9 /18/05

clapclapclap.

"Avancez!" I shout. Come in!

clapclapclapclap

"Oui, Avancez!" I'm in the middle of making breakfast, trying to keep my couscous from sticking and burning on the bottom of the pot– normally I'd go outside and see who's clap/knocking right away, but I have to keep stirring.

clapclapclapclapclapclapclap

"OUI!" I yell. I take the couscous off the single burner green kerosene stove, and charge out the door. It's Daboidi, at 13, Dounplata's oldest daughter, and Livana's younger sister. She's shyly holding a plate with three tomatoes, still mostly green with an orange-ish tinge– as I look closely I can see the trail of decay left by a worm in one of them. I bought tomatoes from her once before, at 25 FCFA each (about 5¢), and since then, she appears at my gate three or four times a week with a plate. I glance at her, and meet her eyes– she instantly looks down at the ground.

"I said come in, didn't I?" I ask, feeling irritated. I know she speaks a little French, so it's not that she doesn't understand. Daboidi doesn't say anything, just continues staring at the dirt.

"I don't want any, thanks," I tell her. Actually, I would like a few tomatoes, but with more red, and less worm. I turn around to go back inside, and notice her looking at me– I glance back at her, and she immediately focuses on the ground again.

"Yes?" I say. "What is it?"

Silence.

"What is it?" I ask, trying not to sound annoyed.

More silence, but this time with a brief gesture at the dirt outside.

"What?" I demand. This is getting really frustrating– if Daboidi actually wants to tell me something she's going to need to do more than point at the dirt and grunt. Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, she speaks.

"There are a lot of weeds outside– I can clean them up," she says, never taking her eyes off the ground. This is one of the Chadian things I'll never understand– people can live in houses we wouldn't keep animals in back home, drink river water out of old motor oil bottles, and break their teeth on bone, gristle, and skin, with no complaints. Yet if a weed so much as dares to poke out of the ground, people freak out, and rip it up at the first chance. Who cares if the house (and everything else) is a wreck, as long as there are no spots of green interfering with the vast expanse of dirt.

"If you want," I snap. "It's up to you."

Daboidi scurries away, and as I walk back to the house I immediately regret losing my temper. I don't know what it was that bothered me more, the ridiculousness of the whole interaction, or the trouble it was to get a one-sentence response out of her. As I think about it though, I realize that Daboidi is only acting by the rules of Chadian culture. From the first moment she could focus on something besides mother's milk, it's been instilled in her that she's a second-class citizen, an education is pointless (she'll just grow up and have babies anyway), and men are to be treated like royalty, no matter how rude, abusive, or lazy they are. For Daboidi to look any man in the eye, let alone a white man, would be going against one of the basic foundations of her culture. To speak to me in more than a whisper would be an even greater sin. What right do I have to be angry with her for behaving as her culture dictates?

It's hard to see this changing anytime soon, unfortunately. Ertchey comes to my door around noon.

"The girl, she'd like you to pay her for the peanut oil," he says, gesturing at Valaddi. I'd bought two liters of oil from her the day before, 1700 FCFA worth.

"Does the girl have a name?" I ask him.

"Pardon?"

"The girl. She has a name, right?"

"Yes, it's Valaddi," he says, looking puzzled.

"Why don't you call her by her name?"

"I don't know– we're just used to saying, 'the girl.'"

Precisely. If women are actually called by their names, it's much harder to think of them like pack animals. It's much easier to simply think of the sheep, the goat, the woman, and the cow as standard features of the Chadian house. Given this attitude, is it any surprise that of my almost 300 students last year, 10 were women?

Later in the evening, I go out to sit and chat with Marc. When I arrive I see an unusual sight– Valaddi and him sitting together talking. As soon as Valaddi sees me she springs up and retreats into the darkness of the hangar. After the usual ça-va's, I ask Marc why she left so quickly.

"Men are superior to women," he says slowly. "If she's talking to me, she should feel shame, especially if she sees someone else, or someone sees her. If she doesn't, people will think that she was poorly brought up."

She should feel shame for speaking to, or looking at a man? It seems to me that the shame here is misdirected– I realize this is my own cultural outlook here, but in my mind the shame belongs with Marc and every other Chadian man who allows this bullshit to continue. Want another reason why Chad isn't going anywhere? One look at the faces and opportunities of virtually every Chadian not privileged enough to have a 'Y' chromosome will give you an idea.

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