“I learned that reality is always complex” - Fati Hassane (Niger) 1/4

Fati Hassane is an African feminist activist from Niger, with extensive experience in the development sector. 

In our series of conversations with Fati, she tells us about growing up in different countries surrounded by different cultures (Part 1) before she moved back to Niger as a teenager and had to navigate her new environment (Part 2). We also talked about how she resisted various societal rules for women and her journey to building financial independence (Part 3). We also discuss her resistance today and its impact on others (Part 4). 

Fati was first interviewed by Françoise Moudouthe in late 2019, as part of a global project documenting girls’ resistance. The conversation has been edited into this four-part interview by Françoise and Edwige Dro for our #GirlsResistWA series. You can find out more about the series here.

Hello Fati! Thank you so much for agreeing to be a part of this series of interviews about girls’ resistance in West Africa. Let’s start by framing the time period we’re talking about. When you think about your girlhood, what age bracket does it entail? 

It’s complicated to answer that question. I’d say there are several steps. First, there’s my childhood in Belgium. Then most importantly, in Canada where I spent most of my childhood. It was a time when I discovered other cultures. My father worked for the Niger embassy and we would spend time with other diplomats’ families, notably Africans from Burkina Faso, Egypt, Gabon, Cameroon, other Nigeriens…but also Iranians, Jamaicans… I was exposed to all these people’s lifestyles as expats in Canada.

And there was my extraordinary mom, who we had and still have, and who would meet people from all walks of life… usually many strong, innovative women who did extraordinary things. One of my mother’s friends, who was a university professor, showed us a computer that allowed us to communicate with other professors who were in the USA. I realise now that those were the Internet’s early days.  Another friend of hers introduced us to yoga. So, I grew up with the idea that there were many ways to be a woman; you just had to choose and work to make that choice come true and everything was possible. So that would be the first phase of my girlhood.

That’s the kind of experience that affects you pretty deeply! What’s next? 

Next, came the beginning of my teenage years in France, where we stayed for three years. As soon as we got there, we already had planned to go back to Niger, so we had many conversations starting with “when we’re in Niger”. That’s the story of many immigrants’ children; your parents tell you about this country, this “El Dorado” that you don’t know, and that is a bit fantasised about. It’s a country where everything’s beautiful, where everything will be alright, and when we’re back, you’ll see that.

My family arrived in Niger when I was 13 or 14, and I spent my teenage years there. Once in Niger, you discover that the country isn’t as rosy as you were told, but it’s still your home. You have no other choice than to build your sense of belonging, even if it’s not necessarily that of the neighbours.

What about the end of your girlhood? What age or experiences come to mind? 

I’d say that my girlhood ended when I graduated high school. I started to work. I left the family home, and I managed to find myself a dorm room. I must have been 19 or 20 years old. Then I left Niger quite early, for my studies.

Thanks for framing this period. For our conversation, I suggest focusing on your life as a teenager in Niger (from 13 to 20 more or less). What was happening around you, or in the political or social context in Niger, that characterised your adolescence?

My parents’ house was - and still is - in a very interesting neighbourhood because you find everything there. Many wealthy merchants live there, as well as all those who work for them. At one point - I’m not sure how - a lot of the land in the neighbourhood went to civil servants, so there's also that group. All of this created a mix, like a mini-Niamey that gave me a glimpse of everything you can see in the city.

My mother is Tuareg and my father is Hausa. It was quite particular for us to be a little bit between the two communities because our arrival in Niger occurred during a complicated time during which there were Tuareg rebellions. We didn’t understand everything that was going on since we were kids, but it was all over the news. 

And did you feel the impact of this political and social context in your life as a teenager? 

Since my face looks more Tuareg, there were more of what we call micro-aggressions today: being called out in the street by names that we Tuaregs don’t find very respectful, but that became common in other languages. 

But it’s also quite ambiguous because simultaneously, the Tuareg woman has physical features that are associated with beauty.  In Niger, Tuareg women tend to have lighter skin, longer and sleeker hair, features that people consider more refined. So, on one hand, we were linked to an ethnic group perceived by some as less educated, less integrated, troublemakers. But on the other hand, as young women, we also carry this “pretty privilege”. 

But that is complicated as well! Being darker-skinned than my mother's family, we looked different from both sides. When we went to my father's family, people would ask him, “Where did you find that red girl?” Actually, the term we use is “red” to talk about the skin colour of the Tuareg. And when we went to my mother's house, they would ask her, “Where did you find that black girl?” We were always the minority, even within the minority community.

None of this was a traumatic experience per se, but it was interesting. I learned that reality is always complex, and it varies depending on who is perceiving it.

Prior to our conversation, I had asked that you share a photo that reminded you of your teenage years. You sent a photo of a colourful piece of fabric. Is there any link between these colours and the story you’ve just shared?

The fabric is called “litham”. It is a fabric associated with Tuaregs, who are often called the blue men because of the litham that they wear as a turban. Women also wear it and there is a great deal of freedom in the way they wear it.  And for me, it was important to underline this aspect of Tuareg culture which traditionally gives women more latitude in the way they present themselves to the world.

In the second part, we will talk about Fati spending her teenage years in Niger and how she started dealing with the various rules and expectations for young women her age. Click here to read the next part.