Notes from

Sierra Leone

The Women’s Hospital

31 July 2003

Princess Christian Maternity Hospital is located in eastern Freetown, an area of highly concentrated poverty and desperation. After an excruciatingly slow stop-and-go ride through the crowded streets, which street sellers took advantage of to walk car-to-car selling gum, calculators, and newspapers (“For di People”), we arrived at the dilapidated hospital.

Saffea and I hurried in the rain, picking our way through dark puddles as we wound between dirty buildings with broken windows. We entered the bright sexual assault center, recently renovated using foreign aid, for a meeting with doctors from the Medical Women’s Association.

The women were tenacious volunteers, receiving little or no compensation to support girls and women who had been sexually abused. They had visions of expanding, of opening a crisis center to care for survivors of abuse, of opening a hospice for terminally ill patients, of starting a program for HIV/AIDS patients, of conducting a diabetic survey of the province. And then they hoped to expand to the rural provinces.

Could two dozen women doctors make a dent on the medical and psychological needs of 5 million people? Not to mention change the social attitudes and practices that permit sexual abuse…

Waiting for a driver to come collect us after the meeting, we talked with our colleague Aminata who helped facilitate the work of the sexual assault center and the women doctors. She spoke bitterly about the lack of legal support for abused women.

“Here, women cannot own land. Can you imagine, when your husband dies, you have no rights to the land that you worked so hard on?!

“And a husband cannot rape his wife under the constitution. They will just say, ‘You chose to marry this man, so he can have sex with you if he wants.’ Worse, this isn’t even true, because often girls were married off young and didn’t actually choose who they married. Also, when little girls are sexually abused here, instead of keeping her away from her abuser, her parents will have the abuser marry the girl. Can you imagine the psychological damage this causes?” Amie paused and shook her head.

“Recently a couple of girls stayed out late at a night club and took a ride home with some men. These men raped the girls, very brutally. The girls were torn up and even had lacerations on their thighs. With the help of some UN guys, the men were caught and brought before the police—but the policeman let them go, saying ‘I will not apprehend these men; you girls were asking for it!’” Amie shook her head in disgust.

“I was meeting with some Ministers to promote law reform to give women their rights. After the meeting, one Minister said, ‘Our women were fine until you came back [from America] and told them about their rights’”!

I recalled talking with a young Canadian woman who is fighting sexual exploitation by humanitarian aid workers. Far too often, aid workers abuse their access to resources by requiring sex in exchange for food rations or other material aid that rightly belongs to the refugees. This same exploitative technique is used by many people in positions of power: teachers who require sex in exchange for grades, taxi drivers exchanging rides for sex to take schoolgirls to school, security workers requiring sex in exchange for safe passage.

The Canadian woman spoke with me about Mende women here who have told her that if their husbands don’t beat them, they think they don’t love them. Also, she said, “in Mende culture, a man asks a girl’s parents if he can marry the girl by saying ‘I want to marry your daughter,’ to which the parents reply, ‘Why do you want her?’ and he gives the proper answer, ‘I want her for sex.’”

Hearing these things, I mentally thanked all the women who struggled in America before me to give women rights and who fought laws and attitudes that blamed the victim for rape.

Small successes in Blama town

The struggle for women’s rights here in Sierra Leone is achieving tiny success here and there. On my way from Gerihun refugee camp to Tobanda camp, I visited a women’s community center in Blama town. The women had been told that I was coming, but not that I was to arrive at 4pm, so they waited at the center since 8 that morning.

As I stepped out of the car, about twenty women came out of the center singing, clapping, and dancing for me. They were colorfully dressed in their best African clothing for the occasion. I had not been expecting such a warm welcome; I thought I was to meet with just one or two group leaders!

The women told me that now they feel they are more respected in the town. They now realize that it is good to work side-by-side with men. They also are happy to know that rape is a crime and not something they have to accept. They now feel that they do not have to be ashamed to ask for help for the sexual health issues that they may have. Domestic violence and wife-beating has decreased, they reported. They are trying now to abolish the system of sending girls to be married when they are still very young.

“How do the men see this women’s group?” I asked, worried that men might feel their control is threatened by the rights that the women were coming to expect. The women replied that the men appreciate the nice building and really respect the women. With the help of the center, said the group chairlady, most disputes between husbands and wives can be settled, and some homes are now peaceful.

Blood running on the hospital grounds

As Saffea and I left the maternity hospital, Amie mentioned “It is really in bad shape here. Sometimes you can see the blood being pumped from the surgery ward. It is really disgusting,” she shuddered and wrinkled her nose. I pictured clear tubes with blood flowing through them.

We wound our way back through the hospital alleys toward the car in the rain. As I approached a large puddle that I had tiptoed through on the way in, I realized that it was a puddle of blood. I started with the realization and went around it. Cutting across the path was a small gutter, a shallow indentation through which fresh red blood flowed. With horror, I thought how terrifying a surgery must be in this hospital. I stepped across the blood stream and rushed to the safe cradle of the car.

Next article: Monsters

Disclaimer: Opinions expressed in the personal notes are my own. Facts presented are accurate to the best of my knowledge, but this site should not be taken as an authoritative resource.

Copyright © 2003 Julie Greene