Women in the Central African Republic aren't marching

An edited version of this piece was published in The Guardian 

on January 20th, 2017*

On 20^th and 21^st January, millions of people of all genders will march in cities across the globe. The Women’s March organised for Washington looks to be one of the biggest protests in the country’s history, and over 600 Sister Marches are planned. People will come together to express frustration, opposition, hope and solidarity. They will remind the planet’s most powerful people of the rights of every single person on the planet, yet the majority of those marching will be from countries that are relatively affluent, where human rights are least likely to be abused.

No marches have been planned in the Central African Republic (CAR). CAR is the second poorest country in the world, and is barely emerging from a brutal civil war. Only a third of the population have access to clean water. A teenage girl is nearly three times more likely to get pregnant than to attend a single day of secondary school. There’s a government in place, but it has no reach or presence in vast swathes of the country. Nearly 70% of girls are married before their 18^th birthday, and 30% before their 15^th birthday.

Women and children in IDP camp, Central African Republic

I’ve been living and working in CAR for nearly a year, as part of the international humanitarian aid effort. I’ve seen the impact of war and generations of poverty at first hand, and feel privileged and appalled in equal measure to hear the stories of people who lived through the conflict.

Fighting broke out in 2012, after rebels accused the government of failing to abide by peace agreements, and continued for two years. Although there is now an uneasy peace in parts of the country, fighting continues in the north and east, and the tensions created between Muslims and Christians, who generally fought on opposing sides, are still evident.

Over a million people fled their homes, living in refugee or IDP camps, or hiding in the dense forest that covers much of the country. Children have told me how they survived on leaves in the forest, walking by day and hiding at night, always moving around to avoid being found by ‘the bad men with machetes.’ Today, over half of the country’s population relies on humanitarian aid to survive.  

It isn’t known how many women were sexually assaulted during the conflict, but rape was a common weapon of war for both sides, and survivors who are now coming forward are reporting repeated brutal attacks, with multiple perpetrators and experiences of extreme violence that extended to their children.

Horrifying though this unquestionably is, these women are quick to point out that rape was a part of their lives before the conflict too, and is still widely accepted as normal or inevitable. Victim-shaming is part of the everyday narrative here, with survivors publicly labelled as ‘whores’ or ‘garbage’ by religious and traditional community leaders. It is a generally held belief that the victim would have provoked the assault by her dress or behaviour, and that men have the right to have any kind of sex with their wives, whenever they like.

Only one court in the country has ever convicted anyone of rape. Ever.

If ever a country needed its women to march, to demand their rights, to have their voices heard, it’s CAR. So why is no-one marching here?

It isn’t safe

It’s not that marching isn’t a thing here. In November 2016, a group of high school girls came together in the capital, Bangui, to protest against sexual harassment, and to raise awareness of sexual assault of a teenager by police in neighbouring Cameroon. It was a peaceful protest, but armed police used tear gas to bring it to an end. This was felt by the government to be a reasonable response to the situation. We have witnessed police brutality in ‘developed’ countries, but could we imagine or tolerate our police gassing teenagers with impunity?

Girls at the end of the schools day, near Bangui cathedral

If large groups of women meeting publicly is dangerous, being alone is worse. Even when walking to the market or to visit a neighbour, women travel in pairs, and very few people go out after dark (which is about 6pm, all year round). UN peacekeeping forces, as well as the national army and police, are a constant presence on the streets of Bangui, and although demonstrations aren’t illegal, they are strongly discouraged. Anyone can be stopped and searched by police or military personnel, who are likely to impose arbitrary ‘fines’, and as the police are poorly paid, many supplement their income with bribes. It’s not unusual for men to pose as police officers to make some money, or to ‘detain’ women; dragging them into a car and sexually assaulting them. Under these conditions, a violent end to a protest comprised mainly of women seems inevitable.

No-one knows it’s happening

When we talk about solidarity, about no-one being left behind, we’re really only talking about people with electricity and broadband. How did you hear about the Sister March you’re planning to attend? How is it being organised? How will it be documented?

Only 10% of the population in CAR have access to electricity, and of those the majority are in the capital. Internet access is a privilege enjoyed only by government bodies and NGOs. Without access to digital technology that we take for granted, how can women hope to hear about this ‘global’ movement, and will they know that we are demanding global justice on their behalf, or that we are standing in solidarity with them? Most importantly, how can their voices be heard in Bangui, let alone Washington or London?

They’re busy surviving

We’re all busy. We are. Everyone marching this weekend is making some kind of sacrifice to do so, whether it’s rearranging social plans, organising childcare, paying transport costs or simply standing in the cold when it’s nicer to curl up with a boxset. But women in CAR spend the majority of their time on ‘survival tasks’, such as gathering food or water. If you have to walk two miles to the water pump and back, twice a day, every day, to collect enough water for your family, you are not likely to have the time or energy (malnutrition rates here are some of the highest in the world) to organise or join a demonstration. Here, walking isn’t a leisure pursuit, it’s a means to survival.

Collecting water from the community pump

CAR isn’t a hopeless country, and despite what people (particularly women) here have suffered, there’s no feeling of victimhood. There is, however, a strong sense of being ignored and forgotten, and of being less important than women in other countries. I asked several women what they thought about this weekend’s planned marches, and without exception, their eyes lit up. “Women are doing this? Women in your country must be very powerful.”

Yes, we are powerful. Yes, there are those who seek to stifle and undermine us, to dismiss and diminish our voices, but if we can march this weekend, we are powerful and privileged. We have a responsibility to speak for all those whose rights are abused, and the women of CAR have a right to expect it of us. So when you put on your pussy hat for the march, maybe carry a spare pair of shoes, too, as a sign of solidarity with a woman who would love to march.

Central African Republic, 19^th January 2017

*The piece had to be published anonymously for security reasons, as I was still living in CAR at the time.

Liquid peace

I'm currently working for a humanitarian aid agency in the Central African Republic. Part of our work involves repairing water points that were damaged in the recent conflict, and one of those water points is in the grounds of the hospital in Boda, a small market town in Lobaye.

I went back one afternoon to take some photos, and the lovely girl in the photo below was collecting water. We'll call her Fatima, and – as you can tell by the way she’s dressed – she’s a Muslim.

Before the conflict, Muslims and Christians lived side by side, but that all changed two years ago. The conflict in CAR was, ostensibly, Muslim vs Christian (although of course it’s much more complicated than that), and churches and mosques were burned down, alongside the fighting, killing and raping.

Now, Muslims in Boda live in a small, overcrowded enclave, separated from the rest of the town by rickety wooden bridges. It’s still not safe for the two communities to mix: a few months ago, a Muslim woman was very badly beaten for crossing the bridge into the Christian quarter, to buy milk.

So I was curious as to how Fatima was able to collect water. It turns out that the lady in the right of the photo, 'Cécile', knew Fatima’s family before the crisis.

Every day, she and her children meet Fatima at the bridge, walk to the hospital together, collect water and walk back to the bridge, where Fatima’s brother meets her. This way, Fatima is safe, and her family have clean water.

Broken bridges

The photo below shows what remains of the bridge that connects a village in Lobaye, Central African Republic, to the rest of the world.

In 2012, this bridge was in excellent condition, and were regularly used by traders carrying goods to markets throughout the area, using 4x4s, vans and small trucks, as well as by local people buying and selling in neighbouring villages.

As you can see, now the bridge is all but impassable. This is partly because, during the conflict, local people took planks, nails and so on to repair their own homes that had been damaged, or to secure their homes / stores against looting.

In the end, the village decided to completely destroy it, to keep attackers out.

Can you imagine having to make that decision? The choices were:

a) leave the bridge up - remain connected to the world so you can go to the market, the doctor, etc, but men may come in the night with machetes and attack everyone in the village; or

b) destroy the bridge – you’ll be safe from outside attackers, but the only source of food, medicine and everything else (including income) will be the village.

Since the bridge was finally destroyed in 2014, no humanitarian aid has been able to reach this village. So we are thrilled that we have just managed to secure funding to help the community rebuild their link to the outside world.

Songs in the key of poo

Since 2014, the humanitarian organisation I'm working for has been building latrines for primary schools in the Central African Republic.

During the recent conflict, school buildings were badly damaged, and even before that, latrines were in a pretty shocking state. Pits were overflowing, floors were collapsing, doors didn’t close, and most children and teachers preferred to use the bush. So here we come, with lovely new toilet blocks!

One of our school toilet blocks in Lobaye

All of this building is great, but it wouldn’t make much difference unless people knew that they should wash their hands, and were able to keep the latrine clean.

So we help schools to set up their own Hygiene Clubs, with pupils and teachers. These brilliant people are trained by our staff, and take on the task of telling everyone in the school about using the latrines correctly and washing their hands.

The Club works in small teams. Some teams make posters to put up around the school, reminding people to wash their hands. Other teams make up short plays and perform them – students love this – showing how to use the latrine properly.

The teams take it in turns to clean the latrine, using brushes, gloves and detergent, replace toilet paper and make sure there is soap and water for washing hands.

At break times, four Club members stand by the latrines. They make sure everyone knows how to use them (this is important, because the design is different from last time) and remind people to wash their hands as they come out.

They do this by singing songs, such as ‘Wash your hands, it will save your life,’ and ‘Be a happy child, keep your bottom clean.’

Never in my life have I heard a song that fills me with quite as much joy (and makes me giggle every time I think of it) as ‘Be a happy child.’ It's working!

How to dress your child in the lean months

If you don’t earn the same amount every month, and particularly if you’ve never been to a maths lesson in your life, it’s difficult to gauge how your household income has changed over time.

We’ve been asking people in the Central African Republic if life has improved since the conflict here ‘ended’ in 2014, and one of the responses we received this month hit me especially hard.

A mother told us: “We are much richer now. My three children each have two pieces of clothing.”

Two pieces of clothing. Not two outfits: two pieces of clothing. It’s something I’ve been noticing, but it wasn’t until now that it clicked. Poor children have either a top OR a bottom to wear.

I had a look through the photos I’ve taken here, and pulled out some examples of kids, most of whom were just in the background, messing about. See what I mean about their clothes?

Compare these children with Youssou’s family, below. Youssou is one of the people we’ve helped to start growing food, and now he and his household grow enough to eat, and a bit extra to sell.

So they’re doing pretty well: all but one of the children has top and bottom covered, and six out of eight have shoes.

“Why do they have so many children if they can’t afford to clothe them?” 

I’m glad you asked. For one thing, before the crisis, this family was fairly rich, and because Boda is so fertile, no-one was starving. Even during the ‘lean months’, people had enough to eat: 93% of children under five were well nourished and thriving.

Also, these aren’t all Youssou’s children. Some of them are his nieces and nephews, whose parents were killed during the war, so Youssou and his wife took them in.

Poverty here is brutal and relentless. People aren’t ‘poor but happy’ – they’re poor but resilient, and (amazingly) hopeful, determined and proud. We’re beginning to see change, but it’s agonisingly slow.