Culture & Travel

On Wednesday afternoon, I left work for a three-hour minibus ride back to the capital city of Lilongwe. My team here in Malawi had planned a weekend "huddle" for myself and my colleagues: essentially a few days where we could all get together, discuss our work, and undergo some additional sessions to aid us in our work here and in our own personal development. For me, this weekend came at a very good time.

I love it here. The people are genuine and friendly, the food is delicious albeit a little salty, the views are beautiful, and my work is extremely fulfilling. Despite this, the few weeks I had spent in my district left me longing for a couple of days in a bigger city where I knew I could walk about generally unnoticed.

Let me explain: walking in Ntcheu, a town which essentially consists of one main paved road and smaller dirt roads leading to houses, can look one of two ways for me. On a good day, I can walk down the road, greet everyone I meet, smile, hold my head high, and confidently ignore people who stare just a little too long or men who yell things at me which I don't completely understand. While I wish everyday could be like this, I've come to accept that there are days when walking to the market to buy fruit will be the biggest challenge I encounter. There are those who stare at me, not breaking eye contact, and crane their necks to continue staring even when I've passed. This is annoying, but harmless. There are those who yell "mzungu!" (loosely, "white person!") and point – also something which I perceive as rude (I have a name! You could ask me for it!) but ultimately minor instances. What I have found by far the most mentally draining and unacceptable are the comments and interactions I've experienced with Malawian men.

"Mama, where are you going?", "Sister, come here!", "Tssssssss!!!!", "Be my wife!", "I love you!", "Give me your number so I can talk to you every day; I already know I love you!" are just a handful of comments that have been directed at me in the past two weeks, be it in a private conversation, yelled out of a bus window, or screamed at me when I've already passed and have no intent on returning. I am not exaggerating: not a day has gone by without this happening. On one occasion while walking, I noticed a group of three men walking very closely behind me for a number of minutes. My suspicions about their actions were confirmed when I entered a gas station to buy a drink, came out a few minutes later, and saw them waiting at the entrance, staring at me. They proceeded to follow me for a couple of blocks until they finally started a conversation with me when I tried to cross the street out of discomfort. While they actually didn't seem that bad after talking to them, I'll admit that my interactions with them when we actually spoke were probably not the most polite. Following me for fifteen minutes doesn't tend to elicit the best reactions.

The combination of being white and being female comes with a set of privileges and lack thereof that are very distinct from those of a Malawian woman or a white man. I can wear pants at work without much scrutiny, people are quick to come to my rescue if I look lost at a minibus station or frightened by a growling dog, and I'm generally treated professionally at work (although I should note I am the only woman at my office). These are things which I'm relatively certain a local woman would not experience to the extent I have. At the same time, while I am certain that it does happen, I have yet to witness a local woman be harassed (and yes, I'm calling it that) on the street by men. If there was a scale of privilege, I find myself shoved somewhere awkwardly between a black woman and a white man. But if I'm being honest, I've felt the impacts of being a woman much more than I've felt the impacts of being white (and trust me, I've looked for them).

If there is one thing which I've struggled with since arriving here in Malawi, it's gender – both what I see happening to others and what I experience. Upon receiving an unwanted comment on the street, my thought process usually looks something like this:

1. Give the dirtiest look I can possibly muster.
2. Immediately feel guilty for glaring at a perfect stranger.
3. But why should I feel guilty? Who talks that way? Who raised their son to talk that way?
4. There are so many women around – why are they just looking at me and not saying something? If I saw this happening in Canada, I'd intervene!
5. I've been here for almost a month now; am I seriously still a novelty?!
6. I hate feeling so uncomfortable in a place I'm calling home.
7. I can't even imagine feeling this way on an everyday basis.

It's this last point which has led me to realize that these occasions are probably the only times in my life where I've had to actively think about my gender and the way that impacts me. They are definitely the only times I've had to actively think about my race. I blend in in Canada: in my friend group, at work, at the mall, on the bus, in classrooms, at the grocery store. The idea of not having to think about the colour of your skin is not a privilege that I've not previously been able to really understand. Although I'm a woman, my race has carried me through life generally unnoticed. Living as a woman who has somehow been converted to a racial minority in the past month has provided me with valuable insight into how it might feel to be a minority living in Canada. Granted, these two situations probably look nothing alike for a number of reasons. One, I probably wouldn't be receiving the same kind of attention if I was male (as confirmed by my male colleagues working in Malawi). Two, being white is still ultimately a privilege; in my context, it's more the intersection of my race and gender that has provided me with unwanted attention. Three, I'm quite confident that the reactions I get here (which are extremely obvious and directed explicitly at me) are different than those usually experienced by racial minorities at home. While I'm sure that the types of verbal reactions I've experienced do manifest themselves in other contexts, I feel pretty certain that microaggressions and less explicit (but ultimately, more harmful) forms of discrimination are the ones which are more prominent for a minority woman in Canada.

The intricacies of dealing with gender roles and related issues in another cultural context are difficult, to say the least. When I've spoken about this problem to other people, I've received a lot of comments along the lines of: "oh, it's just part of their culture," or "but if the women are okay with it, then who are we to judge?" To an extent, I agree. From what I've seen, women here are happy to do the cooking and cleaning in addition to taking care of their family. It's expected of them and many wouldn't think otherwise. Telling women that I live with my boyfriend (but we aren't married) or that I don't know how to cook an embarrassing amount of things (Rob still has to make me lattes because I refuse to learn how to use a french press) makes women here feel bad for me, not admire me. That's their prerogative and something I'm learning to accept. At the same time, it's somewhere at the core of these gender roles that probably explains why women in Malawi are more likely to drop out of secondary school. This might explain why women are so much less likely to work (and have control of finances) than men. When they do work, they earn less: in the tea and coffee industry, women make about two-thirds of what their male counterparts do. Perhaps this is why domestic violence against women is so much more common here, or why young women are so much more likely to be infected with HIV/AIDS than men. It could be why women experience higher illiteracy rates or why their representation in parliament is so low compared to men. And here's the thing: while gender roles might be "part of a culture," for women to be more likely to experience high drop-out rates, financial instability, pay inequality, domestic violence, HIV/AIDS, illiteracy, and lack of political representation is absolutely not.

In the meantime, I'm lucky to have a host mother here who works full-time and isn't afraid to tell her husband when he's getting on her nerves. My colleagues at work, though all male, appreciate why I'm here and the work I'm doing and have taken me into their office with open arms. I am here with a group of extraordinary people who are passionate about social justice, and with an organization that I'm pretty sure is responsible for converting me to feminism (gasp!). I am reminded of the men in my life back home – my dad, my grandfathers, my uncles, my boyfriend, my male friends – who are well aware of my capabilities and know the wrath they would face if they asked me to make them a snack or prepare them a bath. I'm thankful for the three Canadian men working on my team here, who, when I expressed how I was feeling, asked me how they could help and acknowledged that this was something they would never have to experience here.

It's difficult to write about these topics and perhaps even more difficult to make sense of them. The challenge of discussing that awkward intersection of gender and race while being honest and trying to not offend people is a difficult one to maneuver. At the very least, hopefully this gave readers a better idea of what it's like to be a white woman working in sub-Saharan Africa. Perhaps it might even help to share some lessons that might prove useful back in Canada. In the meantime, I look forward to sharing about the next time I receive a comment from someone that I consider inappropriate. I don't envy that person.