Ladies’ Night
I’ve commented in previous entries about how much work Malian women do and how much more subject they are to harassment, violence and mistreatment. Life for women is hard. This fact continues to strike me every day and I’m here, and it’s easy to get a little down about women’s status in Mali. But every once in awhile, I get a glimpse of hope, of positivity, of seeing some of the hardest working women I’ve met anywhere actually enjoying themselves and each other. I witnessed this on a recent evening, and it was a sight to behold.
It was the night of one of the infamous village “soirees” or dance parties, and Hawa, my 12 year old shadow, really wanted me to go. But I just wasn’t feeling up for the pulsating, synthesizer heavy beats of Malian pop music blaring through poor quality speakers that evening. I had planned on being low key, maybe reading a bit and calling it an early night. I told a disappointed Hawa to go ahead without me, and she went with her friends, leaving me sitting with my host moms, who were cleaning up after dinner. I told Sambou I was tired and thought I would go home to rest. “Wait, Hawa,” she said, “aren’t you going to stay and dance with us?”
As far as I knew, no woman over the age of 25 ever went to the village soirees, so that couldn’t be what she was referring to. I was confused. Just then, Mamu brought out a tape deck–yes, a good old fashioned tape deck–and pressed play. The music was much more mellow than the rap-reggae hybrid blaring from the soiree in a nearby clearing, but still had a distinctly African feel and a nice beat–perfect for dancing.
Mamu and Sambou started the whole thing, but before long maybe 7 or 8 other women had drifted over to join the little impromptu dance party. All of them are women with kids and families–not the ones you’d expect to be out dancing at night (those tend to be, in general, the young unmarried women under 20 or so). These are the women who are cooking and pounding and washing dishes, clothes and babies until their hands blister over, the women who make sure that everyone in the family has new clothes except for themselves. The women whose shoulders and forearms are strong from years of hauling water and pounding millet and whose eyes are etched with tiny, early lines from constant exposure to the blazing sun. These are the women that make this country run. They are the ones who do everything.
And now, in my host mom’s compound, they were dancing. And not just dancing, but truly enjoying themselves, laughing, socializing, carrying on like preteens at a sleepover. Here, they had their own little party when all the men left to have all the fun they always have. It was the first time, I realized, that I’d seen most of these women without carrying something on their heads, hands or backs. And, freed of these worldly burdens in this moment, it seemed they weren’t really old at all–they just seemed to have lived lifetimes because they have, with all the work they’ve done. Even my host moms, who I’d thought of as older, suddenly seemed more youthful with their hips swaying naturally to a mellow beat, with their friends around them. They were women I’d been getting to know over the past few months, but I was seeing a side of them I hadn’t seen before.
Dancing at this little gathering gave a group of women in my village an outlet they rarely get to enjoy one another’s company and just to let go of their cares. I was so glad to witness it. You hear a lot of talk about the power of sisterhood and the strength of women’s connections to one another, and here it was, right in front of me. I’m convinced that there’s something in these connections that keeps these women going despite the trials in their lives.
May ladies’ nights live on.
