by Aimee Molloy
Despite these efforts, the local attitude toward Tostan did not quickly change. Just a few weeks after establishing a greater presence in Ourossogui, Molly received news that a group of religious leaders had become even more determined to shut down the Tostan classes across the Fouta, and insinuations were made that if facilitators did not leave the villages where they had come to live, they would be killed. As the threats became more serious, Molly and Khalidou decided to ask the women if they wanted to continue, given the obstacles they were facing.
Khalidou met with more than thirty women in the courtyard behind Mère Habi’s modest home. He told them of Molly’s fears for their safety, explaining that the women of Malicounda Bambara had once faced serious resistance themselves. “Molly is concerned you may be subject to the same hostility … perhaps worse,” he said. “We would understand if you no longer want us to mention ending FGC in this region.”
“We appreciate the concern,” Mère Habi responded, “but we can no longer sit back and allow others to fight for us. We have learned that along with human rights come responsibilities. If we want change, we must have the courage to stand up for what we know to be right.”
Mère Habi went on to organize a meeting of the coordinators of Tostan’s Community Management Committees from several villages, and after much discussion, they requested a meeting with the association of religious leaders and the préfet, the local government official whose authority in the area was second only to the governor. A few weeks later, in June 2002, twenty women arrived at the office of the préfet, a man named Mar Lo, and found a group of stern-looking religious leaders waiting for them. Mère Habi was chosen to speak on behalf of the women, and once inside his office, she wasted no time.
“Why do you not like Tostan?” she asked the religious leaders.
They were clearly uncomfortable with her directness. “Well,” one began, “we have all heard what you do.”
“I don’t understand. What do we do?”
He glanced uncomfortably at the other men and then at the préfet. “I know that in your class you ask the women to take off their clothes. And then you show each other your genitals.”
The gasp in the room was audible, the anger evident in Mère Habi’s voice. “How could you ever imagine such a thing as this?” she exclaimed. “It is not true, and you have greatly insulted us. We are all women of Islam. Many of us here have made the pilgrimage to Mecca.” She paused to compose herself. “We must all face the facts that, like it or not, Senegal is a nation where people have human rights. If you marabouts do not want your children to be educated, fine. That is your choice. But you do not have the right to try to prevent entire communities from becoming educated and moving forward.”
“This is very dangerous, what you are doing,” another religious leader responded.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps you are misinformed. Either way, we will not allow people’s threats and intimidation to hold us back, regardless of how powerful those people may be.” She glanced around the room. “We now know that we have the right to pursue education, and we will not be intimidated. We are not here to cause problems. But neither will we stop our Tostan classes or give up this opportunity for an education. If you think that you’ve heard the last from us, you’re wrong.”
In the weeks that followed, the situation became more serious. Tostan staff members began to receive more frequent death threats and were accused of wanting to destroy African traditions. Notices were hung around town warning residents not to become involved with Tostan. A few times staff members found their vehicles vandalized, and the military was called in to protect the office. Rumors flew that, under the leadership of the religious leaders, men were discussing the possibility of going from house to house to harm the members of the Tostan class and run the facilitators out of town.
“What I came to understand,” Molly says, “Is that there was something more at play than FGC. Yes, the religious leaders were reluctant to consider abandoning such a deeply entrenched and important tradition, but I knew that at the heart of their opposition was something even greater: a serious resistance to the idea that women were gaining a voice, embracing the idea of their own human rights, that Tostan was bringing democracy to this hierarchical society.” For the very first time in perhaps the history of this region, women were speaking out, firmly asserting their own views, voicing their opposition to anything that brought harm to the community. Here, in a society where an ancient caste system still held sway, even the women of the lower caste were taking on roles that were previously denied to them under the old system. Molly learned that in a village called Seedo Abbas a woman named Kummba Tokola, born into a lower caste, was elected coordinator of the Community Management Committee, something that would not have happened without human rights education.
It was clear to Molly and Khalidou that despite the threats and the tension, the women had no intention of backing down. Before long, the women announced they were ending the assistance they had long provided to the men in organizing important yearly events to celebrate and memorialize their relatives who had died. Typically, women played an important role in these events, arranging food for the men and pooling their household money to help pay for expenses.
“We’ve decided we are not going to help arrange these events anymore,” Mère Habi told Molly one day. “If the men are not going to support our efforts to become educated, we’re not going to support them either.”
THIS WAS JUST THE beginning of the change about to come to the Fouta. Not long after, Molly received a call from Fatime Diop, the coordinator of the Community Management Committee in a town called Podor, located in the Fouta on the banks of the Senegal River. Fatime explained that the women of the surrounding villages had been hard at work, and she invited Molly to come to Podor to speak with them.
“We need to talk to you in person,” Fatime said. “We think you need to hear what has been taking place here.” Molly was eager to go, but a few days before her scheduled trip she received a call from a government official in Podor, telling her not to come.
“It’s too dangerous,” he said. “We cannot guarantee your safety, especially if you hold a meeting with the women. I am worried about the reaction of certain religious leaders.”
Molly called Fatime to tell her of the warning. “You pay no attention to those threats,” she insisted. “We hear them all the time. You are coming. The women of Podor will be here to protect you.”
During the drive to Podor a few days later, Molly felt uneasy. She expected that when she arrived there would be problems, and she hoped that things would not get out of control as they had in Ourossogui. It took eight hours to get to Podor, and when she finally pulled into town, she saw that a crowd had gathered in the main square. As she drew closer, Molly felt the breath catch in her throat. The crowd was as large as two thousand people, most of them women, all dressed in their best jewelry and colorful boubous.
Spotting her car approaching, they began to clap and sing. Molly stepped out of the car and was greeted by thunderous cheers. Trying to hold back her tears, Molly reached for Fatime’s hand as the women swelled around them. Fatime led Molly down to the banks of the Senegal River and more women were there, on the water, rowing in unison in five pirogues painted in intricate, colorful designs. Molly had seen events like this before, but always the boats had been filled with men. As each went by where Molly stood, the women inside the pirogues stood and waved triumphantly as the crowd on the banks cheered.
Fatime then invited Molly to her home, where about fifty women from surrounding communities had gathered to meet her. With the door closed tightly, they shared with Molly what they had learned about human rights and the practice of female genital cutting.
Fatime then spoke. “Despite the hardships we’ve faced, the intimidation and the threats, we are not going to let anyone stop us from what we need to do.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Molly said. “What is it you want to do?”
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�It has taken us six years, much trouble, and a lot of hard work,” Fatime said. “But we have learned from our sisters in the many other villages, who have courageously stood up and pledged an end to this tradition. We are going to plan a public declaration and join the movement.”
SEVERAL MONTHS LATER, MOLLY received the call from Khalidou, telling her that it had finally happened: the first public declaration in the Fouta had been arranged, scheduled to take place on November 13, 2005, in the town of Seedo Abbas. In a near state of disbelief, Molly invited the coordinators from all regions of Senegal to come and witness this historic declaration. When she arrived in Seedo Abbas on the morning of the declaration, nearly 1,500 people had already gathered. Ourèye was among them, basking in the moment—one she could have never imagined as a child.
“You see, Molly, when you chose Tostan as the name of the organization, you probably had no idea just how far this would spread.” She smiled. “I am one of the chicks and the hens who have led to the breakthrough. And of that I am very proud.”
The declaration represented 70 villages, and by late morning, the crowd had grown to more than 2,000 people, some of whom had traveled from as far away as 300 kilometers. It was one of the largest public declarations organized to date, and the tents set up to offer protection from the harsh sun and sandy desert wind overflowed with people. When it was time for the proceedings to begin, the crowd fell silent. Village women and village chiefs from around the region stood to express their deep commitment to the health, education, and human rights of women and girls. They spoke about the changes that had come to the villages through Tostan: that year, more than 13,000 children had been vaccinated for polio and other diseases; 2,300 children had been registered at birth; 1,350 children had been enrolled in formal schooling; nearly 2,000 trees had been planted, and more than 1,000 wood-saving stoves had been built. Several villages, where there was no state school before, managed to lobby successfully to get schools. Kummba Tokola spoke to the crowd. “Today’s ceremony is for women and for the liberation of our children,” she said. “Women were only surviving before, but through Tostan, we have learned, we have understood, and now we have united for change.”
At the end of the event, a young girl and an older woman stood to read the declaration in both Pulaar and French as 70 men, women, and children came forward, each with a sign indicating the name of the village they represented. Throughout the declaration, Molly had a hard time keeping her eyes off one girl in particular, Khadidia Bade Diallo. At eleven years old, she was the president of the adolescent association formed as a result of the Tostan classes. As she’d told Molly earlier that day, “FGC ought to be ended once and for all. It must never return. That’s what we stand up for here.” And then she looked at Molly and smiled. “And I’ve also decided that when I get older, I’m going to become a doctor.”
Molly thought back to the social evolution that had taken place in the Fouta in just a few years’ time, allowing Khadidia to envision a new path forward for herself, to escape a future where she would soon have been married, likely giving birth to many children, and struggled to survive. But with these words, with these actions, Molly knew that Khadidia’s future, and the future of so many girls, was forever changed.
23
Fajar gi (Dawn of a New Day)
By the time of the declaration in Seedo Abbas in November 2005, a total of 1,486 other villages had made public declarations announcing their abandonment of the practice of FGC. Unlike the first declaration in Malicounda Bambara eight years earlier, when thirty-five women solemnly declared an end to the custom, these declarations were large, celebratory events attended by hundreds, often thousands, of people from large and small villages across Senegal, and from the neighboring countries of Mali, Guinea-Bissau, The Gambia, and Mauritania. Affecting thousands of Senegalese girls, as well as future generations who would never come to know the practice, it was nothing less than a human rights revolution that showed no signs of abating.
One of these declarations was held on April 7, 2000, with hundreds of residents arriving from twenty-six islands located throughout the Sine-Saloum river delta in the Fatick region of Senegal. The event was largely the result of the efforts of one Tostan facilitator and two women from the Serer Niominka ethnic group who canoed from island to island to hold public discussions with their relatives on what they had learned about human rights and health, emphasizing the topic of FGC.
On June 5, 2002, the largest declaration yet took place when 285 Mandinka and Pulaar communities gathered in the village of Karcia, in the southern region of Kolda, under a large banner reading RESPECT THE HUMAN RIGHTS OF TODAY’S GIRLS AND TOMORROW’S WOMEN. “Today we are giving birth to a new baby, and we are naming her Abandoning FGC,” said Njoba Jingary, the coordinator of the Community Management Committee in the Senegalese village of Dar es Salaam. “We are asking you, the greater community, to help us develop and raise this child.”
At a declaration on December 7, 2003, before a crowd of thousands gathered in the village of Oulampane, in the region of Ziguinchor, a woman named Terema Diedhiou bravely spoke for the first time about the deaths of her daughter and niece to FGC, both at the age of twelve.
And on December 12, 2004, more than 1,500 people representing 160 villages listened intently in the village of Sinthiou Malème as the public declaration was read aloud in two national languages, Pulaar and Mandinka. “The people of these 160 communities will no longer cut our daughters,” said a woman named Aminata Bah, the determination evident in her voice. “It is finished.”
That year, the Frontiers in Reproductive Health project of the Population Council published a controlled study conducted from 2000 to 2003 to evaluate the success of Tostan’s nonformal education program in twenty villages in which it had been implemented. The researchers found that, in terms of knowledge, attitudes, and behavior regarding reproductive health, human rights, and FGC abandonment, Tostan’s results were “substantial.”
“This external evaluation did what we hoped. It boosted our confidence and confirmed that we were on the right path,” Molly says. “It was a great relief.”
Nonetheless, Molly and her staff understood that these declarations did not always mean 100-percent abandonment of the practice in the communities represented. “We’ve never claimed that everyone is on board,” she says. “Was it possible that a girl from Malicounda Bambara was cut after 1997? Of course that could have happened. But that doesn’t mean that Tostan’s approach wasn’t working. What is most important is that hundreds of village activists in all regions were reaching out to their family networks, determined to end this practice. Their efforts were building a critical mass at the grassroots level that we believed would lead to a tipping point.”
WITHIN TOSTAN AND ITS participating communities, the excitement was palpable: they had created a dynamic social movement to abandon FGC.
But it didn’t stop there. Participants across Senegal began to call for the end of other acts of discrimination against girls and women, particularly the custom of child marriage. Common in many villages of Senegal, as well as throughout Africa, Asia, Latin America, and the Caribbean, Molly knew that child marriage could be physically and emotionally devastating. Often pushed to bear children before their bodies are ready, girls younger than fifteen are five times more likely to die during childbirth or pregnancy than older women. In fact, pregnancy-related deaths are the leading cause of death for girls aged fifteen to nineteen worldwide. And as Molly had witnessed through her work in hundreds of villages, girls who survive childbirth at such an early age can suffer from fistula, a debilitating condition that causes chronic incontinence.
Many of the women in Tostan classes had themselves been married very young, and as they came to understand the adverse consequences of child marriage, they began to advocate for an end to this once commonly accepted practice. For example, in the village of Seme in northeastern Senegal, fathers often arranged the marriage of their daughters when they were as you
ng as ten. But after discussing the topic of child marriage in their Tostan class, and hearing that a thirteen-year-old girl named Khady was scheduled to be married in just a few days’ time, the women of Seme organized to stop it. Khady’s father worked in Gabon and had contacted a local family to arrange for Khady’s marriage. At his request, the father’s representative arrived at the local school where Khady was a student in the seventh grade and pulled her from class, explaining she was going to be married the next day. Like most child brides, her education would be terminated. Her mother, a Tostan participant, became desperate to prevent Khady’s marriage, and that very evening she requested a special meeting with the Tostan facilitator, the Community Management Committee, and the director of the elementary school. Their discussion lasted long into the night, and the next morning, alongside dozens of other community members and students from the school, they marched to the home of the father’s representative, who was to perform the marriage at the local mosque. Carrying handmade signs stating KEEP GIRLS IN SCHOOL and WE DON’T ACCEPT CHILD MARRIAGE, the group convinced him not to go through with the marriage. Khady was allowed to remain in school, and the women contacted Khady’s father, explaining that the practice of child marriage was no longer acceptable in their community.