Marriage & Mali

Consider how my Malian colleague recently started up a Skype conversation with me:

[7/13/11 1:51:44 PM] Bylla Baba DICKO: Bjr Zou. À mon avis, tu dois te marier sous peu et commencer à avoir des enfants, c’est mieux. [Mornin' Zou. In my opinion, you should get married soon and start having children. It's for the best.]
[7/13/11 1:52:40 PM] Bylla Baba DICKO: tant qu’on peut, il n’est pas très interessant de laisser à plutard. [If you can, it's not as interesting to leave for later.]
[7/13/11 1:54:20 PM] Bylla Baba DICKO: simple opinion qui n’engage que moi [just my 2c.]
[7/13/11 1:54:37 PM] Max Seunik: Mais j’ai seulement 19 ans ! [But, I'm only 19 years old!]
[7/13/11 1:55:25 PM] Bylla Baba DICKO: il y a des garçons au Mali qui ont des enfants à 17, 18 ans [There are boys in Mali who have children at 17 or 18.]
[7/13/11 2:00:18 PM] Max Seunik: mais, cherchant une femme compatible… ça peut prendre beaucoup de temps, non? [But findin' the right lass takes some time, no?]
[7/13/11 2:00:48 PM] Bylla Baba DICKO: oui, le bon choix est vraiment nécessaire [Yes, making the right choice is truly necessary.]
[7/13/11 2:01:40 PM] Bylla Baba DICKO: car dit on ”Qui se marie à la hate se repend à merveilles”, autant faire le bon choix avant de regretter [As they say, 'those who marry in haste repent in Wonderland', make the right choice before regretting it.]
[7/13/11 2:04:09 PM] Bylla Baba DICKO: une femme que tu connais bien et qui porte les critères de ton choix [A woman you know well, and who fits the criteria of your choosing.]
[7/13/11 2:05:51 PM] Bylla Baba DICKO: ça peut ne pas prendre beaucoup de temps, ça depends du dégré d’affection qui vous anime tous les deux [It doesn't have to take a long time, it all depends on how much affection you have for each other.]

Lucky for me, Malians like Dicko are always more than willing to straighten out my looking-for-the-one worldview. Some days I feel as if my life has transformed into a Malian version of ‘the Bachelor’. Women, especially older women, are visibly delighted when they find out I’m single and ready to mingle. They cluck their tongues, furrow their brows and immediately begin to cycle through a list of their eligible granddaughters – “Hmmm, Aïcha is 17… and her father owns that auto-shop, so the dowry should be good… and she’s a pretty girl! How about it?”

Sometimes, I like to sit on our roof around sundown with book in hand listening to the mosques fill the sky with their somewhat ominous sounding calls to prayer. Unfortunately, the tightly packed neighbourhood and ubiquitously level roofs make me very visible and somewhat of a spectacle for kids playing on the tops of adjacent homes. “Too-baaa-booo” they chant in unison, “Too-baaa-booooooo!” (or, more recently, upon the discovery of my nationality, “Caaaa-naaaa-dieeeeeen!”).

But I digress… sitting on the roof also helps facilitate conversations with neighbours. One neighbour in particular (Bintou) loves climbing her roof with the express purpose of regaling me with the details of a new marriage prospect. I didn’t take her seriously when I first met her almost a month ago and when she pledged to get me hitched before the end of my stay. I was wrong. Marriage is serious business in Mali – a near constant topic of conversation.

It probably doesn’t help that most Malians seem to think I am upwards of 25. Upon the grand reveal of my actual age to my colleagues some 4 weeks ago, I was forced to fork over my passport in order to confirm that I wasn’t up to some trickery. But the age befuddlement is largely reciprocal. I find that I vastly underestimate the age of Malians – usually by a good 10-15 years.

While I have found the large majority of Bamakois whom I have met to be thoughtful, progressive and up to date on world affairs – there are some cultural institutions like marriage that remain firmly entrenched in tradition. Forced marriage of underage girls from as young as 10 or 11 is still common in many rural areas of the nation, and the law recognizes polygamy as a valid and legitimate practice. A man must choose upon the marriage of his first spouse whether or not he will be polygamous – but after that, the sky’s the limit. (Well, actually, four wives is the limit).

My host-father Moussa, for example, originally signed a certificate of polygamy upon the marriage of his first-wife Myriam. He has since somberly come to the conclusion that “a man can only really give his love and attention to one woman.”

As a foreigner living in Malian society, daily reminders of the cultural differences are often subtle. For instance, advertisements lining l’Avenue de la CDEAO ask passersby: “Avez-vous acheté l’assurance medicale pour votre famille? vos enfants? Votre femme? (Vos femmes?)”
[Have you bought medical insurance for your family? your kids? your wife? (your wives?)"]

And while time is running out for me to fall madly in love with a malienne, elope and try desperately to find some semblance of a white picket fence amongst sand dunes and mango trees – I remain open to the possibility. I guess the next question is: Mom, will you do the flowers?

All the best from Bamako.

Twisted Eyes of the Law

Discrimination in Law: Putting Female Health Workers at Risk
This post is also featured on the CapacityPlus website

The temperature is stifling, red-tinged dust seems to coat every surface, and the whir of many fans fills the air with a rhythmic pulsing. I am seated on a bench in a small community center in Kati, Mali, observing a training meeting for all of the Relais (health care volunteers) from the surrounding villages, sponsored by CapacityPlus.

The room is packed with women wearing bright and colourful boubous. Some are cradling babies, others are scribbling down notes – but they are all intensely attentive.

Relais are the backbone of Mali’s healthcare system. They are most important in remote underserved villages that lack health infrastructure, where they provide advice on pre and post-natal care. The training session focused on a picture book developed by the Malian government and a host of NGO partners.

The innovative guide has everything from images of a woman dragging her daughter to be excised under the word “NON” in a bold red to an illustration of a couple and their baby sleeping under a mosquito net.

The book was distributed to the women, followed by a question period. One woman stood up, holding open the guide to a page that encouraged mothers to start microfinance organizations in order to pay for more nutritious fare for their children. “How can we tell women to start businesses when their husbands will simply say no?” she asked. Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group.

The truth of the matter is that – legally at least – they can’t.

Madame Koné explains the benefits of sleeping under a mosquito net with a newborn, using the boîte des images in her presentation. Relais all over Mali will soon be accompanying their lectures and consultations with images from this government-sponsored book.

Inequality before the Law:

Although Mali’s constitution guarantees equality before the law – the country, like many in the developing world, suffers from a lack of legal harmonization. Thus, many facets of the law end up contradicting each other, leaving a confused system susceptible to manipulation.

I was surprised to find that Article 32 of Mali’s Marriage Code states: ‘The husband owes protection to his wife, and the wife owes obedience to her husband’. In practice, the word ‘obedience’ gives the husband unlimited and uncontrolled power to restrict the movement of his wife.

In 2000, this led to a well-publicized case when a woman attempted to start her own international trade business. Although she was legally separated from her husband, he was able to go to court and asked the judge to withdraw his wife’s passport. His claim was sustained.

Implications for Health Workers:

A large percentage of Mali’s health workforce is volunteer-based and female. These women are at risk of discriminatory legal practices that may limit their ability to work, decreasing the country’s health capacity.

Apart from blunt discrimination in legal texts, a gap exists between the written rules and what actually takes place. The extreme need for a revision of gender relations both in the household and in the public sphere is not recognized. Unfortunately, even if laws are changed in a gender-neutral manner, this does not mean that local actors will apply them in this way.

Looking Ahead:

However, major developments are brewing on a global scale. The International Labour Organization, a division of the UN, has been hammering out the specifics of a “Global Jobs Pact”. The Pact will extend social protection for workers and help fill in the gaps in many nations’ legal systems.

In fact, as was explained to me by Amadou Sankaré, a representative of the National Union of Malian Workers and President of the Union des Jeunes Travailleurs, “everything is about to change – the future for female workers in Mali is bright!”

†

Mystical Serpents

“Where are we going?” I asked my host-father Moussa as we clambered into the back of his beat-up jeep, closely followed by his daughter Assitan and wife Myriam who wore a flowing gown of rich lime-green fabric delicately embroidered with golden trimmings.

“To see a spectacle,” he replied with brevity – the word being one of those faux-amis in French; words that at first-glance appear to be their English equivalent, but in fact have an entirely different meaning. In this case, ‘spectacle’ means a show or performance.

We drove from Kalaban-Cora across the Pont-des-Martyrs and through Bamako, the city sweltering under a reddish haze and choked with the smells of fuel exhaust, garbage and sewage. Myriam and Assitan chatted amiably in the backseat in bambara, and I sat with my arm out the window gazing at the people and places as we drove by, reflecting on my first week here in Mali.

It feels as if I’ve already been here for a fortnight. I’ve been very busy, and yet feel as if I’ve accomplished very little. From buying a gym membership, lunch with two candid Peace Corps Volunteers at Le Relax and rooftop sleeping beneath the stars to getting hopelessly lost in a taxi, meetings at ministries and being told shorts are simply much too immodest to wear around town – I’ve discovered a lot in these past 7 days.

“So.. uhh, where are we?” I inquired of Moussa, as we ascended the ridges that surround Bamako and the road went from paved, to packed gravel, to nothing more than a suggestion. The scene became increasingly rural.

“On our way to a village outside Bamako, they are having a celebration to celebrate the town’s founding – Myriam does vaccinations there.” Myriam, a nurse, nodded from the back-seat – “You’ll meet my colleagues!” she added with a laugh.

After a while of jostling around in the jeep, we passed through a grove of mango trees and found ourselves in the middle of a small outcropping of structures – houses clustered around a main thoroughfare with a mosque, small clinic and mango stand close at hand. One thing I learned from the Peace Corps Volunteers I lunched with was that Mali seems to have a season for everything. Rainy season, dry season, mosquito season, gardening season, scorpion season – luckily, I seem to have happened upon mango-season and have since bore delicious witness to the season’s fruits (ha-ha).

Exiting the car we made our way through the crowd of people assembled muttering customary Malian greetings and found seats ringing a large circle of packed earth. In the center of the circle, a group of three men stood pounding out a rhythmic beat on large drums engulfed by swarms of the town’s children – laughing, jumping and spinning in circles around the drummers.

The circle of earth was bordered by many onlookers, the entire village assembled as mic-checks were made, outfits were donned and instruments tested. Within the hour, the mayor of the village had arrived and everyone settled down to watch. During this time, Moussa had been conferring with one of the villagers who urged him to make sure I stayed for the entire performance, which would conclude well into the early hours of the next morning. The villager looked at me, gesticulating wildly with his hands and talking in rapid streams of bambara. Moussa translated, “he’s telling you that there will be many spiritual things – unexplainable things – at midnight three mystical serpents shall appear.” I tried to probe further, asking him where the serpents would appear, how long they would stay, etc. But Moussa just raised his hands and resigned himself, “I am a city person, I know not of these things”

In true Malian fashion, the village's woman had put a lot of preparation into their appearance, extending their eyebrows with liners and wearing coordinating outfits.

Then the music started.

Over the next hour, the beats from an assortment of drums large and small, the klak-klak-klak of curious wooden bowls ringed with beads and the shrill wavering notes of the wassoulou singers filled the air. All manners of dancers took the floor – scores of men with a variety of props (everything from a Santa hat to a fake Burberry scarf) pounded their feet against the earth,  soon joined by women and then whomever wanted to dance. My personal favourite was an old woman dressed in bright neon colours, who got right in the middle of the festivities and went wild.

this old woman not only had one of the boldest outfits, but also some of the boldest moves as she put herself in the middle of the frenzy, outshining some of the younger dancers

After the dancers had tired themselves out, the music changed – taking on a more “tribal” tone. Soon, a dancer appeared, clad entirely in mud cloth with a bulging stomach sporting a fearsome painted mask with golden horns affixed with the idol of a naked pregnant woman. The dancer wildly circled the ring of spectators flailing their limbs and emitting bizarre whoops and screams. The beat of the drums increased in speed and volume, whipping the dancer into a crazed frenzy – until they collapsed on their knees near a spectator, one hand clamped on their bulging stomach. The dancer shook and heaved and pulled a long, red cloth from their loins and presented it to the spectator, an old man. Moussa leaned over to me, “now, they must dance.” Sure enough, the man took the red cloth and paraded into the middle of the circle and danced as energetically and in time as if he had been in training himself. He returned the cloth to the masked dancer and sat back down, to applause from the audience.

The only thing I could think was: Please don’t choose me.

However, I was spared and the dancer took the red cloth and retreated from whence he had come.

the masked dancer would often approach the crowd, inciting them into applause and shouts of encouragement

I was later told that the dancers represented a goddess of fertility. I found it curious that these spiritual traditions seemed to coexist with Islam.

Next came a bizarre bird-like creature lead on by a man with a pipe. The same pattern as with the fertility-dancer – the beats would start out calm and gradually increase in speed and intensity until the dancers were going absolutely insane.

The beak, wings and tail of the bird all moved independently. Quite a sight! Note: the instrument that resembles a bowl being thrown into the air in the background.

The bird soon retreated and a the crowd quieted. Then, from both sides of the ring, two masked dancers came streaming in, red ribbons flying from their hands. They circled the crowd, with hands up to their eyes as if they were searching. Searching… searching… but for what? Simultaneously, they both turned towards where I was sitting and descended upon me.

One of the dancers squatted at my feet, while the other begin to pull red cloth from beneath the shirt of the first one, extricating the cloth and handing it to me. Hesitantly, I took the cloth.

I looked to Moussa, he gave me a raised eyebrow “You must dance. It is the way.” he said. Desperately, I looked to his wife Myriam on the other side of me, she was already bent over in laughter.

So, red cloth in hand, I rose from my seat, slowly proceeded to the centre of the ring and I danced. Stamping my feet in tune to the music and raising the cloth high above my head, and swishing it around as I had seen done, I expected laughter from the 1000-strong crowd; me, a big white guy, so obviously foreign to this environment was attempting to imitate their tradition.

But instead the crowd began to clap.

In unison, they clapped to the beat of the drums, increasing the fervour and speed until I could scarce keep up. Joined by the two dancers, we spun around the circle for what felt like an eternity stomping and kicking and moving until the claps had turned into applause.

Sweating, I returned to my place.

As soon I had taken my seat, the villager who had told me about the mystical serpents leaned over and whispered to me in halting English, “you… you have achieved maximum fertility.”

I expected to experience many new things during my trip to Mali – but I will admit that an increase in fertility was never one of them!

Cheers.

PS: I didn’t get to see the serpents – because of the poor road conditions, unfortunately we had to leave early. Next time?

Zoumana DIOUF

i ka kene, Bamako?

Straddling the life-giving Niger river, the city of Bamako epitomizes Mali. I have been here only three days, and already so much about this nation and its people is reflected in her red dust, djakartas and flowing boubous. Bamako is a big place and, with Mali’s incredible rate of urbanization, is only getting bigger. It is here that this West African nation struggles to strike a balance between a rich rural heritage, and the growth of cities and a modernizing economy.

From left to right, top: Anna (11), Assitan (16). bottom: neighbour's daughter, Ibrahima (7)

It seems that Bamako is Mali’s crown jewel, a symbol of the nation’s ‘coming of age’. From posters that adorn the street proclaiming pride in Mali’s “50e année” since independence, to gleaming government offices in neo-Sundanese architecture (a gift from Muammar al-Gaddafi nonetheless!), Bamako represents both a current reality and a hoped-for future.

†

The DIOUF family has been incredibly welcoming. Moussa, an old friend of a co-worker at IntraHealth International graciously offered to put me up over the course of these 8 weeks. His family has been accommodating to a fault. They live in a newer neighbourhood of Bamako called Kalabancora. Their house is very typical of Bamako – a gated compound with  thick concrete walls, tiled floors, a central courtyard with a mango tree, maid’s quarters and outdoor bathroom. The kitchen is housed in a separate outhouse and the roof is flat and used for sleeping on those hot, dry-season nights. Most nights are accompanied by the incandescent glow of many cellphones – re-purposed as flashlights – illuminating card-games, the dinner table and impromptu football matches on the streets as the power weaves in and out.

Like every Malian I have met here so far, one of the DIOUF family’s first questions to me, a toobaboo, was “la chaleur! comment est la chaleur pour toi?” [the heat! how are you finding the heat?]. While I smiled and laughed off the 40C (110F) heat of my first morning here, the sweat running down my forehead told a different, and more candid, story. The next statement was from little Ibrahima who demanded that I forgo my English name for one more suiting of my present location and cultural context. Moussa followed up his son’s remark by looking me dead in the eye and telling me in a serious tone, “Maxi, you are a DIOUF now – you must take a Malian name.” The kids had many suggestions including ‘Ousmane’ and ‘Cheick’ – but the decision ultimately rested with Moussa as head of the family. He sat there for a minute thinking, and solemnly proclaimed my new name “Zoumana”, he said (pronounced Zoo-man-ah), Zoumana DIOUF.

The next morning, little Ibrahima came into my room to wake me, outstretching his hand for a handshake, “Bonjour grand Zou” he said.

grand Zou. I think it might just stick.

Layover of Doom

I was torn between the current title and ‘apocalayover’ – in any case, I am currently sitting in Charles de Gaulle Aéroport, Paris, serving out my sentence—I mean, patiently waiting through my 9 hour layover until my flight to Bamako.

quickly snapped this photo of the neat architecture of the 'salon-lounge' of CDG.

Let me bring you up to speed on what has happened since my last post:

… I completed my two-week pre-cursor preparatory period in Washington, D.C. at IntraHealth International’s USAID funded global-project CapacityPlus‘ headquarters. I fleshed out a full work plan for my time in Mali and developed the specifics of my scope of work, which I am excited to share. I will be working on three projects:

1. International Labour Law Analysis: I’ll be conducting an analysis of different conventions that Mali has signed on to under the International Labour Organization (ILO) closely related to gender discrimination. These are things like guaranteed maternity leave, equal remuneration (pay) for female workers and laws allowing workers to manage familial responsibilities. I’ll be looking for evidence of Mali having ratified these conventions in laws, policies, the constitution, code du travail, etc. Essentially, by signing on to these conventions Mali has said: “Yes, we want to be a part of this and agree to the terms!” – but are they holding up their end of the bargain?

2. Regional Medical Centre Assessment: If all goes well, I will have the opportunity to travel out to different field/district medical centres and assess how well they have received important policy-related information from the Ministry of Health, Ministry for the Promotion of Women, etc. Determining how well they are aware of the different conventions and their effects on gender equity in the workforce is important in figuring out just how well standards are being employed.

3. Partner Mapping: I plan on meeting with other large donors in Mali (Canadian International Development Agency, GTZ, Agence de Developpement Française, JICA, the International Monetary Fund, World Bank, etc.) in order to look through their respective development plans to determine if there exists any opportunity for IntraHealth International to cost-share projects related to HRH. This can take a variety of forms from pooling funds to sharing office space.

It’s definitely a lot on my plate, but I’m hopeful I can get everything done.

Yet, I haven’t even gotten to Mali yet and already my journey has been chock full of trials and tribulations!

On my flight to CDG, I was quietly keeping to myself, sitting in my chair (seat-belt firmly fastened), looking out the window, chatting with the passenger beside me and enjoying a lovely supper. After our dîner, I decided to recline my chair, following in the footsteps of other battle-weary travelers, preparing myself for some shut-eye. Just as I pressed the button and felt the chair recline normally, a voice erupted from the chair behind me, startling the entire cabin: “SSSSTTTTOOOPPPP! YOU’RE SQUISHING ME!” it shrieked.

Many pair of eyes were locked on us, as I hurriedly put my seat into the upright position, genuinely afraid I had hurt whomever had spoken. I turned to look at the passenger behind me. The owner of said voice? A petite old lady, who could not have been larger than Frodo or Sam from Lord of the Rings (read: her feet did not even touch the floor of the airplane). She stared at me, eyes full of accusation, “You…” she began, leveling a pointed finger at me, “YOU SQUISHED ME!”

I was genuinely dumbfounded. How could I have ‘squished’ her? I apologized and turned back around, until I heard her audibly whisper to the woman beside her: “I just need my space, you know?!” She accompanied this remark with a little chuckle – she sure showed me! Never mind my 6’4 stature.

Night fell and I waited for ‘my friend’ to sleep. As I finally heard her soft snores, I began my re-recline. Inch by careful inch, I lowered myself – coming ever closer to comfort, and with it – sleep. Reaching a satisfactory incline, I thought I had won. I was comfortable, she was obviously not squished – what could go wrong?

15 minutes passed until I felt a hard wooden nob pressing insistently into the back of my head. She was back. “TOO FAR!” she exclaimed, all the while continuing her awkward assault with the handle of her cane.

Frustrated, I sat back up and resigned myself to a flight spent upright.

That’s all for now, folks. I’ll check in when I get to Bamako.

Stay tuned.

Acronymania.

D.C. Is not funny that this most American of cities hardly seems American at all?

The city’s classic-revival architecture, sweeping boulevards and overwhelming grandeur ensure that ‘the district’ more closely resembles its European cousin capitals an entire ocean away than any city in the US of A.

It’s fascinating being here. Washington really does feel like the beating heart of this nation, chock full of important policymakers, delegations from around the world, and of course, the big cheese himself.

And so, my internship in Washington, D.C. is officially a week in! I’ve really enjoyed living with such a gracious and accommodating host-family here and the staff at IntraHealth International have been nothing short of welcoming.

Frances the receptionist made sure I felt welcomed to the office.

I’ve been meeting with people from many different departments, reading hundreds of pages of background information, videoconferencing with gender specialists in Chapel Hill and getting a better handle on just what exactly I will be doing:

An assessment of selected aspects of the legal and policy environment for non-discrimination and equal opportunity through international labour law in Mali at central and decentralized levels with particular attention to protections offered to female workers.

What does that even mean? I’ll be looking at the different international conventions Mali has signed on to and how well the country has carried through on its promises. For example, Mali has ratified an international convention (ILO CL183, O5:06:2008) that stipulates a guaranteed maternity leave – is there evidence of this guaranteed leave within Malian law?

Overall, the learning curve has been steep, but manageable – except for one element: acronyms. As in many professional fields, the public health sphere has its own vernacular, entrenched in three and four letter acronyms.

A typical conversation in the office between two hypothetical public health employees:

Bob: Hey Mary, did you finish reviewing CEDAW for our meeting later today at USAID where we will be previewing our DCE?

Mary: Of course Bob! We’ll also be talking to CIDA about their projects in LACR and how we can better implement our PMP.

Bob: Did you find out any more HRH info. on the GRC that we can include in the PMP?

Mary: No, but I did look at the GHI!

Bob: TTYL! See you this afternoon.

Okay, so maybe the “ttyl” was a bit much – but you get the point. In any case, only a week before my flight leaves for Bamako…

Signing off.

Presque… presque! Bienvenue.

Welcome to Tant à Découvrir / More to Discover !

I’m excited you’re here.

Throughout this summer, I will be posting stories, photographs, artwork and other tidbits I encounter through my travels as I pursue an 11 week internship with IntraHealth International and the CapacityPlus Project.

Spending 2 weeks in Washington, D.C. and 9 weeks in Bamako, Mali, I will be working on assessing international labour laws and their ratification in Mali, specifically focusing on gender discrimination in HRH (Human Resources for Health).

But I don’t intend for this blog to be filled with policy jargon or incomprehensibly complex terms – it will be as much about the people I meet, the cultures I pass through and those little moments that really define any international experience as it will be about my scope of work.

In short, I hope to present a holistic overview of what I anticipate to be a fascinating, challenging and exciting summer.

Welcome aboard.