The 'Living' Problem of Achieving Empowerment

Research Update: I don't write much about my actually research because I'm still processing what I'm learning at different development organizations, shelters and centers. Women's empowerment is a deeply rooted quandary--a complicated and living topic. 'Living' not only because it deals with real lives but because there is no one, consistent answer or path to empowerment: it's constantly shifting and changing as the world does.

My Fulbright colleague, Diya, is working on an almost identical topic about rehabilitation centers and their roles in creating empowerment. Last week, we (along with my visiting friend, Jika) went to the town Rajshahi to visit a community development center that has a few interesting programs on women's empowerment. The picture to the side is the three of us crammed in a rickshaw. We are still looking into the projects and I cannot divulge an analysis now (you'll have to wait for the published paper!)

But something that keeps coming up in our endless, circled conversations is how grey the solutions are. Our ceaselessly critical minds are never fully satisfied with any program we encounter. We've come--or are beginning--to understand that while there is no perfect answer, the best solutions are individual based, not system-based.

Organizations that are devoting their programs previously practiced method of empowerment don't leave room for the individuality of women's lives, decisions and cases. For example, often organization's play off the "typical" story of a trafficking victim (which, there is endless debate over using the word victim or survivor--an entry on constructed identity will come). The typical story being she was sold to a man who brought her to a brothel and was raped for 3 years until she escaped. Though that story does happen, there are millions of other stories that you don't hear.

At the center we visited, we heard a story of girl who was caught at border and man with her, presumed to be trafficker, was detained. The community center discovered after one year of working with the girl, the man was her adopted father. They begged together on the street and he took care of her. She wanted to cross the border to find a better job. When she was crossing, this man followed her to make sure she made it through okay. The man is legally blind and has no other family, just wanting to protect the only daughter he felt he had. "It's tragic," Diya said.

This is one case; one fish in an ocean. But that's the reality of trafficking: there is so much grey and individuality of cases that there can't be one solution. In all truth, there is not one 'evil man' and one 'victim,' instead various levels of informed consent exist. The man may not know the girl was trafficked or she might have chosen to migrate. But, the law doesn't work like this: there is moral and immoral, right and wrong, legal and illegal. If the law acknowledges that she consented to at least part of her 'trafficking,'* then she should be en-prisoned for illegally crossing the border, even though she was informed that the trafficker would cheat her. If you don't acknowledge her active consent, you see her as only a victim of unfortunate circumstance, not a woman trying to find a better life.

There is a line: where us as social beings are cornered by our cultural positions and responsibilities--and where we are active agents. Empowerment, as well as the path leading to it including justice systems, should be acknowledging and coaching our individual agency. This means looking at problems not in right or wrong verdicts, but for best options.

This woman to the right is a member of a women's empowerment group in a indigenous village outside of Rajshahi. Hearing the women shares stories about how they have changed their village from creating private ladies toilets, to having their sons and daughters attend school, to banning bootleg alcohol vendors, they were beaming and speaking with confidence and pride. Together, they worked on what they felt needed to be fixed in the village--and did it! Their empowered action worked for them and their tribe.

What they did might not work for everyone. Their needs were different from a neighboring village. But the confidence and power they gained is universal and everlasting--and with these skills they can continue to adapt to new problems and create new solutions. That's empowerment: never perfect, only ideal, by having ability to produce new ideas.

*Some women and men ask/want/need to migrate for jobs and need someone to help them cross the border. Depending, again, on the case, this can constitute trafficking or not; but it's not always clear because the victim may not be informed fully of their awaiting job or contract. So is it trafficking if he/she agreed to migrate but didn't know to where? Those questions and ambiguous answers create the grey.

America Week in Rajshahi: Dec 7th-12th

more photos

Development In(-)Action: North Bengal Part II

“They hung their heads in shame as their mother stood behind them, the end of their sari wrapped around their head and mouth, listening to their children’s grades read aloud to the entire village…”

Last Saturday my friend Maude was gracious enough to let me tag along to watch her work with her NGO.  We hop on the back of her friend’s motorbike that takes us to the river.  Maude turns to me and said, “Today we are going to a char to do interviews.”  We climb onto this long wooden boat with a motor, bamboo roof and wicker mats to sit on.

“Oh, by the way, the trip is almost two hours.”

Staff from the NGO climb into the boat; one is able to speak English, Maude’s translator from the NGO.  They all play card games or nap the whole trip, while Maude and I speak with the translator about Bengal politics and finance.  At one point, the sun was hidden behind the clouds, so we head to the top of the boat.  Quietly we pray that the bamboo will hold us and the three other staff members sitting on the roof under umbrellas.  No worries – it did.  And how refreshing: cool breeze, clean air, no noise or staring.  Laying up there, I could breathe.

We drop off other staff members at different chars and we ended up at Sidai.  The reason for Maude’s visit was to interview teachers and students about a ‘student-friend’ program the NGO started.  A student from the school must tutor a child who doesn’t have the chance to go to school.  Tutoring them enough should bring them up to speed to join school the following year.  Maude needed to see how effective this initiative was by talking to teachers, students and the principal.

As we get off the boat, we must walk through mud barefoot, into shallow, murky water that almost reached my knees.   The bottom the river was super slippery with mud and I kept slippin’ and slidin’ all over.  We get on land, albeit not dry, but solid was all I could ask for.  Walking through this little forest of skinny trees, the ground became less muddy the farther we got from the river.

Then the parade of children began to grow behind us the closer we became to the village.  A couple, a few, several, a dozen, a few dozen…  The children at least keep a safe distance from you.  When we walk through, it’s like the parting of the Red Sea, opening in front and closing behind.  But it’s a sea of little black and dusty faces.

“What is your name?” they ask.  After my response, in their little accented voices, ‘Amanda’ is echoed back a few hundred times.  Maude is speaking with the different staff about the project for the day, while I try to play with the children.  ‘Try’ being the operative word because it’s so hot I can barely breathe.  Plus, I don’t want to drink water in front of a crowd of people who 1) can’t keep their eyes off of me and 2) are fasting.  Ramadan rules my life.

Maude invites me to sit in on her interview with a teacher about the “student-friend” program.  A vital part of interviewing is having a good translator: who understands what you are trying to accomplish, and does not have anything invested in the project.  Maude’s translator was sweet, but because he works for the NGO, he often answered the questions himself without asking the interviewee.  At one point, a question was asked to the principal who responded, “jani na” – I don’t know.  The translator turned to Maude and answered the question himself.  Maude knew enough Bangla to know the response was “I don’t know.”  She said to me, “How am I supposed to help them improve the program if they won’t tell me the truth about how it works?  If they don’t know an answer or are frustrated with something, I need to know so we can fix it.”

Bangladesh is one of, if not the, center of development.  There is a mammoth amount of foreign aid pouring into the country as well as development projects and programs.  The biggest NGO in the world is Bangladeshi: BRAC.  And from my experience, Bangladeshis are very nationalistic, very proud of their culture and country, regardless of its shortcomings (like poverty and corruption).  I found that talking to Bangladeshis here, they only share what they love about Bangladesh, rarely what they dislike.  Other countries I’ve been to like India, Japan, Italy; the citizens will give a well-rounded view of their country – the pluses and minuses.  But as a foreigner here, I am only lectured on the golden qualities of Bangladesh.

I wonder if this overwhelming pride is shared with me because most people assume (rightly so) that I, a foreigner, am here working on a development project.  So many foreigners are coming in to discuss all the problems and things wrong with Bangladesh, trying to ‘fix’ her: from labor rights to how they should kill their chickens.  Constantly they are put on the defense about their culture (especially their religion) attempting to shed a good light to people who often see the dark side.  Their patriotism is reasonable.

But from a development perspective, NGOs seek the terrible stories in order to develop.  The reality and truth must be shared, no matter how embarrassing or tragic it is.  For Maude, it was vital for her to hear the reality of the program: what worked and what didn’t.  Money is hard to come by for NGOs and it’s better to know that it’s being spent on effective, positive and well-liked projects than a project that is dispensable.  Tough choices have to be made.  She also understood that it is difficult to come to a char for the first time demanding answers.  It’s intimidating.  As someone working to create change, you have to know the people, have them trust you – so you can trust them that they will give helpful, truthful responses.

It’s slow, which is frustrating because funders want results – fast.  Destruction is easy, development is slow.

Later, we had the chance to sit in on a parent-teacher conference.  And by parent-teacher conference, I mean a conference with most of the parents and all of the students, and a few of the teachers.  The leaders of the NGO read all grades aloud to everyone.  Everyone clapped for the students who received 100s across the board.  One NGO leader turned to me a few times when some boys were called, saying “There goes the next President Obama!”  I know it was said in pride of the student, certainly, of course - but no girl was remarked as being the ‘next Hilary Clinton’ or even their own Prime Minister, Sheikh Hasina.  Girls are still devalued, but that's my next entry...

The student who failed and were lowered in rank – they hung their heads in shame as their mother stood behind them, the end of their sari wrapped around their head and mouth, listening to their child’s shortcomings said aloud to the entire village.  The leaders of the NGO end with: “You should pay more attention to your child and their school activities.”

I sat there in the heat, burning at this NGO.  I don’t think competition is ever a good way to teach children.  Instead of competing with other students in the village, the child should work and be pushed to the best of his abilities.  Unfortunately, it is about 99% sure that these children aren’t going to grow up to be the next Prime Minister, or even a political leader.  They live in a village surrounded by water with little electricity and a school that just arrived three years ago.  It’s not negative -- it’s reality.  Instead of them competing for first rank and grades, they should just be learning to improve their quality of life by reading and writing.  The first place to start is by not announcing grades aloud, because both the children and parents were humiliated in front of their friends and neighbors.  One-on-one meetings are much more effective: the teacher, who knows the student, can talk to the parents about their child’s progress: both positives and negatives; not a NGO leader who stops by a few times a month.

Also, the NGO was telling parents, “pay more attention to your children.”  Let’s think about this: do you honestly think that the parents, after sitting in a hot room for two hours, half of them embarrassed that their child did poorly, will actually go home to ask their children about their day, because some man told them to in a lecture?

One-on-one meetings again are effective, because the teacher can sit down with the parents and find out how their home situation is.  Maybe little Ahmed is sleeping in class and failing because his father lost his job so little Ahmed works after school while his parents scramble to find work at night, leaving little Ahmed to watch two other siblings because his mother can’t afford birth control.  A large meeting could not discover this – you must be one-on-one with a person to understand their needs, the reason for their needs and the capacity they have to do something about it, and what role you can play.

I can’t blame the NGO for these shortcomings.  Too often do development programs fail not because they were ineffective, or they had bad leadership – but because funding is lacking.  A lack of funding leads to a lack of capacity so unfortunately, it might not be feasible for this NGO to perform one-on-one meetings because they can't afford to pay overtime to the staff that might be overworked.

What's shameful: I hear that because there is not much structure here in Bangladesh and no follow-up or registration, some NGOs exist for profit with a façade of charity.  Maude told me that one NGO built a well right next to another well in one village just to state on their Annual Report that they ‘provided a new clean well for a village up north.’  It was a façade to boast for funding, but utterly useless to the village who already had a well.

It’s a tricky business, which is unpromising because so much good could be accomplished with development research and studies -- it shouldn’t have to be a business. 

Transported through Transportation: Visit to the North

My first visit to rural Bangladesh was one of transportation: we rode countless buses, rickshaws, boats and walked on foot through paved streets, dirt roads, shallow rivers and mud puddles.  We were definitely transported to another side of Bangladesh being outside of Dhaka, so it was fitting that we did nothing but use transportation to entertain ourselves: just looking out the window is a cultural experience.

I visited my friend Maude in the town Gaibandha, in the northwest state Rajshahi.  She will be working with the French NGO, Friendship, and interviewing young students from a new project they started.   The six-hour bus ride was certainly a trip – I might have lost hearing from the pleasure the driver took in honking the horn.  But it might have been necessary, because he liked to drive on the right side of the road (which is the wrong side of the road here) to pass the sluggish trucks full of bananas, jute or chickens.

Friday is the weekend, the only day-off the whole week.  But most stores are closed, then most restaurants are closed for Ramadan, as are the museums.  As women, we are not allowed to visit mosques – so what is there to do in Northwest Bangladesh?

Well, quite frankly, nothing.  But Maude and I decided we did not travel here to sit in the NGO office alone.  We hopped on a two-hour bus to the town Mahasthangarh (still having trouble pronouncing it myself.)  We were dropped off at a mosque then wandered down a road to the museum to discover it was closed.  The road was beautiful: lined with rice pattys blowing in a soft breeze.  It was so quiet that we could hear the wind, something lost in the madness of Dhaka.

After discovering there was nothing more to do in Mahasthangarh besides breaking rocks with other rocks, we hopped on another bus to a ‘bigger’ town, Bogra.  It was after noon at this point and we haven’t eaten all day with all the restaurants closed.  But after breaking through the swarm of bus hustlers asking,  “kothay jabe?” (‘where are you going?’), we found a hotel for foreigners that had a restaurant.  We enter sweating, and smile in the breeze of the fans and in the soundlessness of the lobby away from the hustlers – then the electricity goes out.

We wait 40 minutes for the fan and our food, but Maude and I are super chatty so it went fast.  And luckily, in the hour we took for lunch, it began then ended the daily rain.  We talk to our waiter about what there is to do in Bogra: "Nothing," he responds.  “Go to Sariakandi and take a boat ride around the river for 50tk.”  Why not?

Hopping on to rickshaw, we swerve through Bogra into another city for 20 minutes then stop at a bench.  “Bus station.”  We sit on the bench and ask the ticket man when the next bus to Sariakandi is coming:  “Five minutes.”

Twenty-five minutes later, there are a constant horde of about two dozen Bangladeshi men standing around, sometimes so close I can feel the air from their open mouths, staring in curiosity.  None of them try to talk to us.  I try to talk but they just stare.  Their dialect is different and can’t understand me.  I try to make them leave, but they just laugh.  Finally the bus came.

Onto another bus ride, which by the way - women usually sit in front.  Mostly to avoid harassment.  After sitting on the back of the bus at one point, I learned my lesson never to sit in the back ever again.  We arrive at another town, and the rickshaw-wallah takes us to the river.  Now we are in a village, with naked little boys running around, hitting each other with sticks, avoiding their mothers screams not to step on the drying dates in the middle of road.

We arrive at the river and the first thing we notice: no noise. No motors, no yelling, no piercing radios blasting Bangla music.  We only attract a small crowd, of about 15 people and we turned our backs to the land and stared into the river – so we almost felt alone.  We “spoke of many things, fools and kings,” and watched a man try to catch tiny fish with a five-foot long U-shaped net.

Realizing our skin is beginning to burn (the woes of being white in a country where its people don’t sunburn), we head back to the bus stop, which is a bench.  A crowd gathers, and we count: 47 people at one point.  In order for us to keep our cool, we make jokes: “We’re like monkeys in a zoo: they can’t communicate with us, but they just watch how we sit and look.  Go get a banana, and you can feed us!  We should start charging them like a zoo: 100tk to stare.  For 500tk, take a picture.  For 1000tk maybe we’ll smile.  Buy us some food, and maybe we’ll do a dance.  Or, maybe I should just start foaming at the mouth and try to bite them, will they go away?”

One man came over to shoo everyone away.  I smiled softly at him and said, “onek dhonobad (many thanks).”  He smiled sympathetically.  After a minute of pushing everyone away, more people surrounded us after wondering why a man was shooing everyone away.  Mission quiet time: futile.  At least having so many people stand over you blocks out the sun and her harmful rays…

We then, again, jump on a bus that has a lion roaring instead of an actual motor, sit on holey cushions and pick off the ants as we speed through the green landscape.  And when I say green – man, I tell ya, I mean green.  Because Bangladesh is such a wet country, there are always crops and plants growing, whether they are edible or not.  If there isn’t a plant, there is water that reflects the green colors of the surrounding plants.

It’s now evening, almost the end of today’s fast.  We stop around dusk for all the men to get off and smoke their first cigarette since the morning.  Maude and I bolt off the bus to find some food and water – sweet relief!  It’s hard to not eat the whole day, but it’s even worse when you are in a climate that you are not accustomed too.  The weather is so hot and we become so dehydrated.  In trying to be respectful, I never try to eat or drink in front of Bangladeshis who are fasting, but it’s hard to find quiet place alone when everyone follows you like celebrities (without body guards).

Around 8, we’re back in Gaibandha.  The town is beautiful at night – no cars on the road, just motorbikes and rickshaws and a few buses.  We pass all the stores open for the night, lit by candle.  We find our way home by the torch on my cell phone, walking through the sounds of geckos and frogs, running past the growling stray dogs.  Finally, as Maude digs through her bag to find the key to the NGO’s office (where we are sleeping), I stand out from under the verandah and for the first time, see the stars from the view of Bangladesh.