More unsettling news

A second man set himself on fire in front of the presidential palace last Thursday. Local papers say Senegal is poised for an uprising like the ones sweeping North Africa and the Middle East, and many of us are holding our breath here in the capital.

Worrisome news from Dakar

Man dies after setting himself on fire in Senegal

BY RUKMINI CALLIMACHI

ASSOCIATED PRESS

DAKAR, Senegal -- A man who set himself on fire in front of the presidential palace in Senegal on Friday died from his wounds hours later in the latest self-immolation on the African continent.

Witnesses said the man stood on the sidewalk and doused himself with a flammable liquid, possibly paint thinner or gasoline. It was not immediately clear why he set himself alight, but Abdoulaye Loum, who was at a bus stop nearby when the incident occurred, said the man was holding a piece of paper in his hand which he held up as the flames swallowed him.

The man collapsed to the ground and was rushed to a nearby hospital for treatment. A statement read on state TV late Friday said he died at the capital's main hospital.

A private radio station said the man was a soldier and that he was wearing his military fatigues when he set himself on fire.

This self-immolation comes on the heels of similar protests in Tunisia, Egypt, Algeria and Senegal's neighbor to the north, Mauritania.

Tunisia's mutiny that ousted President Zine El Abidine Ben Ali was touched off by a struggling 26-year-old university graduate who lit himself on fire after police confiscated his fruit and vegetable cart in December. Other self-immolations then quickly spread elsewhere in northern Africa and the Middle East.

Senegal is a moderate Muslim nation with one of the most established democracies in the region, but the country is facing its worst power outages in a decade and the cost of living has spiraled. There is growing discontent over octogenarian President Abdoulaye Wade's attempt to run for a third term, as well as the increasing influence of his son.

A U.S. diplomatic cable published by WikiLeaks warned that father and son appeared to be "preparing the way for a presidential dynastic succession."

An hour after the incident, traffic had gone back to normal. Pieces of the man's burnt clothing lay in a charred circle.

Read the story online.

Christmas in Dakar

My mother flew from Southwest Florida to West Africa to spend Christmas and New Year’s with me in Senegal. We visited the enormous African Renaissance statue, whose $27 million price tag has caused controversy in a country that still lacks basic infrastructure. We drove outside of Dakar to visit the animal reserve at Bandia, where giraffes munched on leaves alongside our Jeep and water buffalo lounged in the shade of acacia trees. We saw rhinos and zebras and antelope. Oh, my. And, of course, we ate—boiled shrimp, grilled fish, chicken stewed in sauce. Dakar offers many edible delights, and we tried them all. We celebrated the New Year downtown, welcoming 2011 in a crowd of international and Senegalese friends.

In Photos - Tabaski

Today we celebrate Tabaski, a Muslim holiday called Eid al-Adha outside of West Africa. Tabaski commemorates Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son, and Muslim families in Dakar slaughter a sheep in honor of the religious holiday.

The family where I lived for my first two weeks in Dakar invited me to join them. I missed the killing in the courtyard, but I was there for the butchering and the bloody clean-up. I also got to taste a grilled delicacy - sheep testicles. Some photos from Tabaski and the neighborhood.

Poverty in Senegal

I am a feeder. If I eat a mango, I slice off sections for the people around me. I buy beignets for my study abroad friends, and I bring madeleines to the office to share. There is happiness in the simple pleasure of giving food.

My feeding also extends to animals. In the villa where I live, the madame keeps a black Labrador, a silly thing that rolls on her belly the instant she meets you. But she has a deep bark that keeps the curious away. In the mornings, I tuck away a portion of my buttered breakfast roll, and when I come home at night, I feed the bread to Blackie. She wags her tail and lets me rub her belly then sneaks off to wolf down the snack.

On a recent morning, the bakery was out of the usual soft rolls, so I bought a baguette instead. That night, Blackie and I went through our usual routine: Wag, belly rub, bread. She crept away to the dark backside of the house with the dry baguette hanging out of her mouth.

I was boiling water for tea the next morning when the girl who cleans the villa stepped into the kitchen. Her name is Rama, and she is 15. When I wake in the mornings at 7:30, she is already at work sweeping the courtyard. She scrubs the tiles while I eat breakfast. When I come home in the evenings, she’s chopping onions or washing the laundry in large plastic tubs. I bumped into her once at night, asleep in the kitchen. There are four unused beds in the villa—bedrooms for when the madame’s children visit from France and Canada—and yet Rama sleeps on the floor.

I pulled the tea kettle from the gas burner, and she stood in the doorway.

“I saw you gave the dog bread last night,” Rama said.

I thought: busted. I wondered if she would chastise me for feeding Blackie people-food.

“The next time you have bread left over, you shouldn’t give it to the dog,” she said. “Wrap it in a bag and save it for me.”

I looked at her, and a hard, tight knot formed in the back of my throat.

“The madame gives me money every day, but it’s not enough for breakfast,” Rama said. “I don’t eat in the mornings.”

I thought of all the times I sat on the patio with my tea and roll while Rama swept at my feet. For her day’s toil, from sunup until after sundown, she earns just enough to cover her evening meal. In a country where almost 50% of the population is unemployed, the madame knows she can get away with paying those rates. This then is the face of poverty in Senegal. Not because there is not enough—in this household, there is plenty—but because those who have enough refuse to share with those who don’t.

I asked Rama if she wanted me to buy her breakfast. She lowered her eyes to the counter and nodded her head in a quick jerk. I bought her a roll that morning and the next one, too. But I’m moving out of the villa soon, and Rama will be back to fending for herself.

May the Earth Lie Lightly Upon Him

Friends do not come easily in Senegal. Not Senegalese friends, anyway. There is too much suspicion—on both sides—too little in common. The men you meet want to see if the rumors about American girls are true. The women look at you from the corners of their eyes, disinterested at best.

But true Senegalese friends are just that—true. Kind, helpful, and generous. Moussa Diallo was my first real friend in this country. A journalist, like me. We were the same age. He lived with the family where I first lived when I moved to Dakar, a son or cousin, some family relation that was never quite clear. We spoke in the evenings before dinner, going over the day’s news, and he brewed tea after the meal so that the conversation could continue. He showed me how to navigate the city’s bus system and helped me with my Wolof homework. In the hardness of this place—the stink of the open sewers, the men who call you bitch on the street—Moussa was a bright, bright spot.

Three weeks ago, I came home to find out that Moussa had been taken to the hospital. Malaria, they said. Then, two weeks ago: a cerebral hemorrhage. No one spoke the truth, that Moussa was dying of AIDS.

On Tuesday, I got this message from another student living in the house: “Moussa is dead.”

I came home quickly, and already women from the neighborhood filled the house and spilled out onto the street. They sat in rows of white plastic chairs, the kind many families here own, to be brought out for baptisms and other family events.

Flies crawled across the tiled floor of the courtyard and rose in swarms when a new woman walked in, her long skirts swirling in a blaze of color. The women wore veils over their heads and lifted the corners to cover their faces. One woman stopped to wash at the outside faucet, as if to rinse away her grief. She rubbed her hands together beneath the running water, crying softly, and then pooled water in her palms to splash over her face. The more she washed, the harder she cried, so that by the time she reached her feet she sobbed in great heaving gasps.

I sat with the women as the hot afternoon turned shadowed and a wind came up as the day gave way to evening. Clouds crept across the sky, and the sunset sent veins of red coursing overhead.

The men went to the mosque for prayers and then to the cemetery for the graveside service. The women stayed behind, lining the alley outside the home. The family handed out bags of crackers and blue mints wrapped in plastic.

When the men returned, an imam rose to speak. The crowd on the street answered him in parts, so that their voices created a low hum of prayer. When the holy man finished talking, the gathered neighbors stood and approached the family.

“Que la terre soit legère sur lui,” they offered as condolence. May the earth lie lightly upon him.

When the mourners had disappeared back into their own homes, the family re-stacked the plastic chairs, to be stored away for the next birth, the next death.

Second-Class Citizen

In Senegal, as in much of West Africa, the concept of women’s rights weighs heavily on the local population. The topic is debated in newspapers, passed between government ministries, dissected by European NGOs. Women’s rights are improving here, they say. Women are becoming a powerful economic and social force. The women of Senegal are on the way up.

The lived truth, of course, is a very different thing.

Women must dress modestly here or risk retribution. They are shuffled to the back of elevators; men push them aside to step out first. Men receive wooden benches for sitting at mealtimes. The women sit on the floor. When a German student staying with my host family offered me his bench one night, he caused a minor revolt. I didn’t take his seat—I knew my place—but even still he got a lecture from the father of the house.

This same father sits apart while the rest of us crowd around the communal plate. There are many of us—small children, students like me, his wife—and we all share the rice and fish. Some nights we only get a few mouthfuls apiece. The father, though, has his own table setting and his own portion of food. His plate is heaped with rice and vegetables and meat. I can hear the stomachs of the children next to me growl even when we have eaten what is offered on the communal plate. Sometimes the father has so much he can’t finish it all.

These are small moments. Wearisome and irritating, but insidious, and they work their slow way into your psyche and show you what it’s like to be a second-class citizen. Still, they are not grounds for anger. That comes later.

It’s a strange thing to hear a man hit a woman. It unsettles on some primal level, goes against the fundamental order of things. When a man hits a woman, all is not right with the world.

The first slap woke me after midnight. I thought I dreamed it, but then I heard sobbing and the hard thwack of a second slap, heavy and full, the sound a hand makes when it comes in contact with a cheek. There was more sobbing. I recognized the tone as Awa’s, the serving girl who works in my host family’s home. There was muffled yelling, and I recognized the voice of the father of the house. They stood in the courtyard just beyond my window. The father spoke in Wolof, so I could not understand what he said, but I flinched at the harshness of his tone. When he stopped yelling, he hit Awa again. She wailed in a voice that made my heart ache. I lay awake in my room until the voices quieted and dispersed.

Now when I walk the narrow alleyways between homes, I think about the women who live behind the iron doors. I wonder if they are respected and cherished, or if their anger is simmering, like mine.