5/7/05

Valaddi, Marc's wife, has a few friends stop by this morning, before Marc and I head off to a graduation ceremony next door at the theological seminary, started by American missionaries in the late 1960's. There are three women, who I'm guessing are maybe 30-ish like Valaddi, although it's hard to be sure- life is hard here, and people age quickly. Marc and I are sitting and chatting as the three women approach. As I watch, they each slip off their sandals, walk barefoot across the dirt, and one-by-one grasp Marc's hand and then mine, each time bowing so low that their chests practically touch the ground, eyes averted from the two of us. Marc, naturally, doesn't flinch, and fortunately neither do I, but as they shake my hand, I have to fight the urge to recoil in shock. Obviously, I've never seen male guests do this when they come to visit– no; this particular brand of humiliation is reserved solely for women.

Why were these women practially prostrating themselves to me just to shake my hand? I'm not the Pope, certainly not the President of Prime Minister of anywhere– I'm just a person, a young American teaching English. The reality is that it's not a question of titles or stature- the fact that I'm a man is enough for these three women to utterly abase themselves before me, which I find absolutely repulsive.

I know one of the reasons I'm here is to get an understanding of a culture very different from my own, and not to impose my own values on a people who've been getting along just fine without me until last December. Still, in situations like this, I really feel like I have to hold my tongue– a lecture from me isn't going to change anything anyway.

Sexism is hardly uncommon in the developing world (or the developed world, for that matter), but it somehow seems all the more insidious in a place like this, where there's so little opportunity for anyone. I see it all over the place here, from Dounplata refusing to pay for his daughter's educations, to the teacher at school who laughed when I told him the best student in my class was a young woman, and asked if I was dating her, to the present, when Valaddi's friends come to shake my hand. I think of all the strong, intelligent women I'm fortunate to have had in my life- my mother, grandmother(s), and great-grandmother, aunts and cousins, numerous friends in and out of college, teachers I've had, and of course, the 11 women serving alongside me in Chad as Peace Corps Volunteers. Knowing that with an education and opportunities Valaddi and her friends could have been the same, and conversely, the women in my life might have been Valaddi and Co. had the dice of fate rolled a different way is a sobering thought. How hard must it be for my female colleagues to see the way women are treated- it's tough enough for me to watch. That's something I can never know.

Later in the evening I'm sitting with Marc and Hanam, talking. A storm is about to roll in, and looking to the north, over the missionary's house, the clouds look menacing. The rain hasn't arrived quite yet, but the temperature feels like it's dropped 15º, and it's pleasant enough to sit around and chat. Hanam tells me that the time for Seconde students to choose their 'series,' the set of courses they'll take next year in Premiere is approaching. There are two options available in Gounou-Gaya: Serie D, which focuses mostly on science and math, and Serie A, which puts more emphasis on languages, philosophy, and history.

"All the girls always choose Serie A," Hanam says, "because it's easier."

"Are you sure that maybe they don't just prefer languages and history?" I ask him.

"No, it's because it's easier," he replies. "In my class," (he's in Serie D) "there's only one girl. They take Serie A because they're not as smart."

"What?!" I exclaim. "Do you honestly think women are less intelligent than men?"

"It's true," he says stubbornly. "Look at how few girls there are in school."

I try to contain my frustration. "Hanam- it's not because they're less intelligent that there are fewer women in school- it's because their opportunities are so limited."

From next to me, Marc jumps in-– he's been listening to our conversation. "He's right," he says to Hanam, backing me up (which I wasn't expecting). "Women have the same brains as men do. When I was in school, the best student in my class was a girl from Nigeria- I think she's working as a lawyer now."

I'm amazed- Marc clearly has more of an effect on Hanam than I do. Still, Hanam tries to protest. "But....But... Look at," Marc cuts him off. "I told you, they have the exact same brains that we do." What he says next nearly causes my jaw to drop. "Now, as for being submissive to men, they should definitely do that, because they are women."

Any respect I have for Marc on this issue disappears. "Isn't that right?" He asks me. I answer with a quick, "I have a different opinion," keeping my voice as neutral as possible. So, that's why Marc didn't say anything when Valaddi's friends all but kissed his and my shoes. God, is it frustrating- how will this country get anywhere when even the educated people are stuck in a 17th-century mindset when it comes to gender roles. Fortunately, before we have a chance to continue the debate, the storm arrives, and I go running off to my house as the first heavy drops and gusts of wind buffet the tin roof. I sit for awhile by kerosene lantern light, feeling incredibly "Peace Corps-ish," as I listen to the rain. It's fast approaching 8:30, bedtime in rural Chad, and I brush my teeth, crank up the rechargeable battery powered shortwave radio, crawl under the mosquito net, and drift off to sleep, with BBC's Newshour as a bedtime story. Before I drift off, and in between the latest casualty figures from Iraq and the story of a study showing that parents tend to favor attractive children, as opposed to ugly ones, I stare up at the roof in the dark, feeling frustrated about my conversation with Marc earlier. When even reasonably intelligent people have such backward attitudes, what's the point– why am I even here? The tin roof doesn't have the answer written on it, and gradually I fall asleep- another day is just around the corner, another set of ups-and-downs; it wouldn't be the Peace Corps experience any other way.

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