I’ve been thinking about gender a lot lately. It seems I can’t escape it. Many of the conversations with our Sudanese staff – which his comprised largely of men – inevitably center on gender. It’s not a problem, but it is interesting to be reminded of one’s gender on a regular basis. The most hilarious example of the week involves a trip to our primary health care center in Sakure, not far from the border with Congo, to investigate whether fears of a meningitis outbreak have merit. The roads being what they are in Sudan, the journey takes about an hour and a half at speeds between 30 and 40 kilometers. We expect to encounter two bridges, but are unsure if we’ll find them capable of handling a vehicle. The first bridge, comprised of hewn trees placed side by side, is deemed safe by Dominique, our driver, who walks into the middle of the structure, jumps up and down once, and calls it good. But my survival instinct rises and I decide to cross the bridge on foot. My guise is that I must take a photo of the vehicle making the passage, a ruse that is quickly called. “You know men are stronger than women – that is why we stayed in the vehicle while you crossed the bridge on foot,” says Samuel. “Someone had to be available to call for help if the bridge collapsed,” I reply. It’s all in good humor. The men-versus-women banter continues as we push through brush, branches slapping against the vehicle like rotating brushes in an automatic car wash. Martha, no pushover herself, steps in: “Women are stronger than men. What do men do? They lie around. Women can do all – cook, clean, gather water, collect firewood, care for the children, care for each other -- but men can’t do anything without women. Look at Miranda. She is stronger than a man. She is in the field.” She doesn’t mention herself.
The afternoon passes quickly at the care center. Martha takes an inventory in the pharmacy. The county’s chief medical officer examines patients suspected of having meningitis and orders lumbar punctures to be carried out on two people – despite the fact that these samples won’t be able to confirm meningitis as the sick have been on medication. Samuel conducts a meeting with the village health committee in preparation for building sleeping accommodations for the center’s chief medical person. By the time everyone is done with their respective tasks, the lunch is nearly finished. Samuel grabs one of the two plates remaining; the chief medical officer, Jemis, who happens to be Samuel’s uncle, takes the other. Martha and I are welcomed to take from the platter of oranges in the center of the floor. “Why don’t you eat?” asks Jemis. “I did. I had an orange,” I say. “One lemon is nothing,” he says, shoveling piles of rice and bush meat into his mouth. I’m unsure of what I’m supposed to eat. Surely he doesn’t expect me to eat every orange on the platter. And then, somehow, the men-versus-women topic rises anew. “You know, men are stronger than women. Men can go longer without food than women,” says Jemis, his lips greasy with palm oil. Samuel joins in. “Actually I heard women can last longer than men during a famine because of their breasts,” motioning to his chest while looking at mine.On the rough-and-tumble way home, Samuel, who has been suffering from malaria for more than a week, offers up an unsolicited explanation, perhaps as an unnecessary apology. “There were only two spoons and I needed to eat to make this ride home.” I bite my tongue and smile to myself, bracing for the next jarring bump in the road.
Considering the theme of the week, it’s fitting that it ends with me and Martha sitting in a circle of 20 women at the YWCA. The meeting announcement – handwritten on a simple piece of paper – called on IMC to attend an urgent meeting with “Her Excellency,” the state minister of social welfare. A half hour after the designated meeting time, the minister arrives with her female colleague, the minister of education, in matching tinted-window Land Cruisers. Their beret-wearing soldier and his AK-47 stands guard at the bamboo fence. Their drivers are sent to purchase a case of warm Coca-Colas with pull-tab tops and Arabic labeling. The only man within the circle of women is tasked with taking notes for the minister. Representing any one of the 19 women’s groups in the area, each woman in turn tells of her activities – soap making, tailoring, weaving, facility rentals, HIV counseling. With the meeting being conducted in Arabic, Martha translates for me until her mind drifts off to a place only she knows. I practice looking engaged for three hours, despite only being able to understand the few words mentioned in English: Tuesdays and Fridays, $400, IMC, HIV, tailoring, juice, no respect. It’s clear that the meeting has become part support group. I wonder if this is what the early days of the women’s liberation movement in the United States were like – a hybrid of agenda-setting business and supportive sisterly care.
Now my mind begins to wander from the meeting, soaring over the dirt soccer field with the eagles. My life couldn’t be more different from those of the women surrounding me. As a woman from a country that has mostly worked through the growing pains of equal opportunity and equality, I have choices that are limited only by my fears. Sudanese women have no choice but to marry, to have children, to stay within the confines of their country unless forced out by warfare and natural disasters. It’s not uncommon here for women – girls, really – to marry at the age of 14 and 15. About 28 percent of women are married to men who have other wives, which from a public health standpoint is an invitation to sexually transmitted diseases and HIV. And all women are expected to have babies at each and every opportunity that their bodies allow. Family planning, even for the sake of spacing the children so that the mother’s health isn’t jeopardized, is nonexistent. Women whose bodies won’t allow them to conceive are left by husbands, and sometimes shunned by mothers and fathers. What would these women think of me if they knew my demographics – 40, single, no children? We may be seated elbow to elbow on this waning afternoon, but I know that in many ways we remain worlds apart. With all the facts on the table, would these strong, beautiful women think it was them who had been dealt an empty hand, or me?
