Women and violence in Mali

I went into the CSCOM last week on the Saturday following Tabaski, since the holiday had completely interrupted the work week and the center had been closed for several days. I figured that not much would be going on on a Saturday, but decided to go anyway and at least chat with the staff for a bit about their holiday.

When I got there, there was already a number of people sitting in the waiting area–unusual for barely 9am on a Saturday. I greeted everyone and sat down, curious about what was going on but not wanting to get in anyone’s way if it was something serious.  The CSCOM doctor came out of the consultation room. We’ve got a serious case, he told me in French. A woman pregnant, due in less than a month, severely beaten by her husband. She’s had a lot of trauma. Needs to get to the reference hospital soon to make sure she and the baby will be okay.

Wow, that’s a lot to take. I know from many discussions with villagers on the issue that wife-beating is not uncommon here, nor is it particularly frowned upon. I’d even heard of women I know, acquaintances, who were beaten by their husbands. But this was the first time I was actually confronted with the potentially devastating effects of this violence.  I suddenly felt like I didn’t know what to do–I didn’t know what I would say to this poor woman if I saw her. Did she want all these people all around her? What if she was overwhelmed? I decided to stay out in the waiting area and grabbed some medical reference books from the office to busy myself until I could be of use.

A short time later, a very petite, very pregnant young woman emerged from the consultation room, supported by two women, one on each side. She was limping and grimacing in pain with every step. When she got close enough I recognized her immediately. She had been at the CSCOM very recently–just weeks ago in fact–for her 8th month prenatal consultation. Even though she was only 17, she struck me then as much livelier than most teenage girls who come into the CSCOM for consultations. Many are very shy and reserved, especially around me, since I am often assumed to only speak French. This girl, though, had immediately started chatting with me in Bambara, and seemed like one of those genuinely happy people who could hit it off with anybody. At barely 5 feet tall, she was a big, friendly, energetic person in a small package.

Now, I recognized her face, but everything about her today was completely different from our first meeting. The top of her head was covered in gauze, and the back of her t-shirt soaked with dried blood–she’d been here, the doctor said, since the previous night. A long pagne covered her legs, but from her limping walk I knew her husband hadn’t spared them a beating. She seemed small and sad in comparison to the girl I met two weeks ago.  There was no crying, no screaming in pain and agony, but just a sense of defeat. Something in her eyes made it clear that the physical pain was not the worst part of what she was going through.

She passed me as she made her way to the nyegen, where her friends were getting water to help her wash up and change. As I watched this shell of a woman I was torn between sadness and outrage. Sadness for this lively young woman, this soon-to-be-mom whose fear and pain I simply cannot imagine. Fear that the one who is supposed to protect you, can hurt you, could even kill you. Fear for this child, so close to coming into the world, whose future is now unknown.  And then there’s the anger. Outrage at this man–whom I hope I will never ever have to meet–who would find the maliciousness in him to beat his 8-months-pregnant wife senseless. What makes this okay? What justifies the violence, the two lives he has simultaneously put in danger? Simple anger? Suspicions of adultery? Drunkenness? Where does one draw the line?  Is a woman’s perpetual fear of the man she is married to indicative of a good relationship?

These are all questions I’m sure women suffer with in silence, and I didn’t have any more answers than anyone else. The doctor was telling the midwife and I about transferring the girl to the reference hospital and the risks involved–she was stabilizing but her pregnancy is still in danger. I understood phrases about possible hemorrhaging and stillborn and difficult delivery, and these were swimming in my head even as my mind drifted back to what the girl, now curled back up on the bed in the consultation room, was going through. Seventeen, this girl is just seventeen and in this dangerous marriage. What would she do now? I heard that the police had actually taken her husband into custody, a surprising but positive action given the general police reluctance to pursue domestic violence cases here. But even supposing the young woman and her baby both make it out of this okay, what lies ahead? Is leaving an option? Divorce is unheard of, and even if it was socially acceptable financially it could prove ruinous for a young rural village woman. But perhaps more frightening is what happens if she doesn’t leave. If the cycle of abuse continues unabated and she just lives with it, and lives in fear. That’s not the way a bright and happy 17-year old young woman should have to live. That’s not the way anyone should have to live.

And yet, how many women live that way right now? It’s nearly impossible to come by numbers, since cases are so underreported and wife beating is not considered as out of the ordinary. But the young woman at my CSCOM is certainly not alone. Whatever factors play into the imbalance of power that gives men the right to abuse their wives, cases like this show just how dangerous that imbalance can be. I knew all of this in theory before I saw these events unfold- but the fact that they happened to someone I was acquainted with-however distantly–really brought it home.

I saw the girl the following week at the CSCOM and she seemed on the road to recovery. Her pregnancy was being closely monitored and she would have to receive continual medical attention, but, Allah be praised, she and the baby will most likely be all right. She even had a smile and a warm greeting for me. I’ve never been more relieved to see someone getting better.

I was thinking about whether I really wanted to share this story, and the internal conflict it brought me, when I came across a small fact in my reading: there’s an International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women– and it’s November 25th, right around the corner. So, in honor of the efforts being made to raise awareness about the critical issue of gender-based violence, I hope that I can add a little bit of my voice as well. For the young woman I am speaking of–whom I will not name here but whose name I will always remember–I wish the same thing I wish for all women in Mali and in the world: the chance to live and to love without fear. We owe it to ourselves and to humankind to make sure every woman has this chance.