March 8- Women's Day

The sun was getting hot and I was still sitting at home. I had put off our second meeting for International Women’s Day until last Friday, which was a big mistake. We were completely disorganized and unprepared, so much so that the small group of 6 women and 3 men decided that we would meet bright and early, 7:30am, to finish the preparations for our day-long Women’s Day campaign. I took the day off of regular Sunday baby weighings for the occasion. People started rolling in at about 9:00, and by 10:45 we were all still sitting around, waiting for the rest to show up.
Women’s Day in Mali , annually March 8, is centred around the idea that women should take the day off of housework, relax, and let the men pick up the slack. But with expensive theme fabric sold every year to wealthier women who attend Women’s Day parties, the misconception around the country is that if you can’t afford this year’s fabric, then it’s not your holiday. I had meeting a couple weeks back with some of my closest lady friends (it feels good to say that, me and the girls), and though we knew that fabric was out of the question, they also said that having a Women’s party would be difficult because no one would put in any money for it. Instead, we decided we would “yala-yala,” walk around town that is, and try to raise awareness for what Huit- Mars is and how women can take it as a day of celebration and relaxation, no matter how much money they have. We wanted to convince men, by having them sign a petition, to take on women’s work for the day as a sign of respect and appreciation. These activities would be on March 7, so that men would know to get their butts up and draw the water at the break of the next dawn. Our small group would pitch in money to take a lunch break, catered by some brave volunteer men. Sounds like a good idea right?
Well I was getting jittery. We decided to not go around town until after lunch, so we sat some more. And boy was it getting hot. We had a few laughs as the three men peeled the vegetables and sifted the rice. The cooking team was led by Baru, a regular ham who showed up in a striped suit looking like a ragtime dancer. He has a reputation for being the only man in town who can cook, and does so periodically at his home. It was all good and fun but we still didn’t have a song. Or a skit. Or a plan. All we had were these nifty flags that I made the night before out of some extra fabric Gneba had lying around. The last few people trickled in just as lunch was finishing up. Let’s get going people!
It was hard to get them up, especially Sungura, the pregnant woman, who constantly complained that we didn’t have this or that in the rice. Now I’m thinking this isn’t going to happen after all. Maybe they did just come for the food. I wanted to prepare the skit but no one would listen to me! They were all just laughing and carrying on like we didn’t already waste half the day. I reverted to my 8 year old self, directing plays in my basement, ordering people this way and that so that it could come out exactly the way I wanted it. They were all so full of energy anyway that they were able to improvised their way though it. A mess of course, but entertaining and hopefully persuasive. Dalfinie and Genba were lying on the mat pretending to be children, but just laughing so hard they were crying. Meanwhile, Teresi’s head is churning trying to come up with a tune to sign our battle cry to. I don’t know who finally started the march but all the sudden the laughter and chaos fuelled us on our feet we were marching through the village.
Teresi started singing and the rest would repeat after her. Baro and some of the children had brought empty jugs to bang on as drums. I had my guitar and was picking up an accompaniment to match Teresi’s song. We made our way through the village, our strange blend of revolutionaries and revellers. If we happened upon a woman, we’d take her millet pounder or bucket of laundry away from her and make her dance with us in a circle. If we came upon a man, we’d explain our purpose and ask for his pledge to help out his woman on the 8th.
“Look at our flag, it’s the flag of women!” Teresi sang.
“Our flag! Look at our flag!” we responded
“Look at our flag it’s the flag of working”
“Our flag! Look at our flag!”
Or we’d add, the flag of cooking, or pounding millet, or washing children, or pulling water, or carrying firewood, or any of the other dozens of things Malian women are expected to do on a daily basis. The man we ganged up on would be a bit uncomfortable at first, but then start getting into the beat, some even danced. And then it would be silent, the man would announce a pledge of what he could do the next day, Daramane would scribe it on our big petition and the man would sign in a colourful marker. We’d check up on them, we promised.
Cheers would then erupt followed by Teresi’s song:
“Where’d this wind come from?”
“It’s a great big wind!”
The sun was certainly burning my skin and I had that weak feeling of dehydration as we marched, but I didn’t care. We kept picking up people as we went- dancing children, women bouncing around babies on their back while clapping their hands, until we became a regular parade. My host dad, surprisingly, was especially jovial and into the festivities. Nothing I planned came through. What came out was better. All assured me that this was going to be an annual event, growing and growing year after year. Even now, I got to learn to relax, let go of the reins, be prepared but flexible and trusting, and most of all, to respect the abilities and the natural flow of doing things inert in the Malians. Sure sometimes I got to swallow my zealousness and sit around for a while, but more often than not, things eventually get up and going. I can’t start a storm, but if I let go and join in the way the wind is blowing, it could be a great big wind.
Through all the fun, I kept looking over at Dafinie. Fatim has gotten older now, and it strains Dalfine’s back to carry her. I could tell she was having fun, she loves to dance as I learned since my first day in village. She loves to spend time with the ladies. But her smile was a removed one, covering a hopeless gaze, Mody was a solid figure that could never be remodled and she knowing that anything we achieved with this little Women’s Rights wind we started would never reach her husband. The group didn’t even bother to go visit her house. It was intrinsic knowledge that Mody would never be on board with such a thing. She’s tired, she’s thin, and though we know we convinced some men to pull the water and pound the millet, Dafline knew that she would be labouring again in the morning, uninterrupted, unacknowledged.
“You want to come over and chat tonight?” Shaka asked on that evening’s run. It’s usually a second hand request- Dalfine is too embarrassed to ask me herself.
“Of course. Is Dalfinie Ok?”
“She had so much fun today! But lately she’s been thinking too much. Too much thinking is not good for a person.” Shaka told me about her hopes of going to Bamako to live with relatives there, leaving Dombila, and Mody, for good. Bamako’s a tough and dirty life for a poor person, but if she has some relatives to support her, it’s better that she hurries herself up and go. I’d like to believe the schools are better there too, anything has to be better than Dombila, and I would love Shaka to have that. She’s waiting for all the ducks to get in line- for Adama’s schooling to get on break, for her older daughter to work out this job at a hair salon, for the gardening to be over.
“If I go, I want to stay there. If my relatives agree,” she told me sitting on the log outside her house that night. “I’m suffering here. Even yesterday I was beaten.” She wants to go, but she seems so defeated, and the distant dream has no clear path of realization for her. It would take not just planning, but some assertiveness on her part. She wants this but she won’t fight for it. Understandable. I’d be tired of fighting too.
“Dalfinie, you need some goals. If you want this of that to happen, saying it and thinking about it forever won’t get you anywhere.” We talked about this for a while and said that next time I come, we’ll write down her plan.
She grew silent, gazing not at the stars but straight ahead. I practiced a bit of English with Shaka, and then went off to bed. Maybe I could have sat with her longer. It seems like that would have been the only thing I could do. But sitting can only get you so far. Eventually the sun gets hot, the night gets deep, and you got to get up, march on, and follow the wind.