in large committed by the French. Terrorist style attacks are carried out by an extremely small minority involved in militant organizations who usually do not have family ties in France.

Though my original thesis is no longer valid which requires me to restructure and rework my ideas, I am excited about the process. I feel very lucky to be so engaged in the milieu I’m studying and am hoping to use these experiences to carve out an objective synthesis of what many French consider a real crisis. Is there a true crisis? Is there really a serious security issue? Are the immigrants and their descendents veritably responsible for an exhorbitant amount of government spending? These are all questions I’m seeking to answer more concretely. In a country where immigrant populations get a very bad wrap, resulting in a wide-range of discriminations (particularly in employment), combating media sensationalism with the facts seems just a noble cause as any.

Today's Market Loot

2005-10-01T20:05:00.000+02:00

Tour of the Saturday Market

2005-10-01T15:30:00.000+02:00

RUE DE LEVIS

Welcome to the Saturday market in Paris’ 17th arrondissement. I became attached to this bustling, pedestrian street full of specialty shops and gourmet foods when I studied here in 2002. I love this typical french district; shopowners who know most of their customers by name, young families getting their errands done together, produce men selling fruits and veggies like in an auction. "2 Euros les fraises, messieurs dames, regarder, les jolies fraises, 2 Euros!"

Flowers galore.

If I could, I'd fill my apartment to the brim with pots and vases. However, I am happily making do with a window sill of herbs and a few small plant throughout the apt.

Stinky cheese.

The cheese selection is overwhelming. I have been going chevre crazy as of late. It is just too delicious with the last of the season's heirloom tomatoes, arugula and a warm bacon vinagrette.

MARCHEE BIOLOGIQUE

The neighborhood is also home to a fabulous organic market. Though you pay an arm and a leg for their products, the difference in taste makes it hard to resist. I have gone there every Saturday since my arrival to purchase veggies and fruits for the week. Slowly but surely, I'm starting to get French market culture. As with everything else here, the act of purchasing from a stand is chuck full of cultural codes. If you don't understand the rules, you either wait a long time or get snipped at. The first two weeks I was pathetic. Completely lacking confidence, I would sheepishly wait until someone offered me assistance. I felt so silly preciously holding a single tomato for twenty minutes, hoping someone would eventually notice me and take my money. Luckily now a days, I know how to get in to the system, though not without a few bumps along the way.

Les Reines du Marchee

So, I've learned, the most important skill in the market is to know how to "faire la queue" or wait in line. In the beginning, I didn't think there was such a thing. I thought it must be a free for all. Apparently, nothing could be farther from the truth. And to make things even more complicated, for each seller, there's a specific place you are supposed to stand. With large crowds seeming to aimlessly roam around, it can be dizzying to figure out who is waiting to be helped, who is just looking, and behind whom to stand.

And then, one must be prepared for the Wild card. Old Ladies. They will not wait. They are allowed to break all market rules! One day, this mean little ol' lady, pushes me to the side and shoves a euro in to the merchant's hands, takes her bouquet of herbs and walks away with her nose high in the air. Meanwhile, I had been standing there for 15 minutes with no more than she in my hands.

Another time, I walked up to a stand with no one waiting, just one other person being helped. I made eye contact with the merchant. I just needed a couple squash. After the other customer finished his transaction I thought surely it was my turn. As I extend my money towards him, a woman who walked up after me and stood to me right starts fussing, "excuse me, but you are not in line, what are you thinking, why should you be served first?" Confused, I asked the merchant, "well, I was clearly here first, where does the line begin?" Well madame, to the right of the stand. But, since you have so little, I'll let you go ahead". Let me go ahead??? Just because I was four steps away from the spot. Unbelievable.

Reporting from Paris

2005-08-28T09:54:00.000+02:00

Here I am, in magnificent Paris, the city of lights, love and stinky metros. Being that I’ve only been here a short time, it’s all still very surreal but yet, at times, so intensely real. Biting in to that first fresh, steamy croissant moved me to tears. The sunsets over the large avenue seen from my 7th floor window fill me with strong emotion. Euphoria mingles with tranquility as Paris transforms herself, shedding exuberance for mystery… motors, honking, merchants’ yells and beggars’ pleas melt in to obscurity as the city becomes studded with soft, sensual lights and the sporadic click-clacking echo from the sidewalks below.

With no elevator, the trek up the stairs can offer quite the challenge after a long day’s work. However, the view makes it all worth the while. My apartment is quite comfortable, equipped with most modern amenities. My room mate Fanny makes Paris that much more enchanting with her quintenssiel French allure, sweet smile and warm disposition.

My internship at L'ASSFAM has proved interesting. 45 mins of metros and a bus takes me to the banlieu of Aubervillier, an abrupt change in landscape. I become the minorty, in a city dominated by immigrants of mostly Arab, African and Asian decent. After a little getting use to, I feel comfortable amongst the colorfully garmented women, often times cradling babies with sarongs on their back, Muslim women wearing ornately designed slippers and fashionable head scarves, and the boisterous men sending me curious stares. What is most striking is not the sea of diverse faces and cultures, but the relative poverty they all share.

The office is located at the ground floor of a large cement building called an HLM (low income housing). Our team is composed of 4 social workers, two specialized trainers, one other intern and myself. We are all women of different backgrounds making for a dynamic environment and many rich discussions. The Madame in charge has Jewish origins, there is an Algerian who lived her whole life in Germany, a Congolese woman, another who worked with the United Nations and Unesco in her country of Central Africa. They are sharp, competent individuals with very big, caring hearts.

I’m quickly learning the ins and outs of immigration policy. Basically, it has recently become much more difficult to be granted residency status in France. This however, has done nothing to reduce the number of people already living in the country with out papers. I’ve had a chance to meet a great number of these “sans papiers” who come to our office with heart-wrenching stories, asking for our help.

They flee their countries for a wide range of reasons… to escape civil war, to seek political asylum, because of acute poverty or the lack of medical care, or so that their kids can get an education. For the most part, the State does not recognize their existence. They therefore live in the shadows, a miserable existence that still manages to pale in comparison to the dispair in their homelands. I leave everyday with a lot of homework. I want to know the history of the wars in the Congo which caused so many to seek refuge, why the Algerian man was held captive in his country by the militia for 3 years, why the Tamils are persecuted in Sri Lanka.

We also help immigrants who have achieved legal status. The greatest challenge for them is finding a job. With a very high unemployment rate, the average time it takes to find a job in France is about a year, and of course, much longer for a foreigner with mediocre language skills. To make matters worse, it is impossible to get a lease without proof of a stable income. With a 7-10 year waiting list, few are able to get government subsidized housing. The other day, a Sri-Lankan man came in pleading for us to help him find lodging. His wife and six children recently received permission to enter France and have since been crammed in his small studio apartment. An unhappy landlord is refusing to renew their lease. Both parents unemployed, they have very little chance of finding new accommodations. It is not uncommon to see people in these types of predicaments forced on the streets.

Each case is so unique, laden with cultural specificities, historical accounts which amount to differing degrees of difficulty. Just in my third week, my perspective has widened in scope and will continue to as I encounter men, women and children from all corners of the earth, all hoping to find a more bearable existence.

These experiences are not only extremely rich and educational but help me to appreciate just how blessed I am. It also drives me to do whatever I can to help those who need it most.