“Resistance is having the power of questioning the system” – Anonymous (West Africa) — 3/4

Our conversation with Anonymous goes on. First, we talked about their discomfort growing up (Part 1). and how they eventually accepted their difference (Part 2). In this third part, we talk about resistance and the power of solidarity in their work in a queer women’s group. 

Anonymous was interviewed by Françoise Moudouthe in late 2019 as part of a global project documenting girls’ resistance. The conversation was also edited into this four-part interview by Nana Bruce-Amanquah and Edwige Dro for our #GirlsResistWA series. You can learn more about the series here.

Trigger warning: this conversation contains mentions of violence and abuse which may be triggering for readers. Kindly take a moment to decide if you want to keep reading. If you do proceed, we encourage you to centre your wellbeing and stop reading at any point, as you need.

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What does the word “resistance” mean to you when you hear it?

How do I understand the word “resistance”? It’s having the power of questioning the system. It’s constantly questioning the system and the society we live in. That’s what resistance means to me.

What examples of resistance did you see around?

My mother was my role model. As far as I can remember, I know she fought against many things, especially for me. She resisted by showing that a mother could raise her child without the father’s financial help. Then she married and lost her husband. She refused to remarry, despite people’s opinions. She decided to raise her three children on her own. She resisted when other parents with daughters bought dresses and skirts, while she bought me pants and combat boots. She could have imposed things on me, but she let me grow up like that. 

Do you think this resistance was rooted in the fact that you were, like you previously said, different? 

For starters, I didn’t have the words to determine if I was different by questioning everything. It was when I started writing, reading, and researching that I understood that there was a so-called difference. It was normal to me. Nothing was strange, no one should have a finger pointed at them because they don’t do what others expect from them. 

Was there a goal, or some change that you had in mind? Something around you that you wanted to change. 

I don’t know if I had the words back then, but I know what I wanted to change. I wanted less injustice. It was clear to me that things had to evolve. I often used to say, and I still do: “I don't want to be somewhere, knowing something’s wrong and not fix it before leaving.” Even if it takes a minute, I must do something that will cause questioning. Yes, my being somewhere, in a hostile place should not be without a change or the beginning of a change. I don't give up (laughter). 

Did you ever feel afraid to engage in any form of resistance?

Yes, constantly. Even now. I’m afraid of dying or getting raped.

Is this something you witnessed? People like you dying or getting raped. Or were those inner fears? Where did they come from? 

I read a lot; I gathered a lot of information. These were the kinds of repression against women who protested or who put up any kind of resistance. They were the two things around me: they were either killed or raped. Or they were married by force. I knew the forced marriage was never going to happen; that I was sure of. But the other two are fears that I carry constantly.

Conversely, what gave you hope back then? 

It was a person: [Nelson] Mandela. I told myself that if he could hold on for so long, there was still hope. If he could be released after being imprisoned for so many years, there was hope. There was Martin Luther King too; after his passing, we realised he was advocating for something right. Mandela inspired me more though. 

Are there things that you couldn’t do or didn’t do as well as you would’ve wished? What kind of resources would have allowed you to have a greater impact and reach more people? 

Resources-wise, I needed to be more independent to make less survival-based decisions. I needed to meet with inspiring people or mentors who would’ve helped me secure certain stability and reexamine the way I was doing things. Had I met them sooner, I believe I would’ve done things differently. I also needed to be the way I am today. I wasn’t as assertive as I am now.  I’m more comfortable with myself than before, and I think it’s something that contributed to the way I engage in my resistance. 

What could have helped you assert yourself sooner? 

I don’t know. Maybe if I hadn’t been raised in a religion in which people - so-called religious men - didn’t harbour hate towards differences. That would’ve helped me a lot. 

What does solidarity mean to you? How did it manifest in you and for you?

For me, solidarity is understanding the other first. Understand the other, listen to them, and set up a space for that.  That’s solidarity: Understanding, listening, giving another person space to express themselves, to talk, and to share their story. 

How do you feel when you’re in a space of solidarity? And more importantly, what does this solidarity allow in your opinion?

Solidarity empowers. It brings joy, and it boosts our actions. It reminds me of a Beninese legend: a water jug with holes. So many holes that water would run down all over when poured into the jug. So, all the villagers would put their fingers to fill the gaps. When everybody came to do so, the water would stay in the jug. Others could thus use it. That’s the image that comes to mind, now. And it allows us to uphold ourselves, our actions, and our battles. And to heal as well. From these battles, from the work we do, and from our journey.  

Can you tell me about a time when you felt that your personal struggle connected with other people's? 

It was in 2012, and I participated in the first activist school created by the organization where I currently work. This school allowed me to meet other people like me, from Ivory Coast, Senegal, Burkina Faso, and Cameroon. And when we had the opportunity to talk about our experiences, our dreams, and our visions, we realised that they were the same. It was important not to feel alone anymore, to know that we had support everywhere and that we could change things collectively.

How did you end up joining this group that you co-lead today?  

So, at that school, we got to talk about our visions and everything. When I got home, I knew I had to create a space for queer women like me. Everything that was going on at my house at that time was only meant for the boys. For me, there was an urgency to create such a space for my peers. We needed to find an office with an organization that could host our meetings and discussions. So, I put together a document and presented it to a person I call M., a queer activist who reassured me of her support. We started talking and every time I had ideas, I would share them with her. Then she approached me and offered to work with her.

But I had no experience. I had my insurance degree, and I was working in insurance. What I was doing with the organization was extracurricular. I needed to do something for my community, but I didn't think I could do it as my job. When I explained this to M., she understood but asked me to consider her offer again and if I wanted to, I could come work with her at the sub-regional level.  I already felt useless in the insurance world, so after this discussion, I left everything to work in queer women's organizations. I joined M.’s team in 2013 as a Program Manager in several countries in the sub-region. I spent two years there before leaving in 2016.

Why did you leave? 

Because I was very sick. I had to undergo surgery and, well, I didn't know if I was going to survive or not. I went home after my surgery. I thought about going back to insurance, but I discovered something important: I couldn't do something that didn't come from my heart. I had to do something that made sense to me. So, a little while later, when I saw a call for applications in an organization. I applied and was selected. So, I came back into advocating again. 

Are you better now? 

I think so. I have periodic checkups to do but I'm fine.

Do you remember the most beautiful or significant act of solidarity that you have done or that has been done for you?

I honestly do not know about an act of solidarity from me. But the act of solidarity that I received was once again coming from M. A photo of me appeared in the newspapers once. It was very disturbing because some of my family members recognized me, and I was confused. M was not in the country at the time; she was in the United States. But she called me every day, at noon and 6 p.m., for two months. The fact that she called me every day, I don't think I'll ever forget that. Even when I came home for surgery, she helped me go back home with dignity and in the right conditions (plane ticket, salary, wheelchair, etc). This is as much solidarity as you get. When I co-created the first queer women's association, she was also there to help me find partnerships. These are things that make you confident and make you believe in your actions.

After describing this touching example of solidarity, we end our conversation with Anonymous by discussing the evolution of their resistance and their visions for queer women's organizations. Click here to read the next part.