Women in Cajolá, Guatemala.... and me

After putting it off as long as I could, I finally read Sheryl WuDunn and Nick Kristof’s book, Half the Sky. It had been on my list since it came out, and I’ve had my hands on it for more than a few months. This book chronicles the lives of women in developing nations, and explains how and why educating a woman can educate families, villages, and countries. The book helps one to understand the necessity of putting our resources into the development of women. While living in a developing country and working directly with the women they are referring to in the book, it was hard to swallow. There are so many times that, for my own selfish reasons, I have had to put myself in the cave that is my house and try to forget what the women down the street are living with on a daily basis. This blog is a result of the feelings I’ve been trying to push away for so long; but, as we know, with knowledge comes responsibility. I am trying my hardest to ‘help’ these people the few ways I know how, and after reading this blog I hope you understand a little more the life of a woman in Cajolá.

I firstly want to point out that these observations come from talking to people, from being in their houses, and from asking questions. These are not statistics I found on the internet, and I’m positive that not every person working with the development of Guatemala would agree with all of my opinions. Also, this is not the situation of every single woman in Cajolá. I kid you not, I’ve entered into an adobe hut that had a giant flat screen TV. Once a family has someone in the states, their life can change drastically, and I’ve seen that happen first hand. What I want to focus on is that for women here, life is completely different. Even being here for two years, I know that I’ll never be able to understand or portray completely the life of a woman in Cajolá, but for those who will never be in Cajolá or a place like it, I’d like to try.

I’ve met girls here who are 13 and pregnant, 14 and married, and 28 years old with ten kids. It’s not rare that a girl is married by the age of 15, and it’s very rare if she is not married with a child by the age of 20. When a girl is married, she is in charge of the cooking, cleaning, and children. She’ll wake up, wearing the traje (traditional Mayan outfit) that she most likely wore the previous day and slept in, around 5am and start with her daily chores: grinding the corn for the rest of the day, washing clothes by hand (in a pila if they have one, in the river if they don’t), cleaning the house – even if it is adobe with dirt floors, she’ll sweep and clean as much as she can. The rest of her day will consist of taking care of the kids, going to the market to buy food (if she has permission), cooking, and cleaning.

Most women have to ask permission to leave the house, even if it is for things like buying food for the family or going to church. Many of my visitors met Juana, a 37 year old woman who helps me with my women’s groups. She keeps a clean house and is seemingly independent, but even she has to call and ask her husband, Torivio, for permission to take the kids to school, to go to the market, or to help me go on house visits.

If a woman from Cajolá is lucky, her husband is not an alcoholic, and maybe even has a job (yup, the job market is bad here, too). If he has a job, he’ll bring home at most 100 Quetzales a day, around $12. If she has no husband or if he is not around, the work she can get is limited to collecting firewood. This job consists of heading into the mountains around 4am, picking up as many sticks as she can find, carrying them back in a bundle on her head, and selling them to people who can afford to buy firewood from her. She probably earns 30 Quetzales a day, around $4.

If a woman’s spouse goes to the United States, it does not mean immediate wealth. Firstly, he has to get there, which is extremely dangerous and usually costs the family all of the money and land they have to their name. Once he gets there, he needs to find a job that will hire illegally, as well as a place to live. I’ve heard horror stories of men getting to the states and then immediately latching on to the drug culture and the party scene. Romeo, my 28 year old ‘host dad,’ is open about how he went to the states and part of the time would work the morning shift at McDonalds, the afternoon shift at Burger King, and then do any type of drug under the sun on his 8 hours off. Luckily that phase didn’t last the whole nine years he was in the US, and he was able to send money back to his family. Not all men get over this; I have friends in Cajolá whose husbands left and never came back. They found another woman in the states and don’t have the desire to return to the Cajoleñan culture. These women, usually with children, are then left to find money to feed their kids, as I stated probably by collecting sticks.

If a woman’s husband doesn’t go to the states, it is not uncommon for him to still have other women. There are countless examples of this and I’ve even seen it with fellow Peace Corps volunteers. The man tells her he doesn’t have anyone else, no kids, no other family, and she starts seeing him, until she finds out otherwise and ends the realtionship. As for women from Cajolá, they don’t typically stop seeing him. There are so many people I know whose husbands have other women, and so many men I know who have children with multiple women. These men most likely will not make the money it takes to support all of his partners and children, and then women again are left to fend for themselves.

Domestic violence is an epidemic here. I see a woman with a black eye every few weeks, and I hear stories of women being raped by their husbands or other family members, stories of emotional abuse, and of murder. In my first few months in site, I attempted to work at the Women's office, which all municipalities are supposed to have. Cajolá has one, but it isn't staffed. I wanted to work on opening it and deal with such issues as domestic violence. Everywhere I turned, people would say things like, "It's none of your business, it's between the man and woman." So if a woman wants to seek help for domestic violence, the only option she has is to take her kids and try to escape. This means leaving everything she knows behind, only to hide for the rest of her life. One of my health promoters, Angélica, was a 19 year old with an 8 month old baby. Her and I would go on house visits together in the village of Cajolá Chiquito, and on our last walk together I asked her about her son’s father. “We’re not together,” she said, “but I’m happy about it. I have my baby and I’m happy with him.” A month later, while Angélica was on a walk with her estranged boyfriend trying to get money to take care of their child, he strangled them both to death in the cornfield next to my house.

I do no think men have an easy life here; compared to where I’m from, I could write the day in the life of a man and it would equally shock the reader. I do need to stress, however, that women definitely live in a different world from even their brothers. From childhood on, one can see a difference. A girl from Cajolá is raised, from basically the time she can walk, to be working; whether it be cooking, cleaning, or taking care of younger siblings (I’ve see the 7 year old taking care of the newborn), she is always doing something.

The education of girls is definitely viewed as less important than that of boys. If a girl goes to school, she will most likely end it around the 6th grade. A boy probably won’t go much further, but if the question is that of money, the boy will be allowed to study and the girl will have to stop. This results in several things, but it affects the girl who wants to leave the community the most. The girl will stop her Spanish education whenever her formal eduaction is done. She will probably continue to only speak Mam, which will give her no access to outside resources since Spanish is spoken in all of the cities, and the kind of Mam spoken in Cajolá is different than Mam spoken in other parts of the country.

Any help that comes into Cajolá comes from a Spanish speaking person. The only voice these women seem to have is in the women’s community, which seems basically nonexistent. The men don’t take women seriously, and if they can’t communicate outside of their community, they have no one listening to their struggle. I call it a struggle, they call it life. I recently asked my groups what their goals were for the rest of their lives; what did they see in the future for themselves? Out of 80 women, I didn’t have one answer. They don’t think like that. I tried to give examples (I want my kids to go to school, I want to learn to read, etc), but they really just kind of shrugged, seemingly knowing that it doesn’t really matter what their goals are. I know help doesn’t come from outside, but from within, and I sometimes feel at a loss. How do I empower these women?

It’s also seemingly impossible to think they’re going to get something out of me being here, while simultaneously I am dealing with the patriarchical struggles of Guatemala. Because I’m white, I can usually get a shred more respect than the average woman (this being because a lot of people believe they need outside help to improve their lives). However, I’ve had many ridiculous things happen to me here. My experiences have pissed me off, humbled me, made me laugh, and made me want to immediately step on a plane out of here as soon as possible. One experience I can remember happened last year while I was translating for a Ugandan man, visiting to work on reforestation from the NGO CARE International. We had been visiting municipalities in the Western Highlands, using the CARE truck. At one point a woman from CARE was driving and accidently drove into a small ditch. The truck was teetering, and the Guatemalan men in the car, as well as the surrounding men who had seen the incident, came together and started talking about the trucks, chains, and ropes they were going to need to get it out. After listening and letting them talk it out for a few minutes, I suggested that there was a really simple way to get the truck out: pile up a few big rocks under the front tire and back out. They raised their eyebrows, looked at each other, then back at me. After a few moments of silence, one of them then said, “You go ahead and try that, little girl, we’ll watch and see how it goes.” They all them burst into laughter and then went ahead with the more difficult process of removing the truck with chains and a neighbors big truck. I, being the snot that I am, crossed my arms, and went and sat across the street with the Ugandan who was visiting. He then said to me “Why don’t they just put stones under the front tire and back out?” I started laughing, then explained what had just happened. He was surprised, to say the least, but just had to sit there and watch. I also knew in my head that if I had said that he, the man I was translating for, had suggested it before I said it, they would have done it.

I have also had issues at my health center. I have a male doctor ‘overseeing’ my work. I’m happy that he actually takes no interest in what I do, but when he does, he always seems to make me feel like a giant idiot; whether it’s how I should be taking Spanish classes instead of Mam (since my Spanish is SO horrible), or that I’m conducting my women’s groups all wrong, I take everything with a grain of salt and try to remind myself that I only have so many months left to deal with him. I’m not sure how to successfully relay the message of equality between men and women to my groups if a majority of the time I feel that in this culture, it really doesn’t exist.

This all being said, I do see strong women in the culture. I see illiterate women, such as Estela, my 26 year old ‘host mom,’ who know how important it is for both of her children to get an education and will do anything in her power to make it happen. I see Mikaela, one of my best friends here, whose husband left her with a 3 month old baby, went to the states, found another woman and therefore didn’t send money back. Mikaela collected wood and raised her son on her own. She helped the previous volunteer and I organize the women in her village (Xetalbiljoj), so that they could receive projects and get health education. I also see men who are not like the others; maybe it’s because I live with Romeo that I see it in him and not in others, but I know that he carries the baby on his back, loves his son and daughter equally, and helps to cook and clean. I have hope in Romeo and Estela, through their clout with the church, that they are helping others to live a more equal partnership.

Then come the questions that every Peace Corps volunteer asks themselves: what am I doing here? Did these last two years have any impact whatsoever? When I leave, will they stop washing their hands? Will they think I was just a Xnula (woman who wears pants) passing through and giving handouts? I’ve tried my best to be strict with the groups: if I don’t see changes in healthy habits, you don’t get a project. I believe that education is most important and I understand that a project doesn’t change a life; I’ve even had to cut a few women out of the project. But then part of me thinks “god I wouldn’t have time, either, to go to a meeting with some foreigner, if I had to make sure my kids were clean all the time, if I had ten of them, if I had to collect firewood for money, and if I spent 5 hours a day washing clothes.”

I tell myself that by being here, by being an independent and educated woman, I am empowering them. Do I really believe that? I don’t know. But that’s what I tell myself on the low days, and I hope that with my presence they do realize that there is a different way, that they can empower themselves and change their situation. I obviously don’t expect them to get up, leave their culture, and try to head to America; what I do hope is that some little girl that has been to all my meetings with her mom might remember me. Maybe she’ll remember the charla I gave on family planning, or maybe she’ll remember that going to the bathroom in a cornfield can make her sick. I don’t know.

I had been thinking about writing this blog for a long time. Due to my lack of English skills, the break from school, and the many thoughts on the topic I have in my head, I know this blog probably doesn’t flow. It’s long, and there are a lot of things going on. I could elaborate on everything said much more, but it would have turned out to be way longer of a read than necessary (high five if you made it this far!). Something I want you to understand, though, is how great we have it. I want you to acknowledge how privileged we are simply to be born in the United States of America, and use that privilege to educate yourself and to educate and help others. I don’t expect you to abandon your life and join the Peace Corps. I don’t know what I expect you to do. All I can think of is that I’m glad you now know a sliver of what life is for a woman here, and to do with this knowledge what you can.