However Long the Night

by Aimee Molloy

  21

  Alhamdulilaa (Thanks Be to God)

  In July 1998, a few weeks after receiving Gerry Mackie’s letter, Molly sat on a mat around a communal bowl of fish and rice at the Tostan office in the town of Bokidjawe, in the department of Podor in the Fouta. As she ate her lunch, she did her best to ignore the concerned looks on the faces of the eight staff members seated around her.

  “You can’t even think about bringing up that subject here, Molly,” Abou Diack, a Tostan supervisor, warned her. The uneasiness was evident in his voice. “It’s not like the Thiès region. The tradition is far too sensitive an issue here, and we will all have tremendous problems if you even mention it in the communities.”

  “He’s right,” said Gellel Djigo, another supervisor. “Now is just not the time. Perhaps we might add the topic to our classes here in a few years, but for now, we’re begging you, please don’t bring it up.” He relayed the story of how another Senegalese development organization recently had planned to host an event in a nearby village to raise awareness about the harmful effects of FGC. When their staff arrived, they were met by an angry crowd, likely organized by local religious leaders determined to prevent the event from taking place. They threw rocks at the speakers, and when the situation threatened to become more violent, the staff fled the village, abandoning their efforts.

  “Don’t worry,” Molly told them. “I understand.” She simply wanted to spend the week visiting some of the villages where the Tostan program was in place, she explained, which was at least partly true. While she had no intention of doing anything rash, including speaking carelessly about the tradition in any of the villages she’d planned to visit, she did hope to get a sense of the atmosphere there. If Molly felt that even speaking about the subject would cause trouble, she would of course reconsider her goal of finding a way to introduce the modules in villages throughout the region.

  The next morning Molly woke early in her hotel and pulled on her finest boubou, which she’d had specially starched for the occasion. The staff had asked her to spend her first day visiting the village of Keddele, where a Tostan class had been established one year earlier. The village was extremely remote, accessible only by traveling several miles to a village called Ranwa, on the banks of the Senegal River. They would cross the river in a canoe and then flag down a bush taxi—a pickup truck fitted with benches in the back—to take them an hour or so across the parched, unmarked land to the village. But after Molly and the Tostan staff accompanying her had crossed the river, they discovered that no bush taxis were operating that day. Their only available choice was to hop aboard one of the waiting horse-drawn carts.

  “You think this can carry all five of us?” Molly asked.

  “It’ll have to,” Gellel said. “You know the people in Keddele are excited about this visit. They will be quite disappointed if you don’t come.”

  Molly and the others climbed aboard the cart, the planks of gray, weathered wood creaking under their weight.

  “How far is the ride, exactly?” Molly asked as the horse slowly pulled the cart over the terrain with the temperature nearing 110 degrees Fahrenheit.

  “Oh, not far at all,” Gellel replied with a smile.

  She settled into the ride, pulling her wide scarf over her head to ward off the brutal rays and heat of the midday sun. Once they lost sight of the river, there was not a tree or bush to interrupt their view. The only thing that lay ahead was a seemingly endless expanse of flat, baked land where no sign of human activity was evident. The earth cracked under the weight of the cart, and looking around her, Molly felt as if she were slowly traveling back in time. An hour later, a desert village appeared on the horizon. Molly paused to take it all in: narrow, winding, sandy streets with low thick-walled houses that seemed to grow out of the ground, built of mud bricks made from the sand on which they rested.

  It seemed as if every one of the eight hundred residents had gathered to greet them when they arrived in Keddele, so touched and appreciative of the effort Molly and the Tostan staff had made to travel to their village. One of the older women took Molly’s hand and led her from the cart to a shaded porch, where she offered Molly a glass of milk, which Molly gladly accepted. Afterward, lunch was served and mats were laid out on the large adobe verandah. The villagers called for everyone to gather for a discussion. Feeling a soft and welcome breeze, Molly looked up and saw the clouds begin to thicken. The young women took seats on Molly’s left, the men and boys on Molly’s right, and the older women sat on blankets spread under a nearby tree. Molly was given a position of honor, on a fine woven blanket spread atop a mattress, in the shadiest spot on the verandah.

  With Gellel translating for Molly from Pulaar to Wolof, the women of the village spoke of many things, especially the hardships that accompany life in a village like Keddele. “You can see how isolated we are here, miles from any type of health care,” a woman named Dieynaba said. “It takes hours to travel to the nearest health post, and in the rainy season we are literally trapped. The land often floods, and our carts can’t get by. Those are the hardest times for us.”

  Molly knew that primary school enrollment in the Fouta was lower than in the rest of Senegal, and so most had never attended formal school. The women thus spoke enthusiastically about the Tostan education classes and the changes that had taken place in their village. They now knew what to do when their children became ill with diarrhea, and they had built latrines to help stop the spread of germs. They held regular cleanup activities in which everyone in the village—even the men—participated. They were particularly proud to announce that they had started a community solidarity fund, through which they pooled their money to make sure all the children of the village could follow the necessary vaccination calendar. An hour into the discussion a young woman seemed eager to say something, rising to her feet in the midst of the group of women. She spoke softly for a while in Pulaar, and when she stopped, Molly waited for Gellel to translate.

  “She said the women of this village have received news through family members of the declarations that have taken place,” Gellel said with obvious surprise. “They want to know how many villages have decided to abandon the women’s tradition.”

  “Since the first in Malicounda Bambara, forty-three others have declared,” Molly said. “And many other declarations are being planned.”

  The woman smiled and continued. As she spoke, Gellel whispered to Molly. “I can’t believe she’s saying this.”

  “What? What is it?”

  “They, too, have begun to speak about the possible dangers linked to the practice of female genital cutting. They say they realize these are the same health problems many girls and women here suffer. They would like to learn more about the health risks,” Gellel said, “but they fear the reaction from their husbands and religious leaders on this matter.”

  The woman continued to speak. “Childbirth here is hard enough,” she said. “So many women suffer greatly in the process, and because we are so isolated and far away, there are no professionals to offer help.” She paused. “If there’s anything you can do to help bring the information we need, to help us possibly do as other villages have … to bring about an end to this practice, I know I speak on behalf of all the women here to say that we would be very grateful.”

  One of the men spoke up. “You’ve never asked us about this before, so how do you know what we think? We need information also.”

  Molly chose her words carefully. “Well, the way it happened in Malicounda Bambara, and every village since, is that the women discussed the problems they had experienced with the men. Afterward, they decided together to abandon the tradition, with the men supporting the women. Tostan has never tried to tell people to stop the tradition. But perhaps I can find some way to bring the module on human rights and health to this region.”

  Molly felt a gentle nudge on her back. She guessed it was one of the facilitators, warning her not to say any more, not to take this too far. Another woman,
an older one, spoke up then. “We all have to remember, what can be ended in other villages in a few months might take generations to end here. We’re very isolated. Women don’t have a voice here. We would need some extra help just to begin.”

  The sky suddenly grew darker, and everyone looked up.

  “The rain is coming,” Gellel said. “This isn’t good. I hate to say this, but we really need to go now. Once it starts, we won’t be able to get back to the river.”

  “Now?” Molly said. “I hate to leave this conversation.” She noticed many of the women glancing nervously toward the sky.

  “I know, but we must,” Gellel responded. “It won’t be safe to stay. If it rains, the parched earth will quickly turn to mud and the cart will sink. We could get trapped in the middle of nowhere. It’s best if we hurry.” Within minutes, as the rain clouds continued to gather, everyone at the meeting seemed to share Gellel’s sense of urgency. They crowded around Molly and the Tostan staff members, placing their belongings atop the waiting cart. As soon as they had climbed on, the driver was yelling at the horse to move, frantically whipping the ground next to its hooves.

  “This is not good,” Gellel said. “We shouldn’t have waited so long.”

  “But what they were saying was so important,” Molly said. The horse took up speed as the wind rose around them. “What are we going to do?”

  “The only thing we can do. Pray.”

  Molly felt the tension in the staff members around her, but she had a hard time sharing their concern. She knew she’d just experienced a very critical moment in the village of Keddele and what was, perhaps, a turning point in the movement that had begun in Malicounda Bambara. For these women to speak of the tradition as they had, to ask for her help … it was so unexpected.

  More than an hour later, just as the river came into view, the rain began to fall. Molly spotted a few men sitting near the river’s banks, crouched under a tree for cover, their canoes tethered to large rocks along the bank. Gellel jumped from the back of the cart and ran to the men. Molly watched as they shook their heads no.

  “They’re not going to let us cross,” Abou said. “The wind is too strong.”

  But Gellel was relentless and was able to finally convince one of the men to ferry them across the river. “Okay, Molly,” Gellel yelled into the wind once they were inside the canoe. “When we get to the other side, you’re going to have to run.”

  “Run?” Molly yelled back. “Why?”

  “Because we need to get to the paved road before this gets any worse. The rain will be torrential when it reaches full force, and it can flood these fields at any point. If we’re not on the main road, we’ll find ourselves floating in the middle of a lake or worse.”

  “Hurry! Run! Run!” the driver of the waiting Land Cruiser yelled when the canoe reached the far bank. Molly ran as fast as she could, sprinting up the riverbank, her boubou covered in mud and sand. They were barely inside the vehicle when the driver sped them away, the car roughly bumping through the field as the rain came down harder. Just as they reached the paved road, the skies opened wide. The wall of rain that poured down around them was so thick, it was impossible to see out the window. The car stopped and all were silent.

  “Alhamdulilaa. Thanks be to God!” Abou said. “We were saved from the flood, and this must be a sign from God that we are doing the right thing. Maybe it is time to bring a discussion of the tradition to the Fouta.” He looked at Molly. “God is great.”

  Molly smiled at him, shaking the rain from her hair. Knowing they had made it safely, knowing that the women of that village were ready for change, she had to agree.

  THROUGHOUT THE WEEK, IN visits to several other villages in the Fouta, Molly continued to encounter women eager to speak about the tradition. They were curious about the declarations that had taken place and keen to understand how exactly they had come about. In a village called Gollere the women told Molly of their efforts to begin a discussion about the harmful impact of the tradition. “We would like to help change attitudes here on this subject,” a woman named Bani Bousso said. “A lot of women who have dared to speak of it are worried now, as they have been shunned and ridiculed by the men in our community. But we have no intention of stopping.”

  Concerned, Molly asked if this was too much for the small group of women to take on.

  “Molly, where there are two determined women, it is already enough; where there are twenty determined women, there is great hope.”

  Often when Molly was taken aside by women, she was told a similar message: the women wished to better understand the harmful consequences of the tradition, but they were afraid the men of their village would never allow it. They were even afraid to speak of it to them. Molly was not surprised to hear this. In a society where women were dependent on men for their very survival, it was unimaginable to question one’s husband. But she had also come to understand that because men never discussed the subject—not with each other, not with their religious leaders, not with their wives or mothers—they typically did not have an informed opinion on the matter, and they certainly didn’t understand what exactly the tradition entailed. The only understanding they had of it was an erroneous one, that the tradition was a religious obligation and thus impossible to question. Once they understood otherwise, many had been open to, and even very supportive of, a move to end the practice.

  The religious leaders were a different story. Because of a fatwa (a scholarly opinion on a matter of Islamic law) issued by a religious leader in the Fouta against ending FGC, others believed the topic should not be brought up for discussion—in public or privately. Therefore, any steps to include information about human rights and female genital cutting in the Tostan curriculum in the Fouta would need the explicit support of the local religious leaders, which was perhaps impossible to get. After realizing how much the women wanted to receive the module on their own health, Molly knew it was time to take a bold step to make this happen and decided to arrange a meeting with one of the most respected and revered religious leaders in all of the Fouta, Thierno Amadou Bah, who had long been supportive of Tostan’s work.

  When Molly informed the staff that she would be paying a visit to Thierno Bah the following day, Abou needed to be convinced this was a good idea. “If you’re thinking of bringing up the tradition with him, I’d strongly advise against it,” Abou said. “To even mention the subject to the marabout would be to risk the entire Tostan program in the Fouta. Should Thierno Bah feel insulted or become angry, participants might decide they are too scared or intimidated to continue their work with Tostan. Classes could fold, villages could shun the organization.”

  “Well, let’s go see,” Molly said. “I promise to be careful.”

  The night before the meeting with Thierno Bah, Molly had trouble sleeping. In the quiet of her hotel room, she tossed and turned, wondering if she was doing the right thing. If she upset the marabout, all the efforts she and Tostan had made in the Fouta over the last six years could be in jeopardy, and it might be decades, if not longer, before they could hope to reinstate the organization in the region. But she couldn’t help but wonder what might happen if, after asking for his support, he offered it. The idea seemed like a long shot, but it wasn’t impossible. After what she had witnessed in Malicounda Bambara and Diabougou, after receiving the support of imams in the other forty-four villages that had decided to end the practice, she was beginning to believe that the impossible was, perhaps, possible.

  She was still awake when the cock crowed outside her window, accompanying the first hints of morning light. As Molly rose sleepily from her bed to prepare for the day ahead, she thought about Kerthio, Maimouna, and Ourèye, about all the risks they had taken on behalf of themselves, their families, and the daughters of their region. Maybe it was time for Molly to take a risk of her own.

  THEY ARRIVED AT THIERNO BAH’S house at ten in the morning and were led through a labyrinth of dark, cool hallways. Outside the closed door of his room, peop
le gathered on mats on the floor, waiting to speak with him, to receive a blessing or guidance on a problem or help for an illness. Molly and the eight Tostan staff members who had accompanied her took seats beside the others to wait their turn.

  At one point Gellel leaned toward Molly. “Remember, don’t mention anything about the tradition,” he reminded her. “We need to be very careful today.”

  Molly smiled at Gellel but remained quiet.

  They were eventually summoned inside the darkened room. There was just one small window slightly open in the corner providing a shaft of dusty light. Thierno Bah sat on a woven mat on the floor. He was an old man, yet he sat up straight with his legs crossed before him, a red turban wrapped around his head, and soft white robes draped across his shoulders. His vision had grown poor, and he wore thick glasses. His son, Cherif Bah, sat beside him, and scattered on the floor around them were small pots of ink, pens, and sheets of paper with writings from the Koran. Molly took a seat on the mat facing him and, after extending her greetings, she asked about the health of Thierno Bah’s wife, whom she’d met once before and liked immensely.

  “Tell me how Tostan is doing here in the Fouta,” Thierno Bah said. Molly updated him, telling of the progress that had been made in the villages—the cleanup projects and the increased rate of vaccinations and use of oral rehydration therapy. She then took a breath and steadied her voice. “As you know, I’ve greatly appreciated your support.”