Part 8 - Kailahun, Sierra Leone  It’s nearly showtime again.  Time for the women and girls to review their photos and pick two—just two apiece—to present to their community at a final exhibition.  Choosing is never easy.  Think about it.  These women rarely if ever get to decide anything.   And they’ve got a lot to choose from.  Altogether 17,792 photos to be exact.  How fast could you do it?  I know they’ll need a lot of patience and support.

The photographers of the Women’s Action Group of Pendembu.  That’s Christiana Gbondo (Chris G.) on the left and Christiana Massaquoi (Auntie Chris) in red on the right. Photo: Ann Jones

Trouble is, I can’t get out of bed.   One by one my African colleagues stick their heads around the doorframe, lift the mosquito net to peer at me, and say: “Malaria.” They’re used to it—this scourge that kills more Africans each year than does that other plague HIV/AIDS.  I’ve seen my colleagues break into a drenching sweat, pop a couple of pills, and carry on working.  Not me.  I’m flattened.  If malaria attacked Americans at home, the US would launch another “war” against it.  But to our shame, we spend our wealth on other wars.
 
Chris G. perches on the bed, notebook in hand, for some quick computer instruction.  Then she and Auntie Chris set off for Pendembu to help the photographers choose their photos and make plans for the show.   IRC’s Dr. Jeff Kambale Mathe, a physician from the Democratic Republic of Congo, drives four hours over rough roads, carrying a plastic bag full of pills, to save my neck.  Thanks to him, I get up again in time to print the chosen photos and hang the shows.

Our eager girl-photographers occupy the front row in the packed assembly hall of the
Girls’ Primary School—ready to begin the show. Photo: Ann Jones

Then, as we saw in Cote d’Ivoire, what happens next depends largely upon the community leadership.  In Pendembu, the progressive chief tells a large crowd gathered in the Court Barrie about the country’s new gender laws that raise the legal status of women.   He goes beyond the new laws, which don’t recognize rape in marriage, to admonish men: “Do not force yourselves upon your wives.  That is rape, even if the law does not say so.”   Then he hands off to his wife, Auntie Lucy, the chairlady of the Women’s Action Group.  She wears a fabulous hat for the occasion. The chief and his wife are the ultimate power couple, bravely hauling their ruined village into a new century.  Aunty Lucy summons the women photographers one by one to present their photographs, and then she holds forth herself, making sure that no one misses the point or the message of gender equality.

Gender Club advisor Mr. Shariff holds the megaphone and listens attentively as 12-year-old Isata Amadu presents a photograph she took of him.  Isata is about to bring down the house. Photo: Ann Jones

Two days later at the exhibition in Kailahun town another chief rises angrily to warn the audience, “You must not speak of female genital mutilation.  It is our tradition.”  The audience applauds.  Even women of the Women’s Action Group applaud.   The Global Crescendo team hasn’t spoken a word about FGM; we leave it to women participants to talk about what they will.  But since the chief has raised the issue, Amie Kandeh, the GBV country manager, and Navanita Bhattacharya, the regional GBV technical advisor, try gently to respond.  A prominent woman leader shouts to drown them out.  The chief stalks out of the meeting.  Later, when Amie and others go to talk with him, he says he knows that FGM is wrong and that it must be stopped—but gradually.  How will he justify to himself, I wonder, the hundreds or thousands of girls who will be mutilated, their lives irreparably wounded, while he lets the practice he knows to be “bad” phase out?  Surely the last girl mutilated, like the last soldier to die in a mistaken war, will be an enduring rebuke.  Yet African “tradition,” here as in Cote d’Ivoire, rests on the courage or backwardness of men like these chiefs.

The photographers of the Women’s Action Group of Kailahun. 
Christiana Massaquoi is on the right in the front row. Photo: Ann Jones

The girls’ show comes last, before a packed house in the assembly hall of the Girls’ Primary School.  Parents attend, all dressed up, and teachers from other schools.  The Pendembu chief sends a representative, as does the District Office of Education, and the Family Services Unit of the police—a uniformed policewoman who delivers a rousing diatribe against rape and sexual exploitation.

Then it is the girls’ turn.  One by one they speak about their photos, displayed on the blackboard, while their Gender Club advisor Mr. Shariff holds the megaphone that carries their reedy voices to the corners of the big room.  They speak of early pregnancy and sexual exploitation.  They speak of the importance of girls’ education.   Then 12-year-old Isata Amadu connects the dots.  Pointing to a photo of Mr. Shariff, she says:  “He gives us information to help us in our lives.   I took his picture because all teachers should follow the example of Mr. Shariff—and they should desist from impregnating schoolgirls.”

Parents gasp.  One mother shrieks.  The room buzzes.  The headmistress puts her head in her hands.  Isata returns to her seat while the other girl photographers cheer and throw her high fives.  Shy little Isata has voiced the unspeakable truth that everybody knows.  She speaks for every girl in the room.  She speaks for every girl who wants to get an education, every girl who wants to contribute to her community, every girl who wants to be all she can be. Isata herself wants to be a teacher.

Girl power: the photographers of the R.C. Girls’ Primary School Gender Club on Exhibition day. 
Christiana Massaquoi is on the left, Christiana Gbondo on the right, and Isata Amadu
is third from the left in the front row. Photo: Ann Jones 

Later all the schoolgirls sit under the trees in the yard, sipping Kool-Aid—provided especially for the occasion.  It’s a Kool-Aid kind of day.  Something has happened.  Something different and special.

That’s what this Global Crescendo project is all about: Women’s Voices from Conflict Zones.  Girls voices too.

Part 7 - Kailahun, Sierra Leone The girls are way cool.  I ask each one in turn to come sit with me at the computer.  Musu is first.  I put her memory card in the card reader, and soon her photos are flashing fast on the computer screen, visible only to Musu and to me. Auntie Chris and Chris G. have been continuing the discussion with the other girls, but now the room is silent.  I look up to find all the girls gazing intently at Musu who is gazing at the screen.  She has shot 330 photos; she and I see every one of them.  There are a lot  of shots of her pals—girls at school making faces at the camera or peeing in the bush—and some interesting ones snapped in the village.  All the while Musu’s face is a perfect mask.  What is she thinking, this pert little girl, seeing pictures of her own making?  I can’t tell.To me this is strange and disappointing.  I’m also working with two groups of women photographers, one here in Pendembu and another in Kailahun town.  There are twelve women in each group, ranging in age from 20 to 55.  I’ve already shown the women in both groups their first photos, and their reactions were completely different from those of this small enigmatic girl, Musu, who now rises, puts her memory card in her pocket, and saunters back to her seat.  Her sister Mattu comes  next with 176 photos, then Bintu with 431, and later Comfort with 542.  It seems to me you have to enjoy snapping to do it 542 times in a single week, but Comfort is just as enigmatic as the rest.

Girls are smart.  They size up their teachers, and they help one another. Mattu Koroma, age 11

The women, on the other hand, had skyrocketed out of control.  At the Pendembu meeting, Habibatu shook her fist and shouted “Yes!” at every photo.  Fatmata grinned and said “Fine!” 310 times.  At the Kailahun meeting, Mamie Sampha put her arm around me as I downloaded her photos, and as each one of her 248 images flashed by, she squeezed me tighter and tighter and tighter.  I knew the Kailahun women were serious and working hard because I live in Kailahun and I often meet them in the street, snapping like mad.  Sometimes Theresa or Mariama or Aminata shows up at the IRC guesthouse, where Auntie Chris and I live, at 7:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, needing a battery change.  But their excitement at seeing their photos is off the charts.  As Sattu’s images flashed by, she shouted “Fine!” to each one, and for emphasis she brought her fist down hard on my left thigh.  Sattu had 310 photos.

So that day in Pendembu, downloading images for the girls’ group, I was a wreck.  My shoulders and ribs ached from being squeezed by substantial women.  My left thigh was black and blue and the muscles ached.  My ears hurt, still reverberating with shouts of “Fine!” and other less intelligible whoops and cries.  But here came these little girls, one by one, apparently as calm and disinterested as could be.

Girls are cool.   Gender Club girls learn about sexual coercion and violence. 
Armed with information and attitude, they have a chance. Photo: Jenifer Manso, age 10

I had to ask Auntie Chris, “Can you tell how they feel?”

“They are happy,” she said.  “Can’t you see?” 

“No,” I said.  “I can’t see how they feel.”  What is it about their lives, I wondered, that makes them have to hide a feeling as simple as joy?

But the older girls had a harder time containing themselves, and Lilian, the last to come forward, broke into a big smile.  “I think my photos are very fine,” she said.

Gratefully I slapped her hand.  “Yes, Lilian,” I said, “Your photos are very fine.”

Girls really are way, way cool.

Part 6 - Kailahun, Sierra Leone The second time we meet the girls’ group, they’re buzzing.  They’re angry with a teacher who found them dancing in a classroom, and said “You’ll all be pregnant before you get to secondary school.”  They told the teacher he was wrong to think they’ll get pregnant just because they have high spirits.  “It’s the quiet girls you should watch,” they told him.  They cite as evidence the unfortunate case of a quiet, introverted classmate impregnated by a man who denies all responsibility.  She’s been taken away to another village to have the baby.

This problem of teenage pregnancy, which effectively ends a girl’s education and her marriage prospects all at once, is the single biggest problem in every community we visit, or so the Women’s Action Groups tell us.  The girl is stigmatized.  Her family is shamed.  Her parents are deprived of the expected return on their investment in the girl’s education—that she will be in a good position to care for them in their old age.
 
Everyone loses, except the man who impregnated the girl.  Abortion is illegal.  It’s also forbidden by Islam and most, if not all, Christian denominations.  Illegal, or “criminal” abortions are performed, but they cost more than any poor village girl could afford.  A pregnant teenager must feel the doors slamming on every option.
 
Now Auntie Chris asks provocatively, “What’s wrong with getting pregnant?”  The girls give her an “Are you crazy?” look and bombard her with answers.  “You cannot continue your education.”   “Even if you could, your attention would be divided between your baby and your school work.  You couldn’t do well.”  “Your body is not developed.  You may have to have surgery.”  “You could even die.”  These medical warnings are no exaggeration for girls who have been subjected to excision (FMG, or female genital mutilation) as these girls almost certainly have been.  Excision greatly increases the incidence of fistula and similar internal injuries during pregnancy and childbirth.

Many girls took photos like this one, showing the fondness they feel for one another,
and the fun of their innocent camaraderie.  Among adult women in the same community, fondness
and fun seem to have been stamped out. Photo: Mary Lansana, age 14

“Your parents will put you out of the home,” says Mattu. “You will face stigmatization,” says Comfort.  “You will have no support for yourself or your child.”

I wait for the next nail in the coffin—that though you have been taught to depend on a husband for support, no man will marry you—but  I don’t hear it.  That may be just too hard to think about.

“And if you do NOT get pregnant as a teenager, what will you do?”  That’s my question, and the girls fire answers at me even before they get a translation.  (In school they’re learning English, the country’s official language.) “We will enjoy our education,” says Lilian.  “We will enjoy encouragement from our parents,” says Lucinda.  “Our parents may even allow us to travel outside of Pendembu,” says adventurous Katumu.  “If we are educated before we have children, we will be able to support them and help our parents too,” says Bintu.  “We will insure that our children also have a good education,” says Lucy.  “We will not hurry to marry,” says 10-year old Jenifer, “and we will plan our families.”

I’m floored.  Who knew that these girls had so much information and such strong opinions?  Did I know about family planning at age 10?  Is this what a Gender Club can do?  Mr. Shariff, their faculty advisor, sits quietly in the back of the room, smiling.

For all their playfulness, girls have serious dreams—to be nurses, lawyers, teachers,
religious sisters, computer specialists, government ministers. The future of the country depends
upon the realization of their dreams.  Their dreams depend upon education. P
hoto: Lucinda Jamiru, age 14

“Can you imagine your future life?” I ask.  “Say, in ten years time.  What would you like to be doing?”    They’re shy about answering this question, maybe reluctant to expose a dream to daylight.  But Lucy, who has been eyeing my computer, says she wants to be a computer specialist.   Musu says she wants to be a nurse to help the people of Pendembu.  Comfort says, “I do too.”  Mary, Lilian, and Katumu want to be nurses as well.  (Becoming a doctor seems beyond imagining.)  Isata wants to be a teacher.  (There are no female teachers in the school.)  Musu’s sister Mattu wants to be a lawyer because Pendembu needs one. (There is only one lawyer, a man, in the whole district.)  Jennifer wants to be a government minister.  Both Lucinda and Ruth say they want to be Catholic sisters.  (Ruth’s brother is already a priest.)   I ask Ruth if she wants to be a teaching sister.  “No,” she says firmly.  “I will be a praying sister.  Pendembu needs prayers.”  Yes, indeed.

Then it’s time to take a look at the girls’ first photos.  I’ve shown you a few already.  There will be more to come.

Part 5 - Kailahun, Sierra Leone In the Global Crescendo project, women often talk about the problems their daughters face and the great importance of keeping them in school.  We thought it was about time we found out what girls themselves think about their lives. So in Sierra Leone, we’re working for the first time with girls.Here in Kailahun District, GBV supports Gender Clubs in a number of primary and secondary schools.   Despite the raging HIV/AIDS epidemic, public schools in Sierra Leone dropped the courses they used to offer in Family Life Education, giving students basic information about sexuality and gender roles.  Most students now get few facts.  They learn about sexuality and “love” from pop songs, a situation that leaves young girls particularly vulnerable to sexual exploitation.  IRC-sponsored Gender Clubs arm both girls and boys with information.To recruit girl photographers, we visited the Roman Catholic Girls’ Primary School in the village of Pendembu, and with the support of headmistress Mary Vandi, we explained our project to the all-girls Gender Club and called for volunteer photographers.  Twelve girls jumped at the chance.  The youngest is 10, the oldest 14. I’m not a parent myself, so that first day I didn’t know quite what to expect.  But neither, I think, did my two co-directors on the project, both mothers—Christiana Massaquoi and Christiana Gbondo.   (I call them Auntie Chris and Chris G.)  One thing we all seriously underestimated was just how quick and smart these girls are.  They’ve been way ahead of us the whole time.

The girls on this team—(left to right) Lilian Brima, age 14, Ruth Moijueh, age 12, and Jenifer Manso,age 10—are very pleased with their first photos.  A friend peaks over their shoulders. Photo: Ann Jones

That first day I asked them to group themselves in teams of three—each team to share a camera.  They did it by age, but their teacher and Gender Club adviser Mr. Shariff quickly shuffled them to put one older girl on every team.   Camera instruction usually takes time and patient repetition with adult women nervous about merely holding a real camera.  The girls got it right away, and their small, dexterous fingers easily manipulated tiny controls that sometimes confound adult women.Nevertheless, I made them practice sitting down together to extract one girl’s memory card from the camera and replace it with the next. I warned them not to run with a camera, for fear of stumbling.  I mentioned over and over the danger of falling with a camera or dropping it.  Auntie Chris and Chris G. went over the warnings again in Mende and Krio.  The girls wiggled and fidgeted and yawned and stretched and put their heads in their hands, overcome with boredom.Soon we set off walking through the village to take their first photographs.  I intended to have an adult accompany each team, but my colleagues had wandered off ahead, leading the way, deep in conversation.  The girls seized the moment to scatter in all directions.  I watched them run screaming over the rough ground, the fragile cameras dangling from waving arms.  What could I do?  I spotted the slowest runners and ran after them.When I finally caught up, they were strolling along the road, casually swapping memory cards as they walked along.  Chris G. belatedly appeared and chastised them loudly in Mende for not following instructions.  The scene drew a crowd of curious villagers.  I nudged Chris G.  “Please don’t yell at them.  Just explain.”  She did, while the girls squirmed and fidgeted, looking bored again.  One of the older girls, Lilian, took the lead, saying in English, “We are sorry, Auntie.  We will do good.”  The others nodded somberly, but they were itching to get going.

All the girls took many photos of their friends and classmates in the place they like best—their school.  Twelve-year-old Ruth Moijueh took this one. Photo: Ruth Moijueh

So we set off again, this time at a brisk walk.  I accompanied Lilian and her younger partners Ruth and Jennifer.  We walked miles and miles, through every neighborhood of the sprawling village, crossing vacant lots and fields, climbing through ruins.  The girls snapped away.  They sat down together in a shady porch to change memory cards, humoring me.  I knew they felt a little sorry for me—a poor old woman who doesn’t even know it’s easy to change a memory card, one-handed, standing up.  Three hours later they’d worn out the batteries meant to last a week.I climbed into the vehicle for the trip home—an hour over rough roads. Auntie Chris and Chris G. fell asleep in the back seat.  We were all worn out.  “What next?” I wondered.  Could we cope?  I’ll tell you next time.

Habibatu Kamara tie-dyes bedsheets, a profit-making skill she learned through IRC training as a member of the Pendembu Women’s Action Group.  Photo: Fatmata Mansaray

In Kailahun District, the region hardest hit by the war, GBV helped four communities build Women’s Centres, organize Women’s Action Groups, train women in income generating skills, and raise community awareness about GBV. That women have a place to meet and talk and work together makes all the difference in the world.  Each of these communities is served by a social worker and a community mobilizer, supporting survivors of violence and working to organize the community for progressive action.Now GBV works to make sure these programs will be sustained.  The Rainbo Centres will be integrated into the Ministry of Health and Sanitation.  The Women’s Centres and the land they stand upon already belong to the women of their respective communities.  Here in Kailahun District, the GBV team works in partnership with others to strengthen local and governmental bodies as they work to prevent and respond to violence against women.   Two weeks ago, assisted by an IRC doctor, they held a workshop for health care workers and law enforcement officials on the recommended treatment of sexual assault survivors.  And last week the GBV Manager was in court again, reminding the magistrate of new legal procedures in rape cases.  Her work produced that success story I told you about. (See Posting #3).

All over the country, the GBV team has been holding informative discussions about three important gender laws passed in June 2007—laws on domestic violence, registration of customary marriages and divorces, and the devolution of property—all aimed at improving the legal status of women.  GBV produces a lot of radio programs too for broadcast on local stations.  Just this afternoon I stopped at a tiny shop up the street to buy some peanuts and found a little group of men bent over a portable radio, listening to a program about wife beating.Then there’s our Global Crescendo project that encourages women to look at their own lives—with digital cameras—and advocate for themselves.  I’ll tell you how it’s going next time.