The Invisible Worker

8.26.11
This is a way my highly educated Bambara tutor describes a certain group of people's role here in Mali. He says they do all the work, but get none of the credit. He says every day, they wake up before everyone else in the village, to work all day and night, and to go to bed, the last person to sleep in the village. This group's work never stops.

He explained that when their kids are sick, they're sick too - because they are the ones to drop everything to take the kids to the doctor, to buy the medicine, to administer the medicine, to put their life on hold to take care of the kids. When their mates are sick, it's the same story.

But when the Invisible Worker is sick...

No one to come to their rescue. To nurse them back to health. To help them do their work while they're recovering. Life just goes on without them.

Culturally, the Invisible Worker can get beaten and physically abused by their mate. When people hear their screams, it's like no one screamed. Who's going to help an Invisible person? The person everyone pretends doesn't exist?

The Invisible Worker is also pressured to have an average of seven kids in their lifetime. Let's just say regulated hospitals, sweet, caring doctors, clean facilities...not the same here in Mali.

The Invisible Worker is also forced, at a very young age, to get a specific part of their genitalia sliced and scraped off, usually with the same razor or shard of glass as the other soon-to-be Invisible Worker being mutilated before them. Risking AIDS infection. But the Invisible Worker can't speak up. Social pressure is so intense to undergo this practice, that, if the Invisible Worker refuses, that person is most likely unmarriable.

...And marriage is a big deal here.

In addition, in the States, there are child protection laws in place. There are age restrictions on when someone can marry, etc. But not here, not for the Invisible Worker. Oftentimes, at around 16 years old, maybe earlier, maybe later, the Invisible Worker gets to meet the mate arranged for them. They have no choice but to marry this person. And immediately start on that lucky number seven, the average number of children each Malian family has. To go against their family's choice would be cultural and social suicide.

Not knowing the love of their life could exist somewhere else, and forced to marry a complete stranger as a child, the Invisible Worker doesn't get to say anything if their mate is sleeping with other Invisible Workers behind their back. (And not using a condom) But, the Invisible Worker could NEVER carry on an affair. Again, social and cultural suicide.

The Invisible Worker can have one mate only. But...the Invisible Worker's mate...can marry up to four Invisible Workers at a time, polygamy. The Invisible Worker is forced to live with, raise their kids with, and like all the other Invisible Workers married to that person's mate. But the Invisible Worker could NEVER have four mates at once. No way.

The Invisible Worker's invisibility cloak takes place almost immediately after birth.

They're constantly not called on in the classroom, if they're that lucky at all. They've been told through social observations and from parents and elders, that their place is behind-the-scenes...invisible actually, and that they shouldn't speak up. They shouldn't hold positions of power. They shouldn't have a say in the decisions made for their family. They shouldn't handle money for the family. They shouldn't disagree with the decisions their family makes without their consent or knowledge. They shouldn't have a say in any of "those" matters.

Just. Stay. Invisible. Things are much, much easier that way.

They're taught to watch young kids, toddlers, infants, babies, when they're only babies. They're taught how to prepare Malian dishes for the entire family each and every day, each and every meal. They're taught how to sweep the dirt compound a certain way. They're taught how to clean up after all the members of their family - doing the family's dishes, hand-washing the family's clothes, pulling the heavy buckets of sloshing water from the wells, cleaning up the family's messes, silently.

They are told not to play sports. To drink. To smoke. To whistle. To wink. To drink tea with members of the opposite sex at night. To walk around at night. To show their knees, shoulders. In some ethnic groups, their faces are tattooed on the mouth to signify they're married. On the mouth. They are told Not to say "No" to members of the opposite sex. Not to become anything significant. Not to become president. Not to be powerful at all. That they "can't." They are told to dress a certain way, or else they are perceived as impure. Well, they're probably perceived that way anyway. They are not allowed to enter their house of worship during certain times in the month, again, because they're impure. They are the significant, significant majority sold into prostitution.

When people come over to the Invisible Worker's house, the guest gets the best seat in the house. And the opposite sex gets the second best. The Invisible Worker...the worst chair, a child's seat, the floor, the ground.

Because the Invisible Worker's work starts at such a young age, it really compromises their chances to a quality education. Instead of spending time on their studies, they're often cleaning up, cooking, taking care of kids, taking care of the family or the neighbors or elders, so they're not studying. And if push comes to shove and they can't study, they can't earn good grades, and they can get "fired" from school. And if push comes to shove and they really do want to study, but the family has to choose between educating them or educating members of the opposite sex, The Invisible Worker gets to remain invisible...without an education.

This is why it is no joke when I say that most of Mali's illiterate population are The Invisible Workers.

It's even easier to stay invisible when you have no education...or rights...or say...or voice...

You can't really participate. You can't know what's going on. You're not going to be the "go-to person" on an educated topic. You're probably not going to be an educated voter...One of my college essays asked whether we thought the right to an education was a civil rights issue.

There's really no way to participate in your community, in making change, in doing much of anything, if you've never, ever had an education.

And for the invisible years actually spent in the schools, all kinds of things can happen to make this group disappear from school. Teachers come on to them. They start raising a family. They're pulled from school to tend to the family. Oh, and if they either choose to, or are forced to (can't speak up, remember) have sex, they cannot insist on using a condom. That would be means for intense offense taken by the member of the opposite sex.

Slowly...disappearing...

When the Invisible Worker starts a family, every ounce of visibility diminishes.

The duties the Invisible Worker was raised to do come into effect, the cooking, the cleaning, the babies, the working in the market on their feet all day for 50 cents profit (if that), the farming under the scorching sun, the lack of education, the lack of access to anything, the disrespect, the never, ever, ever receiving thanks for their work, the working, the working, the working...

All under the cloak of Invisibility...All without thanks...All without credit...without any acknowledgement that they are the glue that holds everything in this entire country together. Without any acknowledgement that the reason a family can survive is because of their work. Without any acknowledgement that the family couldn't even eat without their work. Without any acknowledgement that they're tired, that they might want some rest, that maybe they want a break...but that doesn't happen. And those who do receive thanks, praise, acknowledgement... get judged, get abused, get chased out of town, get ridiculed and aren't usually accepted.

The Invisible Worker lives everywhere. Their story is slightly different from place to place, but the same story exists. They do most of the work, they are the world's beast of burden. They carry the load, receiving none of the credit, advantages, benefits, thanks. They live in Mali, in America, elsewhere, everywhere. Their situation is different, yes, but story is still the same.

But the Invisible Worker keeps working. In fact, she never stops.

Day in the Life

Today is one of those days when you look at Malians with a confused expression on your face. When you feel frustrated because you keep proclaiming that you don't understand, N ma famu. 


It's just one of those days.

A lot of times, when you repeatedly can't understand what they're saying, Malians will say that you can't speak Bambara. My usual first reaction is, "Yes, I can totally do this." N be se dat! But the last three days, I don't really care. I go around telling Malians that today, I can't speak Bambara. My kungolo (head) is tired.

It's just a part of life when you're switching from three different languages a day. It's exhausting.

It's also nearing the end of Ramadan, so I'm fasting with Malians to show my solidarity with them. I went on an hour run last night with a small breakfast sandwich from the morning in my belly and ended up getting trapped in my house all night because of The Rain. The Rain has a way of trapping you. Dinner or not.

That's what happens when it downpours like that...you just get trapped wherever you are, until The Rain ceases...unless you want to venture out in the nyegen run-off/mud puddles/dirt roads turned into (almost literally) rivers and risk getting schisto.

Ninety nine percent of the time, it is impossible to not get sucked into the swamp/waste water that is left over after a downpour. The roads literally turn into rivers. Your flip flops break. Mud gets squished in your toes.

Today was/is a good day, I'm just tired and don't want to speak Bambara any more for the day. My brain was shutting down. It happens.

This morning I learned to to use one of ancient sewing machines from my women's sewing school. True to Mali, the teacher said he was coming, but didn't show up. I waited two hours and then left.

I then went to Fili Coulibaly's place, a lady who sells crocheted purses made from trash bags,  and beans, other grains/etc in an alleyway in the market. I sat there and watched in amazement as she took care of her younger brother's toddler, who was strapped to her back and crying and sniffling with a cold. Every day in Mali, women multi-task, often taking care of other people's kids as well as theirs, cooking, cleaning, walking all over the village selling random items and doing all the chores of their communities and families. They work...very hard...every day.

Two kids, one is her own, and the other, a girl about 9, her brother's child, were helping Fili work.

When Fili would leave the place to go get change for a customer, the kids would take over and help the customers. Child labor is common in Mali. It sounds bad, but they need the labor force, and the kids don't have a lot to do, so they're usually somewhat happy to help.

Next, I hit up my shea service, Si Nafa. When I arrived, I did the usual rounds of greetings to the guys who hang out, sit, chat and drink tea in front of the building (I don't think they work?). I ask them in Bambara, Was their day spent in peace? How are they? How's their family? Their extended family? Their kids? And then I move on to asking each adult at my service the same questions.

When I got to Si Nafa, The Rain was coming, so people were just sitting around, under shelter, waiting for The Rain to come. The sky was blackening and the air was getting cool.

Sabou, the president of my cooperative and multi-talented guru, was sitting in her wheelchair, chatting with her friend, who sometimes visits Baba for Bambara tutoring. Although this lady and I are joking cousins, I tell her I like her people, The Samakes, because they are my former host family.

I went into one of the stores, where they store their Baobab tree candy and bogolan, and the two ladies who braid hair for a living were there, braiding hair as usual. The other lady makes bogolan and bazan (the shiny wax fabric popular for important events in Mali).

We were all chatting. I told them I had conceded and I could no longer speak Bambara. They laughed and told me that I could speak it well. Dooni dooni, as I replied.

And then they asked me if I could do a very Malian dance. It's sort of like the Malian version of the electric slide. I haven't mastered it yet, but I told them I could show them an American dance.

You see, here in Mali, you find things are popular that were popular in America, 5, 10, 20+ years ago...such as 50 Cent, Madonna, Ja Rule, full head-to-toe denim outfits, and The Macarena.

When I showed them The Macarena, they knew what I was talking about. I did a couple of rounds for them as they laughed, and that was that.

My brain shut down. I decided to call it a day and I booked it home, taking the routes with the fewest number of Malians so I could do as few greetings as possible. I like building relationships with people here, but just living here is difficult, and the language and heat is really exhausting...so today...I'm taking some deserved rest time.

We just paid a Malian muso $2 to cook us a chicken Sabou slaughtered and gave to me randomly yesterday as a gift. In a matter of 20 minutes, the chicken went from hanging by its feet, looking around at people, to a skinned and headless chicken sitting in the stage house refrigerator. So, tonight, True Blood episode 9, chicken and rest.

That's a day in the life here. For a Peace Corps volunteer.

Why Baba couldn't go to school

There are times when you meet people, and immediately, you know that person will impact your life forever.

There are stories you hear, about real life people, that fucking crush your heart.

There are times when you look at someone, and you know his/her story, and all you want to do is break down and cry for that person.

There are times when I look around at the crumbled mud houses after The Rain has descended, the splitting skin on Malian hands from farming all day and night, the falling down shacks that are every building here, the kids with rotted out teeth at barely three years old, the Malians with mental disabilities who get tied to trees and beaten because no one knows "what's wrong" with them...and I think, "How the fuck do these people keep going?"

When I meet people who immediately impact my life forever. When I hear stories about real life people that crush my heart. When I look at someone and all I want to do is break down and cry for them. These instances tell me why people keep going in a seemingly hopeless place like Mali.

One such person and story is the reason why Baba didn't finish school. I've blogged about Baba, in my post about going to the literacy school with him. He is a teacher there. To 30 older women. Learning how to write the numbers 1-10, count and know the alphabet in Bambara. He is inspiring to me, every day, he inspires me. Not just for his awesome, always sunny attitude, but for his determination to help these 30 illiterate women learn to count, read and write their native language.

On Saturday, Dan Evans came to visit my site. If you're in America, you probably don't know who Dan Evans is. He is a third year volunteer, a Peace Corps Volunteer leader, a trainer and a SED volunteer (my sector). Dan is awesome. A lot of the people from my stage credit Dan with giving us the most perspective-boosting training sessions of IST. Dan came to visit my site and meet my people.

As Dan and I visited, I told him everything I knew about my services - how they might need to improve their accounting, how the restaurant has been closed for two months, how I never see people buying the bogolan they spend weeks making. But, as PCVs know all too well, when you have very basic language skills, there is A LOT we don't understand. We pick up words and simple sentences in a crowd of paragraphs and diatribes. There's a lot we don't understand when people speak. Everything...is dooni dooni.

Dan was awesome because he has strong language skills, being here for almost three years. So, he was explaining in more detail what I couldn't understand from the conversations we had with the members of my services. ***A service is a work place. It's our main job. So my service is Si Nafa, the shea, bogolan, soap sellers, and my women's sewing school. That's what I mean when I say "services."***

And I had told Dan about how Baba is a teacher for these 30 women. How Baba wheels himself across the village six days a week, a 40 minute trip there, a 40 minute trip back, during the hottest, most scorching temperatures of the day. How he arrives on time, even though 99% of his class arrives an hour and a half late. How he understands why they come late - they have to farm to live, the women's culture designates the task of cooking and cleaning for the entire family. After these tasks are finished, they can come learn to count and read and write their native language.

When Baba arrived at Si Nafa, we sat in the rice magasin (storage building) with him while The Rain subsided. And we chatted.

Baba described his work at the literacy school. How a Malian NGO hired him to teach the women. How he understands why the women come an hour and a half late to a two hour class. And he does all of this with a slightly sad smile on his face. Like he was pushing out the happiness from inside, but really, he wasn't feeling happy.

And then Dan asked if Baba went to school.

This is a legitimate question in Mali. As you know, Mali has one of the planet's worst education records and literacy rates. Seventy five percent of Malians can neither read nor write. And it hits women especially hard. They are usually taken from their high school, or lesser education, to cook, clean, care for their families. To get married and have babies at age 16. To...be a woman in Mali.

And like the pushed aside roles of women in Mali, people with handicaps are also...pushed aside here. Oftentimes, I would have conversations with my former host family, and they would tell me people in wheelchairs "can't do nothing. They can't work. They...can't do nothing."

But not at Si Nafa.

The three people who run the cooperative are all handicapped, pushing themselves through their hard Malian life in a wheelchair...and a bright attitude. They have more skills than any other group of Malians I've met. They can do anything. If it weren't for the physical reminder of their handicap, you'd never know it.

Baba continued on. He said that he got to the seventh grade. That's equivalent in years to about ninth grade in America. He said that when he was in seventh grade, his dad took him out of school because a Chinese NGO came, and they came with these hospital workers, this hospital, and they gave Baba's father hope that his son could walk again.

(I feel my heart crushing at the moment...pause.)

So, Baba left school in the seventh grade to see if this foreign group of people could cure him...to see if he could ever be able to walk on his own two feet again. He was going to go to school in Katy, a village next to Bamako.

But, they couldn't. They couldn't make him walk again.

So, Baba was out on his own after that. We got the impression his dad kind of gave up on him. That after that, he was left to take care of himself. And he never finished school after that.

And THAT'S the consequence of when we give up on people with bright futures. When we give up on people who really, really want to learn and grow. THAT'S the consequence.

But, one reason Baba inspires me sooo much, is because he kept going. He was determined not to let that ruin him. He turned it into something positive. And now, he's giving back...to 30 women, for six months at a time, who themselves, didn't have the chance to earn an education. THAT'S why Baba rides 40 minutes there, 40 minutes back, all the way across the village, six days a week...to give back to people who share something with him.

THAT'S hope.

Baba's story reinforces the importance for me, of trying to know people. And understand them. To feel compassion for them. To give back. I too, am here for the same reason Baba sits in front of that schoolroom six days a week.

For whatever reason I became this lucky, I had the opportunity to earn an education that a lot of people in my family didn't. I feel indebted to humanity to give back. That's why I'm here.

Baba is the epitome of strength. Understanding him just a little bit better really gave me a more detailed perspective into my work here. Into why it's so important to give back. Into the fact that although he's black and I'm white...although he's Malian and I'm American...he travels in a wheelchair and I, on the feet I can walk on...although his education level is seventh grade and mine a Bachelor's degree from an American university...

These differences don't matter.

We are all one people. No matter where we come from. We share the same emotions and experiences. We all experience love, loss, doubt, frustration, hopelessness, guilt, sadness, happiness. We are all searching for how to be happy and find fulfilment from life. We go through...the same things...despite how different we may seem.

And we find people to help push us through the hard times. Maybe for Baba, it was his determination to make his dad proud of him. I don't know. And right now, for me, my push is Baba's story of trying, losing...and winning.

The presence of The Rain

The Rain here stops people. It incites superstitions in people. Floods everything. Flushes out the nyegen water into common walking spaces. The Rain is the reason millions of Malians get to live. The Rain, is, basically god here.

When it starts to rain here, people start running. People hide out under their thatched roofs, under their cardboard, tin and other discarded materials turned into a roof. People retract into their houses or butikis until the rain is finished. Stores shut down. Street food vendors go home. The roads become deserted and empty. Everything and everyone gets silent except for The Rain.

Under my own tin roof, I can barely hear my own thoughts at times. The Rain is so loud on a tin roof. It's like a million falling bee bees. My roof leaks in almost every room of my house. Unlike in America, where people spend thousands upon thousands of dollars repairing leaky roofs, here, you just put a bucket under the leak, do nothing, or climb on top of the roof and stuff something on the hole.

When it rains while I'm sleeping, there is a tiny leak that falls next to my ankles while I'm sleeping. I just move to the other side of my bed. The bucket next to my front door has found a permanent home for catching rain drops in my house.

My tutor and I were studying the other day when The Rain came. Sanji nana, as we say here. The Rain was dropping so hard on my tin roof that we had to stop studying because we couldn't hear each other...three feet away.

As we were sitting there, in complete silence, except for The Rain, I wanted to do something productive with the time, so I did my homework for the next day. (Writing the story of Casey Jones, the legendary train conductor and title of a Grateful Dead song, in Bambara) I gave it to my tutor to correct. But he didn't do it.

He told me that in Mali, they believe that when it's raining and you hear lightening, you should not read or write.

That the whiteness on the pages attracts lightening. That Malians won't even open THE KORAN during the lightening.

So, we sat there and waited until the rain stopped. Waited...for an hour...in silence. Except for the bee bee drops of The Rain on my tin roof.

The Rain here is both the reason for living, and the reason for a lot of sickness.

When it rains, the waste that leaks out from the nyegen drain collects into puddles, streets and walkways, mixing human waste into common spaces. If you have a cut on your foot, and you walk through any puddle (which is usually impossible to miss) you can get very sick. You can get schisto. It's extremely unsanitary. And it's a huge problem in Mali. A lot of Malians are not aware that this is a huge cause for sickness and disease in their country.

But at the same time, The Rain is the giver of life here. Malians DEPEND on the rain. If it doesn't rain, their crops die. If their crops die, they too, die. Most Malians farm for subsistence purposes, and one bad season means they don't have any food to eat. Or crops to sell. So, no money either. No food and no money is a pretty desperate situation...that unfortunately, a lot of Malians have to live with on a daily basis. Can you imagine how hard it is to live off of less than the equivalent of $1 a day...for you and your entire family of 15? That's the reality millions of Malians face. Life here, is hard. But, it's not hopeless.

The people who get out there and farm after The Rain has ended its fall. The teachers who give students the education they never had. The outspoken women who know they deserve more respect in their country and speak up about it. The small number of babies who live beyond their infant years. The Malians determined to give back, to keep going through whatever challenge they face. This is where we can find hope.

That's hope. And in a way, so is the presence of The Rain.

Going to literacy school with Baba

Tuesday, 8/9/11

After weeks of seeing Baba, one of the guys who works for my shea co-op, study his kindergarten-level Bambara, I finally went to "his school" with him - and I'm glad I did. As I've said before, more than three out of every four Malians cannot read or write. Seventy-five percent of the people in this country do not have the luxury of literacy. In America, every child learns to read and write (yes, there are a few left behind, but in general, we can all read and write). Mali has one of the worst literacy rates on the entire PLANET. Literacy...is a luxury.

I kept seeing Baba write in this little notebook. One day, I asked him what he was doing, and a smile opened up on his face like I had never seen on him. He said he was studying Bambara and counting.

He showed me his notebook, and in it, were precisely written "js" and "1+3s," written repeatedly on the straight line. He told me he goes every day at 12:30 to get there on time. He told me I could go any time.

For Tuesday, we made plans to go together.

We left at 12:30 P.M., and he rode in his arm-powered, wooden and steel wheelchair and me on my Peace Corps-issued mountain bike. Noon-ish is the absolute most furnace-like time of the day when the sun scorches. We "biked" 40 minutes there, across a part of Kita I had never seen before. He greeted about 90% of the people on the way there, with a huge grin on his face, showcasing the awesome attitude Baba carries around each day.

When we finally got to the schoolhouse, I was freaking drenched in sweat and Baba was gleaming, not tired at all. Haha. Typical! Also typical, though we were 10 minutes late and not a single student or teacher were there. Ten minutes late to class in America is worthy of getting kicked out of class. Ten minutes late in Mali is more like "You're crazy for showing up so early."

I think Baba has polio. His feet are little and crumpled beneath him. This is a huge problem in Mali. I don't understand why the vaccinations weren't given...but in any case, there are a lot of people who live in Mali, and a lot who work at my service, who I think have polio. But the ones who work at my shea service have the best attitudes of anyone. They can and do anything they want, with more skills than most other Malians I've seen.

As we approached the school house, Baba parked his wheelchair next to the concrete steps and put his kids-sized flip flops onto the palms of his hands. He then dragged himself out of his wheelchair and propped himself up onto the steps. He followed me to a small concrete bench built into the porch of the schoolhouse. We sat there for the next hour and a half and chatted until the first student arrived. An hour and a half late into a two hour class.

While we were waiting, Baba informed me that a lot of the women students don't show up to class early (or even at all) because they have to work in the fields, cook, take care of their children and then bathe, before they can come to class. He explained that's why no one was there yet.

When the first student arrived, Baba walked on his hands to the chalkboard, where, conveniently, a bench was positioned right next to the chalkboard. He then pulled himself up to the bench and started writing his perfect numbers and Bambara on the blackboard. He took his time writing, to make sure it was neat, readable and perfect. He then sat up there, in front of the class and waited for more students to show.

He told me that there are usually 30 students in class, but, because of all the work needed to do in the fields, most of the students can't come. Eleven out of the 30 students ended up coming to class. The work in the fields really MUST come before anything else. For most Malians, if they don't farm, they don't eat. Most Malians live off of the food they grow. What if there's a bad rainy season? Well...a lot of people go hungry. Not fasting for fun hungry like I'll be tomorrow, but hungry hungry...like food rationing, extreme malnutrition and starvation.

Once the 11 students trickled in, one by one, I realized that Baba is not a student! He's a teacher. Duhhhhh Laura. His lesson for the day was "9." The class of all women, in their 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s...were learning how to write the number 9. They practiced writing "9" over and over on their tiny chalkboards. They practiced "2+7=9, 6+3=9, 4+2+3=9" and then went through the rest of the numbers, 1-10.

It was humbling to see grown women struggle to write a number. Some women wrote "6s" as "9s," backward "3s" or unreadable, upside down, backward numbers. Can you imagine seeing a 40 year-old woman in America struggling through writing a "3?" Someone who can't even write her own phone number? That's one of the biggest differences between America and Mali...the luxury we have of access to education. Again, thank you taxpayers.

Education is fucking important.

The women were so sweet. There was one lady who was so proud of her work. She looked at me from the corner of her eye as she raised her chalkboard, high and proud, to show off her number-writing abilities. There were ladies who were embarassed, probably moreso because I was there. There were ladies wearing burkas, with babies strapped to her backs, with bags overflowing because they had just left the fields, with their faces covered because of a sickness. But they were all there, despite their backgrounds, challenges...they were there to learn to read, write and count. I am thankful to witness it.