Journee Internationale de la Femme

Quick, when is International Women’s Day? What, you don’t know? Extra credit for all those who already knew that March 8 marked this year’s celebration, but I think most Americans probably move along in more-or-less blissful ignorance of this supposedly international day of recognition. Indeed, I don’t recall any sort of fuss being made about it during any of my three decades of life in the United States.

Imagine my surprise at finding it one of the major national celebrations here in Cameroon! Early on in our time here, I would occasionally notice women and girls wearing clothing made from ‘International Women’s Day’ fabric. Some in orange background, some green, some pink, all featuring different pictures and patterns and words. Soon enough, I learned that a new International Women’s Day fabric is created in Cameroon each year, and women are encouraged (pressured?) to buy it and have dresses made so they can march in the annual procession. Different civic, corporate, church, and social groups get together and have a grand parade in the center of town.

Though I frown upon pressures to conform socially or fashionably, I’m certainly a great fan of women, and I do like a parade. So on Saturday the 8th of March, I headed downtown with friends Adriana and Beth to take in the festivities. Adriana had purchased some of this year’s fabric and sewn herself an outfit, with enough to spare for an extra shirt. So I had the great pleasure of wearing the extra shirt! This mostly meant that people would smile and wish us “bonne fête” as we walked along. There was much to see, mostly involving huge crowds of women wearing dresses made out of the same fabric.

Our first glimpse of the action after we disembarked from our taxi was the main road toward downtown, blocked off, filled with women lined up waiting for their group’s turn to march in the parade.

Some found more comfortable places to wait, involving benches and/or shade umbrellas. Really, I don’t blame them. It was nearing mid-day, and sensible shoes were not a popular choice. (As they rarely are with African women.)

When the time came for marching, then march they did…

…in LARGE numbers! (Note the gendarme with his big ol’ gun in the foreground to the right. There was a large police and military presence that day, presumably there for crowd control, but also a reminder of the recent unrest and violence.)

The goal of their marching was to parade past the grandstands, filled with local dignitaries and other folk, where each group in turn was announced (by female announcers) in French and English. In this way, it was not entirely unreminiscent of the Rose Bowl parade.

It was truly a march for the women, a time for them to display their numbers and the various groups and careers to which they belong.

The few men who marched were only allowed in if they were ‘with the band,’ as it were.

Most of the fellows just had to watch from the sidelines for once.

There were few exceptions to the ‘uniform’ of the day. These fairy dancers (as we called them) were some of my favorites, and they were rockin’ some pretty graceful moves in their pink-and-white gauzy outfits instead of marching in matching dresses. Note the police officers guarding the street are also women.

There were also a few exceptions to the rigid marching formation, such as the more laid-back wheelchair delegation. Some of the handicapped women were in ‘typical’ wheelchairs being pushed by assistants, and others were moving themselves along in the innovative hand-pedaled contraptions that many people use here. Bringing up the rear of their delegation was a woman in one of these, rolling along in a gracious slalom pattern, a large yellow umbrella fastened to her chair. She was great, and I’m sorry not to have gotten a picture of her.

The sight I most regret not photographing was even better though, so I’ll describe it here. As we walked back up the road to where we could catch a taxi home, we saw the last few groups of women finally marching toward the grandstands. After the final group came a few trucks and an ambulance (just in case), then a few moments later, a magnificent sight rolled into view. A big yellow bulldozer with one woman driving and another perched on the side seat. They were both wearing the matching dresses, grinning from ear to ear and waving at everyone. It was fantastic! Alas that my camera was all put away in the depths of my bag, because they were past before I could snap them.

All in all, it’s good that people celebrate International Women’s Day, but I’m not convinced that this one day of marching in the streets and dressing alike does much to change Cameroonian women’s lives for the better. The worth of a woman here still seems to be primarily measured by how soon she can find a husband and how many babies she can produce. Once found, that husband may or may not stick around, treat her with respect, or find enough work to support a family. And that husband definitely won’t help with any of the housework; gender roles are still very much engrained into the culture here. Many women are not encouraged to learn any skills beyond cooking, keeping house, and perhaps singing with the women’s association at their church. Women are only just beginning to be allowed into positions in society that allow them to fully participate in leadership or decision-making, and then only rarely.

So it is my hope that this annual celebration will help Cameroonian women to realize their own strength, will remind them that some of their sisters are indeed holding all types of jobs in all levels of society. The women here are numerous, resourceful, and goodness knows they are not afraid of hard work. Who knows what might happen if they decide to step into their own power?