From the Field
Alone in my hut, I often ruminate over resources I once took for granted. Would you rather have electricity, running water, or cell reception? For me, cell reception would not only mean potential medical advice, contact with family and friends, and needed safety and security updates, but it could also mean – sigh – internet access. Electricity could mean no more 9 PM bedtimes or cooking with a flashlight in my mouth, while running water would excuse me from the daily laborious trips to the water pump. After attending an arranged marriage, though, my daydreams of ice, showers, and an electric fan seem arbitrary. Now, I’d add in a fourth option. If I had to choose, I’d pick liberation: the freedom to choose whom you marry, where you live, and what you want to do with your life.
Six months ago the directors from various school districts selected the brightest students to attend a Peace Corps Regional Summer Camp. Adama Diallo is a 16-year-old middle school student from my village. She, along with twenty-odd other accomplished young scholars, enjoyed their first trip to the city of Kedougou. We held art classes, gardening trainings, sex education, a career panel, and even introduced the students to American Ultimate Frisbee. The week ended with a trip to the local waterfalls and many tearful goodbyes.
Last week I attended Adama’s wedding. The compound was filled with adults crowded around communal bowls of meat and rice. I wandered to the neighboring compound to find twelve young girls clustered around Adama on the edge of a cornfield. They wept together, embracing Adama. Salty tears of lost opportunity and sobs of fear punctuated the joyous gathering.
“Do you know your new husband?” I ask. She shakes her head, explaining her father set up the arrangement. “Have you ever been to Kevoye (her soon to be new home, a village 30 km away)?” Again she shakes her head, wiping her wet cheeks.
“There is a school near Kevoye,” I say optimistically. “You can still go to school. You are very smart.” Her shoulders tremble with sobbing. Without looking up, she simply shakes her head again. After slipping her some money and whispering hollow words of encouragement I return home, angry.
The following weekend I attended another wedding in a neighboring road town. The day of the wedding, I timidly entered the female quarters. In the two previous weddings I’d attended, this room served as a shrine to lost opportunity – the place to mourn the loss of your childhood, your dreams, and your freedom. This time, I was pleasantly surprised to find the bride in a white puffy sequined complet, surrounded by women fussing over her makeup. Friends inscribed the initials of the bride and groom in glitter on her bags and cooed over her gown. She greeted the crowd with a smile. This, then, was a love match. When I asked the groom how long they’d known each other, he responded he needed pen and paper to calculate the sum.
The third wedding was a mix of tears and laughter. The bride, although only 17 years old, had been dating her future husband and would continue living in our village after marrying. I asked her if she was scared for the wedding night. She giggled nervously, then became serious. Young teen mothers of the village jumped in.
Two Weeks, Three Weddings
By Alia Kroos, 2nd year
Kedougou AgFo Volunteer
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