Rural India

A few days ago I found myself sitting on a local commuter train, chugging our way down the tracks at 7 a.m. on the way to one of the many villages surrounding the 20 million strong city of Kolkata.

Shoulder to shoulder, chocolate and brown skins glistening as the heat rose and sweat beaded our brows, bags and babies tossed onto laps at random, we made the slow journey from the madness of urban India to the calm openness of the village life.

A stop for a much needed chai at a shop outside the train station ended with half the village in attendance, as everyone ogled the gora with the sun-bleached blond hair. An hour long jeep ride down bumpy roads as the buildings changed from brick to mud and bicycles and rickshaws replaced buses and cars ended with me bruised and exhausted. Slowly we dragged our weary bodies out of the car and trudged down the street to our destination: Ridigai, West Bengal, India.

I had been informed that we would spend a few hours participating in an "English conversation class" for primary school teachers.

Whatever that means.
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Up until now, the biggest lesson I've learned as a 'freelance development worker' (for lack of a more concrete and appropriate term) is to never, ever have expectations. It's not gonna turn out the way you thought it would, so don't bother. Just go with it.

This was one of those 'go with it' situations.

We arrived in a...school?...farmhouse?...home?.....let's just call it a building. In this building, we had our fourth chai of the day. Post-tea, we were told that the teachers were waiting to talk to us. We entered the room.

A large rectangular room greeted us, its walls painted green and white, the paint faded and peeling in spots. The bare concrete floor was invisible beneath the bodies of 70 teachers sitting cross legged and facing the front. Not a stick of furniture filled the room, with the exception of two wooden chairs placed at the front.

"Oh god, please tell me they don't want us to sit on 'thrones' in front of everyone" I thought.

Yup. They sure did.

So there I perched, younger than everyone in the room by about 10 years, little white girl in her AliBaba pants and scarf, cross-legged and totally lost and hoping things would get a bit less weird pretttttty fast.

First question: "yes hello ma'am (ma'am?!?!...you're 45! call me kid, please!!). What is your name?" Camille "Ah yes. Your country?" Canada.

Second question: "yes hello ma'am. Your country?" "your name"
Third question: "Hello thank you. Where are you from?"
Fourth question" yes hello thank you ma'am..."

You get the idea.
We got fed up pretty fast, so decided to stir things up and start asking THEM questions.
Within half an hour I knew that most of the men in the room thought that the education system's problems were unsolvable and that parents needed to care more about their children's education. I knew that most had M.As, and nearly all were married.

I didn't know a single thing about the 15 women sitting in front of me.

Gently probing, I managed to discover that they were all married, all had children, and most had had their first child between 19 and 22 years of age.

And they, like the men, all had at minimum a bachelors degree. Most had M.As.

These strong, proud women, these educated women from the forgotten lands of India (for the government truly has forgotten these people - the island they live on has never even been properly mapped), these women who are struggling to forge an independence in the villages, were the same women who got married off as teenagers and spent their lives perpetually pregnant. They were the same women who sat before me petrified to speak in front of the men. They sat there trapped by the culture and traditions of this country which privilege men, babies and food before a woman's freedom.


Incidentally a lot of them spoke better English than the men. But fear and tradition can silence even the strongest of voices.

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....this experience was all well and enlightening for the little girl sitting like a princess at the front of the room.

But the kicker was yet to come.

As we got up to leave, a gangly, bespectacled young gentleman held up his hand.

"Please one more question for you ma'am."
Here we go again "I'm from Canada, my name is Camille...." I thought.

"Please, can you tell us a bit about family planning in Canada?"

uhhhhh........come again?!?!

you want me, the youngest person in the room, the only single person in the room, to tell you about contraception. You, a group of married adults, most of whom are parents.

You...want ME....to explain....family planning.

So I did.

I talked about how as a young woman in Canada, my parents explained to me that when you are in love with someone, you have a choice to express that love physically. You also have a choice to have children or not. If you chose not to, there are options to pick from.

I explained condoms (awkward).
I explained birth control (a little less embarrassing, obviously).

"Ah yes, for women we have the same thing, only it is more like for the men..." one eager pupil spoke up. He then went on to describe a female condom.

Right.



In sum, what can we conclude from this little adventure in rural India? Surrounded by beautiful lush paddy fields, the sun strong on my face, the dust of a five hour journey still clinging to my skin, breathing fresh air for the first time in weeks, my conclusion was this:

These are the educated ones. These are the ones that pass on knowledge to the next generation, these are the people who want to learn and grow and progress.

And their women sit stifled.
And none of them know about the pill.

That's my conclusion.
...is that even a conclusion?