Women's Work

We sat on low stools in the small room, our knees touching whenever someone leaned forward to stir the pot or fan the coals. Mame Darra slid the onions Sally had just chopped into the standing bowl and stood up to pound the mixture. Her hands gripped the wooden pummel as she brought it down with force and skill, the muscles in her arm flexing as her work turned the mix of spices and seasonings into a dark paste. With a thin rag, Sally quickly lifted up the scorching hot pot that held today’s lunch of soupakanja and added some coals to the open stove, expertly dodging the sparks that flew as the thick black chunks were rearranged.

I looked down at my lap where there rested the plate of remaining ingredients. Each spicy pepper and small sachet of powdered spices had been collected at the market this morning. Sally had walked under the beating Nioro sun between vendors (all women) who were sitting out in the heat on a Sunday morning to sell necessary ingredients to fellow women who were busy preparing the midday meal. As we cooked, no iPad sat open with a Pinterest recipe, and not even a print cookbook could be found. Yet each splash of palm oil, each sprinkle of salt, each chunk of fish was added with the confidence that comes from years of practice and centuries of instruction passed down from mother to daughter.

In societies where a smart division of labor is vital to best manage resources and time, I can see how clear gender roles are established and reinforced. When one has to do virtually everything from scratch, certain tasks repeatedly fall to certain society members because of biology and tradition. After living in what I think of as a more ‘traditional’ society for the last five weeks, I have seen clearly defined gender roles in action. But the relationship between gender roles and gender ‘rights,’ so to speak, still puzzles me. Societies where men and women’s daily routines are separate are often some of the most patriarchal societies. They tend to be communities where men are repeatedly given the upper hand in virtually all spheres of life. However, after watching women at work in Nioro for over a month, I don’t see how traditional societies could ever view a woman as inferior, weak, or lesser than a man.

On this Sunday morning of lunch preparation we had already completed what many men would call a full day’s work. After breakfast we had sat outside hand washing clothes, and while I attempted to scrub the sweat out of my own garments I watched Sally’s hands deftly clean each small t-shirt and pair of shorts that belonged to her young son. Her long, thin fingers grabbed each article of clothing and she rubbed it against itself with a rapidity that caused suds to blossom and overflow into the bucket of soapy water. I looked back down at my own damp t-shirt that lacked the same sudsy look. Even though my scrubbing was inferior, my arms were still tired and I felt sweat building up on my forehead and the back of my neck.

While in the midst of cleaning Ibrahima’s dust-ridden clothes, the cries of the troublemaker himself were heard as he was caught trying to throw sand at a younger cousin. Sally bounced up from the stool, having followed the Wolof shouting match that had taken place. A few moments later she returned, dragging behind her a teary Ibrahima whom she was sternly chastising. She sat him down and began to walk over to the tree that always supplied the smooth, thin sticks for slapping. Ibrahima’s eyes widened as he quickly repeat a choked up Baal ma, baal ma. After carefully selecting a firm twig she returned to her son, fear written across his face, but let him go with a light, scolding tap on his bottom as she hurried him away. When he was out of sight she returned to the scrubbing with a smile.

In the midst of all this work she was still tuned in to the activity of the family and was ready to put on her game face when it was time to do some character education. I turned my t-shirt inside out, trying not to let my awe show on my face, and trying to sort through my feelings of second-hand pride for being part of this incredible race called ‘woman.’

When we finished up and had emptied the buckets of water by the row of trees we returned inside to find our aunt cleaning the main front living space. She was bent over the squat, straw broom yet skillfully managed to stay out of the dust cloud each broad sweep created. With the majority of the dirt gone, she then carried a heavy bucket of soapy water and a rag into the foyer where she got down on all fours to scrub the smooth tiles.

This snapshot of a weekend morning is not anything out of the ordinary. I knew that women across Nioro, across Senegal, across the world were busy at the same tasks. They were keeping an eye on troublesome children, cleaning their ever-dusty house, and standing over burning coals in the midday heat to prepare lunch for the family. All these chores are both necessary and tiring, and they always fall into women’s sphere. What I still don’t understand is how for thousands of years women’s days have been filled with these activities yet their tireless dedication never seems to merit the necessary respect. How is this knowledge of cooking, of child-rearing, of living not a sign of the utmost intelligence and intuition? How can a woman be the cornerstone of the home and still be considered second to her husband? (Though Wolof is an ancient language and society has changed over the years, the Wolof word for wife roughly translates to “second.”)

At Adja Penda Ba, I get to teach girls who are being offered some of the best opportunities in Nioro. Yet, when I ask a group of students to send one representative to the front of the class during a game or activity, a boy always hops up after no discussion or deliberation. After the first few weeks when I would relentlessly exclaim “Il faut discuter!” with an outraged expression, they seem to now have figured out that I want them to talk about who to send. Luckily, our group leaders in the last week have become more diverse without my prompting. But I still become disheartened when a boy strong-arms his way to the front of the room and the girl who tried to speak doesn’t even put up a fight. I can see the spunk and fire in their eyes and I wish they could see that it’s okay to let that show, even when they are up against a know-it-all boy. I know that this phenomenon I have observed is not just unique to Nioro, or to Senegal, or even to the developing world. I wouldn’t have to frequent many co-ed American classrooms to see something similar play out.

But even though men and women are far from equal in America there is so much dialogue around the need for equality. I can open my university e-mail and see a message telling me about a dinner for Women in STEM. I can turn on the news and see a famous celebrity calling for equal pay. I might still have to put up a fight to get the respect I know I deserve but at least I know that it is okay for me to put up that fight, and I have the support of countless men and women standing behind me.

When I mention gender inequality in Senegal many (men) dispute my observations with a reference to a fairly recent law which declared parity between men and women. A public law is a good first step but if Senegal really wants to see through its hoped for ‘emergence’ in the coming years it needs to fully empower and mobilize a powerful 50% of its population. Senegalese women, especially those in more rural locations, are no strangers to hard work. Even though I am still working towards laundry calluses and can’t swing a straw broom with the same artful skill as my Niorese aunt, my pride in my identity as a woman has only grown. I sincerely wish that both men and women in hard-working communities could observe their mothers, sisters, and daughters with my outsider eyes and see their strength.