Urban Dreams: Transformations of Family Life in Burkina Faso 1785333763, 9781785333767

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URBAN DREAMS

Urban Dreams Transformations of Family Life in Burkina Faso

❍❍❍ Chapters by

Claudia Roth Edited by

Willemijn de Jong, Manfred Perlik, Noemi Steuer and Heinzpeter Znoj

berghahn NEW YORK • OXFORD www.berghahnbooks.com

First published by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com © 2018 Willemijn de Jong, Manfred Perlik, Noemi Steuer and Heinzpeter Znoj All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher. Notes on Translation Chapters 1–5 and 9 were translated by Steven Parham Chapters 6 and 10 were translated by Vanessa Brutsche Chapters 7 and 8 were originally published in English Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Roth, Claudia, 1955-2012, author. | Jong, Willemijn de, 1949- editor, writer of introduction. | Perlik, Manfred, 1954- editor. | Steuer, Noemi, editor. | Znoj, Heinz Peter, 1959- editor. | Parham, Steven, translator. | Brutsche, Vanessa, translator. Title: Urban Dreams: Transformations of Family Life in Burkina Faso / by Claudia Roth; edited by Willemijn de Jong, Manfred Perlik, Noemi Steuer and Heinzpeter Znoj. Description: New York: Berghahn Books, 2018. | “Chapters 1-5 and 9 were translated by Steven Parham. Chapters 6 and 10 were translated by Vanessa Brutsche. Chapters 7 and 8 were originally published in English.” | Some articles originally published in German or French, now translated into English. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2017058329 (print) | LCCN 2017058979 (ebook) | ISBN 9781785333774 (Ebook) | ISBN 9781785333767 (hardback: alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: City and town life—Burkina Faso—Bobo-Dioulasso. | Sociology, Urban—Burkina Faso—Bobo-Dioulasso. | Families—Burkina Faso— Bobo-Dioulasso. | Bobo-Dioulasso (Burkina Faso)—Social conditions. | Bobo-Dioulasso (Burkina Faso)—Economic conditions. Classification: LCC HT384.B922 (ebook) | LCC HT384.B922 B637 2018 (print) DDC 307.76096625--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017058329 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-78533-376-7 hardback ISBN: 978-1-78533-377-4 ebook

❍ CONTENTS

Acknowledgements Introduction. Claudia Roth’s Work in Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso Willemijn de Jong

vii 1

Part I. Ethnography and Reflexivity Chapter 1. Culture Shock, Power and Knowledge: Negotiating Boundaries in Ethnographic Fieldwork

15

Part II. Negotiating Love and Marriage Chapter 2. Beware When the Women of Bobo Dress Up! An Ethnographic Contribution

35

Chapter 3. ‘What is Love?’ Changing Matrimony in Bobo-Dioulasso – A Case Study

51

Chapter 4. Social Security and Gender: Marital Crisis as a Mirror of the Economic Crisis

63

Part III. Elderly Parents and Their Children: Sharing or Living in Poverty Chapter 5. Blood Ties as a Social Network: The African Extended Family as an Economic Association

77

Chapter 6. The Invisible Impoverishment of the Elderly in Bobo-Dioulasso

82

Chapter 7. ‘Shameful!’ The Inverted Intergenerational Contract in Bobo-Dioulasso

95

Chapter 8. The Strength of Badenya Ties: Siblings and Social Security in Old Age – the Case of Urban Burkina Faso

117

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CONTENTS

Part IV. Youth: Dreams and Hardships Chapter 9. Tea and Dreams: Men’s Generational Conflict in Bobo-Dioulasso

153

Chapter 10. Between Dreams of Grandeur and Pragmatism: Young People in Urban Burkina Faso

166

Publications of Claudia Roth

190

Index

195

❍ ACKNOWLEDGEM E N T S

The editors wish to thank all individuals who have actively supported Claudia Roth’s work in the past, as well as those who have contributed to financing this book through a tontine:

Doris Aebi, Fatoumata Badini-Kinda, Maja Baumgartner, Danielle Bazzi, Matthias Bischoff, Ina Boesch, Peter Bohny, Peter Brunner, Silvia Büchi, Sam Burckhardt, Dominique Candrian, Willemijn de Jong, Susi ErnstStaub, Ita Grosz, Pedro Grosz, Allan Guggenbühl, Bea Guggenbühl, Stephanie Guha, Ursula Hauser, Roland Hermann, Jürg Helbling, François Höpflinger, Manù Hophan, Andi Hoppler, Minchie Huggler, Peter Huggler, Silvia Huggler, Chinwe Ifejika, Christoph Iseli, Stella Jegher, Anna Koellreuter, Brigitte Knoblauch, Erwin Knoblauch, Florianne Koechlin, Blahima Konaté, Monika Leuzinger, Irene Lietha, Susi Lindig, Elisio Macamo, Lorenz G. Löffler, Jan Morgenthaler, Marco Morgenthaler, HansPeter Müller, Therese Müller, Mika Naegeli, Ami Ouangrawa, Christoph Oertle, Cathy O’Hare, Paul Parin, Manfred Perlik, Bigna Rambert, Daniela Renner, Lilo Roost Vischer, Barbara Roth, Issiaka Sanou, Jeanne Aimée Sanou, Christoph Schaub, Marina Schindler, Christine Schuppli, Urs Sekinger, Salif Sembre, Patty Shores, Catherine Silberschmidt, Felix Singer, Silvano Speranza, Noemi Steuer, Patrick Straumann, Res Strehle, Jakob Tanner, Ilia Vasella, Oli Vischer, Hortensia von Roten, Käthi Weber, Peter Wildbolz, Martin Witz, Sabine Wunderlin, Heinzpeter Znoj

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❍ in tro duction

Claudia Roth’s Work in Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso Willemijn de Jong

laudia Roth was an outstanding Swiss anthropologist who did comprehensive research on West Africa for almost twenty-five years, from 1989 to 2012, the year of her death. During this time, she concentrated on specific neighbourhoods in Bobo-Dioulasso, the second-largest city in Burkina Faso. This resulted in a unique ethnographic narration of local struggles against both persistent as well as new insecurities. In particular, her work has covered the research fields of urban anthropology; gender, work and family life; generational relationships, poverty and social security; and young academics and their careers. These scholarly fields were not entirely new when she stared working on them. She was inspired, for example, by feminist studies on the negotiation of intra-household dynamics in the region. Yet, she reacted to this trend in her own specific ways and elaborated upon it in the new and changing conditions of an urban context. Thus, the research topics she focused on opened up new scholarly terrain in regard to Burkina Faso, and her long-term ethnographic work was truly pioneering. Her work is unique because it is rich in factual details and it is a lively and, often, poetic testimony of many women and men, young and old, their relationships, their hopes and dreams, and the harsh existential challenges they experience in their everyday lives. With each piece of work she created, Claudia Roth provided readers with deeper and denser insights, both structural and practical, into lives that usually pass unnoticed in the media and in mainstream social science studies – of people who hardly raise their voices, unless an extraordinary anthropologist such as Claudia Roth listens to them, again and again, and gives them a space in which their voices can be heard and recognised. With this

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anthology, we honour her and the people she worked with, and we seek to amplify this space once more with the stories, concerns and pleasures that they entrusted to her, as well as calling to mind the fascinating findings she extracted from them. Until now Claudia Roth’s articles were widely scattered throughout numerous journals and edited volumes. They have been published over the course of twenty years, and in three languages – German, French and English.1 By uniting these articles in one volume, and by translating those originally published in German and French into English, we make her long-term ethnographic study available to a larger readership so that it can achieve the impact it deserves. From a broader perspective, the articles presented in this anthology meticulously depict the evolving lifeworld of an urban population in one of the world’s poorest countries in the 1990s and 2000s.

Milestones in Research Claudia Roth graduated with an MA in social anthropology at the University of Zurich in 1982 with a theoretical thesis on women’s work and power. The study was entitled Woman and her Relationship with Man and Capital (Roth 1982).2 In the 1980s, she additionally worked as a journalist and activist on issues of biotechnologies related to humans, animals and plants, and she became known in Switzerland as the editor and author of the volume The Age of Genes (Roth 1987).3 Her own contributions in that volume discussed embryo transfer among cows, and human genetic diagnoses. She was amongst the first anthropologists to deal with these issues. In the 1990s she continued her work on women and gender relations, particularly in the context of gender segregation, which were issues that were high on the agenda of women anthropologists internationally at that time. In Bobo-Dioulasso, she found her regional focus. Starting in 1989, she conducted fieldwork for her PhD for a period of fourteen months in the neighbourhood of Koko in Bobo-Dioulasso with people who identify themselves as Zara. Initially, she came to the town to study how young Burkinabè cope with the challenges of growing up in a culturally vibrant multi-ethnic town where strong tensions among the genders and generations as well as between cultural values could be expected. After she had lived there for a while, she began to focus her study on strategies of power of men and women in regard to love, marriage, property, money, and child rearing. The relationships with the families in the compound in which she lived had an important impact on her initial ethnographic

CLAUDIA ROTH’S WORK IN BOBO-DIOULASSO

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work. With every further field research she extended her social network, and she continued to cultivate these relations until the end of her scholarly career. In the book that resulted from this first project, she developed a remarkable thesis: that gender segregation in this urban West African context limited patriarchal power because it enabled women to have the possibility to create a life of their own, based on modest economic independence – and this was also recognised by the men (Roth 1994). This differed significantly from earlier conditions, when women had been completely dependent on the elder male kin and husbands, who had the right to decide on many important issues regarding living conditions. In order to present examples for female economic independence, she curated an exhibition based on her research project with the title ‘Work in Waste: The Soap Women in Bobo-Dioulasso’,4 which included incisive pictures by the Swiss photographer Susi Lindig and a catalogue with her own texts (Roth and Lindig 1998). The exhibition was showcased in the Musée de l’Homme in Paris, and at several venues in Switzerland, as well as in Burkina Faso and Mali. With a grant from the Swiss National Science Foundation, in the first half of the 2000s she conducted research together with the sociologist Fatoumata Badini-Kinda on local social security, age and gender in Burkina Faso. This research was part of a comparative project between two countries in the Global South and between urban and rural regions within these countries. Willemijn de Jong and Seema Bhagyanath conducted a parallel study in Kerala, India. At that time Claudia Roth also worked at the Department of Social Anthropology at the University of Zurich. In a joint book publication – Ageing in Insecurity (de Jong, Roth, BadiniKinda and Bhagyanath 2005) – as well as in several articles in journals and books, she denounced certain engrained social scientific and popular wisdoms of those years. For example, by closely documenting the livelihood strategies of women and men of various neighbourhoods, she called into doubt established notions of ‘the African family’ as a solidarity network. She showed that young women create personal space by mobilising both the kinship relations with their natal families as well as the relations with the families of lovers and husbands. Further, she pointed to the fact that it is often the elderly women who support their families with small-scale earnings. Therefore, she innovatively argued, they are often the ones who are able to maintain important relationships of social support. Without the economic and social efforts of the elderly, these families risked impoverishment. Moreover, she dealt with the widespread phenomenon of chronically unemployed or underemployed men, who thus did not have the neces-

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sary resources to provide for a family. She pointed out that this put conventional notions and structures of the family under severe stress. The consequences were destabilised marital ties and what she conceptually coined the ‘inverted inter-generational contract’, meaning that many young men and women cannot assume the role of providers for their aged parents and that especially young mothers remain permanently dependent on their parents. This inversion of the generational contract undermines the long-term viability of multi-generational households that have hitherto served to cushion individual risks and distribute benefits. The weakening of these social structures makes life for the poor ever riskier, and long-term social security increasingly elusive – a process that over time reinforces the impoverishment of whole strata of the urban population. In view of the process of rapid urbanisation in Africa, these structural social changes must be understood in greater detail. Claudia Roth’s groundbreaking work is an essential and rich contribution to attaining this goal. From 2007 until 2011, Claudia Roth conducted research at the University of Lucerne on ‘burdened generational relationships’, which was also financed by the Swiss National Science Foundation (Roth 2011). In this project, she cooperated with the sociologist François Höpflinger, an expert on phenomena of ageing in Europe. In the meantime, she was also affiliated with the University of Berne and was invited to hold guest lectures there. In her desire to deepen her study of the inverted generational contract, she became interested in the emerging new habitus of different generations that expresses the contradiction between the normatively valid generational contract and the generational relationships existing in practice. The relationships between elderly parents who are chronically ill and their caring children, and those between ‘children without employment’5 and their caring elderly parents came into focus. The new and intriguing aspect of this research was that both the perspectives of the parents and their children were collected. In the first case, Claudia Roth found that young daughters and sons are overburdened when they simultaneously have to care for their parents by providing money and time and have to organise their own lives. Nevertheless, their caring task also gives them satisfaction. And the parents try to unburden the relationship with their children by striving to earn some money as well. In the second case, the elderly parents are overburdened – an inversion of the generational contract. This means that parents care for grown-up youngsters with daily food and accommodation, providing the younger generation with a protected space that should eventually enable them to look after themselves. However, parents in this case have strong feelings of ambivalence, and generational conflicts loom large in such situations

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of intergenerational dependency. A further project was planned on young academics and their professional careers that should have started in 2012 at the University of Basel; she was, however, unable to take part in it anymore. Her colleagues Noemi Steuer and Manfred Perlik have continued the project.

Theoretical and Methodological Notes Claudia Roth was theoretically inspired by gender studies, anthropologically oriented social security studies, and practice theory in the mode of Bourdieu. Regarding the limiting effect of gender segregation on the power of men and its enabling effects on the agency of women in certain domains of their own, she drew on the works of Lila Abu-Lughod (1986) and Maya Nadig (1986). The theoretical approach she developed in her first book is also important for her later work: a materialist view at the core of which lies the control of resources that enable negotiating power, also as a base for social mechanisms of reciprocity in times of hardship. In this context, it was her teacher and doctoral supervisor Lorenz G. Löffler who provided useful theoretical inputs (Löffler 1990). With the women in Koko in mind, she writes, for example: The reach of the effect that gender segregation has in limiting power is, thus, dependent on the resources that women control. Under the precondition that these are monopolies of the same strength as those of the men, egalitarian relations are possible. These can be restricted, as in the case of the Zara, to a subsystem – the material exchange in marriage. (Roth 1994: 30)

The most urgent concern of her interlocutors – to secure a livelihood – became her most important research interest in her second and third research projects. Here, Claudia Roth builds on the theoretical and empirical work of legal anthropologists Franz and Keebet von Benda-Beckmann that looks at social security in the Global South from an inclusive perspective (von Benda-Beckmann and von Benda-Beckmann [1994] 2000, 2007). In contrast to state-led, top-down approaches to social security of the International Labour Organization, the von Benda-Beckmanns focus on the conversion of economic resources of individuals and groups into social security needs (regarding food, water, shelter, care, health, education and income). In doing so, they also take structural and ideological conditions into account. With a similar view from below, from the ways in which individuals and groups ‘cope with (in)security’ arising from the lack of state-sponsored security networks, poverty and

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changing social structures, Claudia Roth looks at the people in the urban neighbourhoods in Bobo-Dioulasso as exemplary case studies. She thereby tested and refined this theoretical approach. Additionally, she took protection systems and relationships into account – concepts that had been developed by the French sociologist Robert Vuarin in his research in Mali (Vuarin 2000). In her work on burdened generational relationships, Claudia Roth refers explicitly to the theoretical concepts and findings of Pierre Bourdieu in Algeria, in particular to the habitus concept, different forms of capital, processes of individualisation, and concepts of work and ideas about the future (Roth 2011). The habitus of the older generation in Bobo-Dioulasso is influenced by their rural socialisation with hard labour and periods of hunger, whereas their children are born in the city and have grown up with school education, television and other consumer goods such as mobile phones and elegant clothing. Moreover, sex before marriage is now a normal practice. The types of capital at one’s disposal, thus, also differ between these generations. The children aspire to an occupation as a civil servant with a monthly income. But this is an unrealisable dream for the majority of them. In particular, it is out of reach for the two categories of youth that she looks at more closely: those who care for a sick parent, and those who are supported by their parents. They are unable to create a pragmatic plan to improve their lot. In a similar context, Bourdieu terms this ‘the magical negation of their actual situation’ (Bourdieu 1977). Only with increasing possibilities to improve one’s economic situation do the aspirations for the future become more realistic (Bourdieu 2000). In terms of her methodological approach, she was initially inspired by the Zurich ethno-psychoanalytic school of Paul Parin, Fritz Morgenthaler, Goldy Matthey-Parin, Mario Erdheim and Maya Nadig (Erdheim 1982, Nadig 1986, Parin, Morgenthaler and Parin-Matthey [1963] 1989). This is the reason why she started out by engaging in intense research relationships with a few key informants who eventually became lifelong research partners. Over time these key informants became the foci of an expanding social network in which she carried out a series of research projects. Even despite the fact that she soon abandoned the demanding and somewhat artificial setting of ethno-psychoanalytic interviews, she remained committed to building up long-term research partnerships and kept her interest in the particular conditions and resources, as well as the particularities of agency, of the people living in Bobo-Dioulasso. In her first book, she defined her methodology as ‘situation-based research’ (situationsgeleitete Forschung in German). This indeed echoes the ethno-psychoanalytical procedure, as she goes on to explain:

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‘Situation-based research’ is characterised by the fact that open questions and unclear aspects are present but do not directly determine a conversation or an encounter. The situation is principal, which means that the primary concern lies with the person and with that which preoccupies her, the composition of the people who are present, the place and its atmosphere – everyday concerns. This implies having to wait with one’s own questions for an adequate moment to arise. At the same time, due to a specific situation, issues will be raised that were not planned and which sometimes cannot be further pursued but which are nevertheless closely related to one’s own field of interest. (Roth 1994: 19)

She substantiates this with the fact that asking questions is not part of ‘African culture’ and that relationships are the basis for her insights. She therefore also made verbatim records after the meetings. It was only as an additional method that she conducted targeted conversations and took notes directly. This is a procedure that in essence she continued throughout her years of research in western Africa, although guided interviews did appear to have gained in importance in later years. One could also call her methodology ‘biography-based ethnography’, as it is individual people and their lives and narratives that are most crucial for her analyses. It was also of utmost importance for her to learn Dioula, and this fitted well with her understanding of dialogical ethnography. After some time, she spoke this local language well enough to be able to use it exclusively in her conversations with her interlocutors instead of French.

Local Contexts, Global Connections What are the main characteristics of the local contexts in which Claudia Roth’s research took place, and what are its global connections? Conducting fieldwork in one of the world’s poorest countries6 led her to scrutinise at an early stage of her research the livelihoods of those hardest hit by poverty. During the twenty-five years of her research, poverty increased in the neighbourhoods she studied. It was the result of the cumulative effects of the dismantling of the remnants of the former socialist regime’s welfare policies due to the structural adjustment measures demanded by the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund in the 1990s; the food crisis due to recurrent droughts in the Sahel zone and the shift to export-oriented agriculture; and the AIDS epidemic that has tended, in Africa just as elsewhere, to strike the most productive members of families (cf. also Hagberg [2001] 2008).

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In everyday matters, ethnic identification plays a significant role in Burkina Faso, also in relation to the state and its bureaucracy. In 2014 Burkina Faso had a population of 18.4 million inhabitants.7 The two largest ethnic groups are the Mossi and the Fulbe, consisting of about 40 per cent and 10 per cent of the population, respectively. The people who are called Zara, with whom Claudia Roth mainly interacted, speak Bobo as a first language and Dioula as a second language (Sanou 1978). They number about fifteen thousand, and live in Bobo-Dioulasso as well as in the regions to the west and east of the city.8 The country is in a peripheral economic and political position due to its colonial past as a part of French West Africa, when it was a hinterland of the core trading areas of the then-British Gold Coast (now Ghana). Burkina Faso gained formal independence in 1960. The so-called revolutionary years of the Marxist regime of President Thomas Sankara between 1983 and 1987, sometimes alluded to by Claudia Roth’s interlocutors, had a profound impact because local chiefs had to yield their political influence (Dafinger 2013: 28). In light of the recent revolution in Burkina Faso and the successful transition driven by a strongly involved civil society, Claudia Roth’s work has received further pertinence. For many political protesters today, mostly young students, Sankara’s ideals remain important points of reference and serve to inform their activism. Claudia Roth’s detailed and rich descriptions also capture the spirit and the ideas of the era of the 1980s, and they give valuable insight into the context of their formation. In Burkina Faso, more than 80 per cent of the population work in the informal sector. They live off subsistence-based agriculture and pastoralism (World Bank 2006: 81). Recently, land has been increasingly used for cash cropping and agro-business, controlled by the cotton and sugar cane industries (Dafinger 2013). Cotton and cattle are export products with volatile prices. The insecurities involved are partly cushioned by the substantial development funds for poverty reduction,9 which generally have a strong impact on the national and local economy. Since the end of the 1990s, Burkina Faso has had an annual economic growth rate of over 5 per cent, allegedly due to structural adjustment programmes. Yet, this mainly applies to the small sector of the formal economy in the two cities of Ouagadougou and Bobo-Dioulasso (Labazée 2013) rather than to the informal sector in which most people seek their livelihood. Burkina Faso is part of the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS), which allows freedom of movement within member states. High numbers of people, mainly young men, have taken advantage of this and migrated to Cote d’Ivoire, but many of them returned home again in 2002 due to political unrest. Altogether more than 25 per cent of the population

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work abroad (Dafinger 2013: 31), a situation that affects the economies of many households. The hope of the poor for remittances is often frustrated, and additional insecurities may ensue, as the work of Claudia Roth impressively shows.

Structure of the Anthology The anthology is divided into four parts. Part I discusses methodological issues. The article selected for this part deals with the production of ethnographic knowledge that is fruitfully influenced by the irritations and the culture shock experienced by anthropologists if they immerse themselves in a process of reflexivity. Part II deals with the negotiation of love and marriage. Topics that come into focus here are the important institution of sunguruya, meaning a space of freedom for women before marriage, which they also try to expand into marriage; and ideas of romantic love and living in a nuclear family that are in conflict with principles of conjugal respect. Moreover, tensions in marriage in the context of global economic developments become visible. These developments urge women to contribute to household income, although not in an official manner because this, normatively, is the exclusive domain of men. Part III is about elderly parents and their children on the edge of poverty. It gives detailed accounts of transformations in family and household configurations through processes of ageing. Compelling topics in these articles are shame and the silencing of existential hardships and other issues; the ‘inverted intergenerational contract’ and its tensions and conflicts; and the institution of badenya, implying support relationships among siblings of the same mother as an important means for social security in old age. In Part IV the focus is on youth. It particularly problematises new generational conflicts, the increasingly precarious situation of young women and men, their dreams of autonomy, and their struggles to open up new arenas of action. The reader will find some repetition in these chapters, particularly regarding the field site. We have not omitted these due to our desire to retain the original form of Claudia Roth’s texts and to permit readers to read each chapter independently from the others.

NOTES 1. See the complete bibliography of Claudia Roth’s work at the end of the book. 2. In German, Die Frau und ihr Verhältnis zum Mann und Kapital: Eine Auseinandersetzung mit der Arbeit der Frau und daraus resultierender Macht resp. Ohnmacht – mit einem Beispiel.

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3. In German, Genzeit: Die Industrialisierung von Pflanze, Tier und Mensch – Ermittlungen in der Schweiz. It has been published in three editions, the first of which appeared in 1987. 4. In French and German, Travail dans uns décharge: les femmes de la savonnerie de Bobo-Dioulasso / Arbeit im Abfall: die Seifenfrauen in Bobo-Dioulasso. 5. This means that these young people may earn money through casual jobs or by engaging in small-scale trade, but that this does not suffice to support elderly parents or to start a family. 6. Burkina Faso ranks 183rd out of 186 countries in the UNDP’s Human Development Index of 2013, with 44.6 per cent of the population living below the poverty line, that is, on less than 1.24 USD per day. Source: https://www.wfp .org/countries/burkina-faso (accessed 27 February 2015). 7. Source: CIA World Factbook 2014. https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/ the-world-factbook/geos/print/country/countrypdf_uv.pdf (accessed 27 February 2015). 8. Source: Ethnologue 14. Languages of Burkina Faso. http://archive.ethnolo gue.com/14/show_country.asp?name=Burkina+Faso (accessed 27 February 2015). 9. In 2009, Burkina Faso received development funds of over 1 billion USD (World Bank 2011).

REFERENCES Abu-Lughod, Lila. 1986. Veiled Sentiments: Honor and Poetry in a Bedouin Society. Berkeley, Los Angeles: University of California Press. Benda-Beckmann, Franz von, and Keebet von Benda-Beckmann. (1994) 2000. ‘Coping with Insecurity’, in Franz von Benda-Beckmann, Keebet von BendaBeckmann and Hans Marks (eds), Coping with Insecurity: An ‘Underall’ Perspective on Social Security in the Third World. Yogyakarta: Pustaka Pelajar & Focaal Foundation, pp. 7–31. ———. 2007. Social Security between Past and Future: Ambonese Networks of Care and Support. Münster: LIT. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1977. Algérie 60: Structures économiques et structures temporelles. Paris: Les Editions de Minuits. ———. 2000. ‘Subjektive Hoffnungen und objektive Möglichkeiten’ in Pierre Bourdieu (ed.), Die zwei Gesichter der Arbeit: Interdependenzen von Zeit- und Wirtschaftsstrukturen am Beispiel einer Ethnologie der algerischen Übergangsgesellschaft. Konstanz: Universitätsverlag, pp. 87–103. Dafinger, Andreas. 2013. The Economics of Ethnic Conflict: The Case of Burkina Faso. Suffolk, UK and Rochester, NY: James Currey. De Jong, Willemijn, et al. 2005. Ageing in Insecurity: Case Studies on Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso | Viellir dans l’insécurité: Sécurité sociale et genre en Inde et Burkina Faso. Études de cas. Münster: LIT.

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Erdheim, Mario. 1982. Die gesellschaftliche Produktion von Unbewusstheit. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Hagberg, Sten. (2001) 2008. Poverty in Burkina Faso: Representations and Realities. Uppsala: ULRiCA. Labazée, Pascal. 2013. ‘Emploi, revenus, statuts sociaux et réseaux de sociabilité dans lex villes secondaires du Burkina Faso, du Mali et de la Côte d’Ivoire’, in Katja Werthmann and Mamadou Lamine Sanogo, La ville de Bobo-Dioulasso au Burkina Faso: Urbanité et appartenances en Afrique de l’Ouest. Paris: Karthala, pp.163–184. Löffler, Lorenz G. 1990. ‘Zur politischen Ökonomie der geschlechtlichen Statusdifferenzierung’, in Karl-Heinz Kohl, Heinz-Arnold Muzinski and Ivo Strecker, Die Vielfalt der Kultur: Ethnologische Aspekte von Verwandtschaft, Kunst und Weltauffassung. Berlin: Reimer, pp. 78–99. Nadig, Maya. 1986. Die verborgene Kultur der Frau: Ethnopsychoanalytische Gespräche mit Bäuerinnen in Mexiko. Subjektivität und Gesellschaft im Alltag von Otomi-Frauen. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer. Parin, Paul, Fritz Morgenthaler and Goldy Parin-Matthey. (1963) 1989. Die Weissen denken zu viel: Psychoanalytische Untersuchungen bei den Dogon in Westafrika. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer. Roth, Claudia. 1982. Die Frau und ihr Verhältnis zum Mann und Kapital: Eine Auseinandersetzung mit der Arbeit der Frau und daraus resultierender Macht resp. Ohnmacht – mit einem Beispiel. Unveröffentlichte Lizentiatsarbeit. Ethnologisches Seminar. University of Zurich. ———. 1987. Genzeit: Die Industrialisierung von Pflanze, Tier und Mensch. Ermittlungen in der Schweiz. Zurich: Limmat. ———. 1994. Und sie sind stolz: Zur Ökonomie der Liebe. Die Geschlechtertrennung bei den Zara in Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel. Translated into French, 1996: La séparation des sexes chez les Zara au Burkina Faso. Paris: L’Harmattan. ———. 2011. Belastete Generationenbeziehungen aus der Sicht der Beteiligten – Ergebnisse der Befragung in Burkina Faso. Unveröffentlichter Forschungsbericht. Roth, Claudia, and Susi Lindig. 1998. Travail dans une décharge: les femmes de la savonnerie de Bobo-Dioulasso | Arbeit im Abfall: die Seifenfrauen in BoboDioulasso. Katalog zur Fotoausstellung. Sanou, Dafrassi Jean-François. 1978. ‘La langue bobo de Tongodosso (BoboDioulasso, Haute-Volta): Phonologie, morphologie, syntagmatique’. Thèse de doctorat de 3è cycle. Paris: Descartes University (Paris V), UER de Linguistique Générale et Appliquée. Vuarin, Robert. 2000. Un système africain de protection sociale au temps de la mondialisation ou ‘Venez m’aider à tuer mon lion. . .’. Paris: L’Harmattan. World Bank. 2006. Burkina Faso Data Profile.

part i

❍❍❍ Ethnography and Reflexivity

❍ c ha p te r 1

Culture Shock, Power and Knowledge Negotiating Boundaries in Ethnographic Fieldwork Claudia Roth

ncounters with foreignness are initially accompanied by culture shock. From a psychoanalytical point of view, we are confronted with the foreignness within ourselves and thereby faced with our own boundaries. Through this encounter we are forced to question our own image of the world and our own practice. After this initial shock there follows the search for new orientation, and this journey is accompanied by repeated upheaval in the ways in which we usually understand the world, and ourselves within the world. It is these upheavals in our self-conception that enable us to get to know people from different cultures in the first place and begin to understand them. Hence, culture shock is not a unique event that can be overcome once and for all but, instead, becomes a part of the unending analysis of the relationship between self and other. Furthermore, encounters with that which is foreign take place within a power structure. We get to know a foreign culture through relationships. Hierarchies between participants’ societies as well as hierarchies within a society – such as the power relations between age and gender – contribute to these relationships. I shall reflect upon both of these aspects of encountering foreignness by drawing upon my field research in Bobo-Dioulasso in Burkina Faso. Such encounters are always also a confrontation with oneself.1

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Culture Shock Cultural Patterns of Controlling Fear For a total of fourteen months (over the course of three visits between 1989 and 1992) I lived in the compound of the Sanou family, an extended family of Zara in Bobo-Dioulasso. The household contains three generations – thirty adults and the same number of children. In 1995, I visited the family again for one month, and in early 1997 I returned and conducted another two months of research there.2 How did I meet this family? This was in part due to chance and in part due to luck, I believe, as well as the good impression I had during my first encounters, which outweighed the fears that were to appear later. In 1988 I spent three months in West Africa for the first time with a good friend of mine, mainly in Ouagadougou, the capital city of Burkina Faso. Towards the end of our visit we met Isaac, a student of sociology, on a train journey to Bobo-Dioulasso. He invited us to come and visit his family – an evening that turned out to remain unforgettable. One year later I travelled to Burkina Faso with the intention of conducting research in Bobo-Dioulasso. On my very first day I met Isaac again by chance and told him about my plans. He wanted to ask his father to help me: if the elders of the family were to agree, I would be able to live in his room because he was residing in Ouagadougou at that time. I noted in my diary: ‘I am happy and excited yet also anxious and fearful that “the wagon has begun to roll and I cannot control its direction”’. Later I meet Isaac again and say, ‘You do know that I want to rent the room, don’t you?’ His reply: ‘No, that is out of the question’. Me: ‘But it’s important for me. It’s not actually up for discussion. I can only take the room if I’m allowed to rent it’. Isaac looks at me with incomprehension and says, ‘You’re acting out of place’. Me: ‘Possibly, but this is important to me. I feel freer if I can pay rent’. He laughs: ‘Ah, la liberté! That’s typical. But we have a culture here that doesn’t recognise that as a central concept. It’s different here’. I cannot acquiesce and tell him, ‘I understand your point of view but that doesn’t change my point of view’. He: ‘My father will decide whether or not you can pay rent’. Me: ‘No, I have already decided!’

And I note in my diary: ‘I clearly feel the fear of being dropped into something, the fear of being at someone’s behest, and that I would not be able to act; the fear of losing control’.

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The elders then decide that I would be allowed to move into the compound. The friend with whom I had visited Burkina Faso one year before accompanies me. We wait for Isaac to have the time to come to BoboDioulasso and introduce us to the family. On our first visit, Isaac’s father cordially welcomes us; surrounded by his children and grandchildren he asks me whether the room would be acceptable. I say, ‘Yes, it’s perfect, I like it a lot’. But I cannot resist mentioning the matter of rent. He laughs: ‘You will be staying in Isaac’s room so you must negotiate with him about this. But you are most welcome here’. I realise that I will have to come up with a different solution to this problem. We move to the compound the next day. And what happens? Suddenly I am gripped with stomach cramps and I throw up, get diarrhoea. And as I lie on my bed I realise that I am deeply afraid of what is to come – of the foreignness. I quickly recover and I am back on my feet by that evening. Every society has its own ways to deal with that which is foreign. I was obsessed with the matter of rent payments. The rent would have correlated with a contract, which is a common way in Europe to order one’s relationship with strangers. By paying rent I wanted to banish my fear of the unknown; I wanted to confront the rising lack of clarity with a seemingly clear relationship. The women and men of the compound also wanted a clear relationship but they relied on a different pattern: I was quickly integrated by them into their family system through kinship roles. I became the son, the daughter, the older sister. In the first week, I was given a name by the oldest woman of the household: Fatimata. According to Maya Nadig (1993: 48), hospitality in non-industrialised societies introduces the incorporation of an outsider, who thus becomes indebted to their host and therefore can do their host no harm. The circle of reciprocal gift-giving aims to integrate by creating mutual dependencies. We – my hosts and I – reacted in opposite ways: they wanted to integrate me (the outsider) whilst I wanted to create distance from that which was strange to me. I began to contemplate how I would be able to show my gratitude for their hospitality and which kind of countergift would be appropriate. In this way I also began to think about the exchange of gifts and countergifts, about giving and taking – and about money. I will return to this theme below. Recognising my own fear did not suffice to banish it – it culminated in a stomach disorder – but it did enable me to move to the compound despite that fear. The fact that my friend accompanied me and stayed on for ten days served to calm me down. This situation is similar to a child’s first

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day of school: the mother who accompanies her child into the unknown represents the connection to that child’s own, familiar world.

Disorientation Relationships with people from a different culture begin with culture shock. The encounter with strangers ‘seems like an encounter with the ultimate unknown itself – death, the eradication of the self’, according to Christina von Braun (1989: 16, my translation). Mario Erdheim and Maya Nadig (1979) refer to ‘social death’ in this context: the systems of roles that support one’s own identity and guide one’s perception are shaken by confrontation with foreignness. This then leads to a restructuring of experience. The thought processes of ethno-psychoanalysis that have been made available to social scientists by Georges Devereux (1976) and Maya Nadig (1985, amongst others) allow us to recognise ourselves as part of the observation process – that is, to perceive one’s own fears, aggravation, discomfort, insecurity and irritation as providing information on the relationship between oneself and a stranger. By attempting to evade projections we can achieve a more direct type of access to a foreign culture. Maya Nadig (1985: 107, my translation) states that ‘self-observation serves to keep open the path to reality’. However, just like ethno-psychoanalysis itself, this does not provide us with a guarantee against misinterpretation or projections, ‘even if it increases our readiness and opportunities to recognise personal or cultural influences and to interpret their occurrence as relevant data’. Some scenes from the early period of my field research will serve to illustrate the first phase of culture shock. At the beginning I felt like a child. Numerous women, men and children came to greet me and to discover who this stranger was – there were many faces for me to encounter. And when I asked ‘Who is she? Who is he?’ I was told ‘that is my mother, my brother. . .’. Are all the women mothers,3 all the young men brothers? My confusion was great, and I only knew that I did not know anything at all. I remember my first meals: millet gruel with gombo sauce – unknown food for me, and I was embarrassed to see that I was eating like a twoyear-old: the sauce ran through my fingers and down the back of my hand when I moved my hand to my mouth. I remember the Dioula greeting that the children tried to teach me in my first days: I only heard sounds instead of syllables, and was unable to remember a single word of it. I remember the first time I walked through the courtyard to the washroom: I had wrapped a hip scarf around myself and was carrying a heavy

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cauldron of water – everybody was excited and there was laughter and comments such as ‘Ah, look, she’s going off to wash herself!’ The walk was interminable and I was afraid that the hip scarf would come undone and I would be standing there naked, because that was the way that I felt: exposed. I wanted to get to know the women and men and their way of life, and therefore I subjected myself to dependency – that is, to a social environment that was foreign to me. The simplest things such as eating became incomprehensible to me; my own values and expectations were no longer valid, my own frame of reference was suspended. I lived amongst the Sanou family and had no contact with other white people in Bobo-Dioulasso. In order to be able to orientate myself again I had to rely on the support of the women and men I lived with.

Their Offer for Integration: Kinship The Sanou family integrated me through kinship roles. On one of the first evenings there, Isaac’s father told me: ‘You have now taken Isaac’s place. You are my son for as long as you remain here. This means that you can do whatever he can do: you may watch television with me every evening, you can come to me at any time and ask for my advice or for whatever it is that you need. I want you to feel at home here’. I soon became an elder sister to the younger generation and a daughter to the older women. In this way, I – the stranger – was allocated a place in their structure. This offer of a role made me relax, especially in the early phase when I felt very foreign and lonely. It also made it easier for me to orientate myself in an unknown relationship network. I began to pay attention to the rights and duties of a son, a daughter, an elder sister, and so began to grasp the various kinship relations and the hierarchies of age and gender that structure their relationships. There are two small incidents that illustrate this. An unmarried young man is washing clothes, and he calls out to me: ‘Actually this would be your task, as a woman!’ I reply: ‘Have you ever seen an elder sister wash her younger brother’s clothes?’ He laughs. Another young man gives me an orange: ‘You must peel it for me because you are a woman’. I hand it back to him, saying ‘You peel it yourself because you’re younger than me’. I am happy whenever I am able to react in an appropriate manner; it is like a game – for them as much as for me. For example, while I was fetching water for myself the oldest woman in the household asked me whether I could wash her veil for her. I agreed, and she brought me three large white shawls that she wears when going to the mosque. While the

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shawls were drying in the wind she laughed and told me, ‘You really are a Sanou!’ That, however, only occurred on my second visit.

Communication When abroad one must relearn how to communicate; and language is a key component in this. During my first visit I began to learn Dioula. The women urged me to do this and Raïssa, the oldest woman in the compound, was particularly strict in this: ‘You must learn it! Or else we will not be able to talk with each other!’ At home, in Europe, I studied Dioula intensively, and upon my second visit I was able to speak it. New worlds opened up for me, especially in regard to now having direct access to the women; and after a long conversation with Raïssa I was told: ‘Last time you were here you only looked and looked and looked. But now that we can talk together our hearts meet and we are equal. This is good!’ A crucial part of communication is the way in which one communicates or, more precisely, understanding who talks with whom, and in which way, because communication is embedded in relationship structures. Because I did not understand very much I asked many questions. The women and men in the compound laughed about this and would explain, but sometimes they simply shook their heads: ‘You ask too much!’ Asking older people questions is regarded as disrespectful, and as a person worthy of respect one does not ask younger people anything at all. In a conversation with the young men about the differences that existed between us, I said ‘I ask you a lot but you never ask me anything’. They explained to me: ‘One can never know whether a question is acceptable to the other person. Because the older person is always right you are not allowed to impose yourself upon them. This is why we feel shame in asking questions. We are not used to it here’. During this conversation I suddenly remembered that I had not yet fetched water. They held me back: ‘Why don’t you send one of us? You never send one of us younger people on errands’. – ‘I can’t,’ I reply, ‘it’s difficult for me. I feel ashamed to do so’. – ‘See, you’re ashamed to have us run errands for you, and we’re ashamed to ask you questions’. And then they started to ask me questions: when had I left my parent’s home? Where had I gone? Who had paid for me? Why had my mother not worked outside the home? I never stopped asking questions but I realised that there had to be other ways in which I could achieve better comprehension. I discovered that the most inspiring conversations developed when current events caused a stir amongst people. It was in such situations that I learned why something was talked about, and in which way.4

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This was how I first encountered ‘joking relationships’. My host was in the company of a friend of his when I dropped by. ‘Look, she is a real Bobo!’ he said to his friend. ‘Her? A Bobo? I say!’ was this friend’s disparaging reaction. He looked at me and challenged me: ‘You don’t wear a hip scarf, your hair is strange and it should be braided and cut! You and the Bobo! Did you know that the Bobo are cannibals?! They cook people over a fire and eat them up!’ He stared at me. Irritated by his ferocity it suddenly occurred to me that this could be nothing other than a joke because this family was on my side, and I said: ‘Yes indeed, and I find the forearms to be particularly tasty and crispy’. He erupted in laughter along with everybody else, and I was told that he was a Peul – the very people against whom the Bobo and Zara used to wage war but with whom they now had a joking relationship – one in which one was permitted to provoke and insult. This was how I directly encountered joking relationships as a type of communication in terms of both form and content: contentious matters may be formulated provocatively – in this case: ‘What on earth is this white woman doing here?’

‘Look, I am a Foreigner’ The process of understanding is not linear in nature but rather resembles a horizontal spiral; that which is alien can reappear on the next loop looking different but also the same. Culture shock is not a unique event limited to initial encounters but instead repeats itself in other contexts. When I returned to the compound the second time, I noted: ‘I feel strange, everything is just as it was before and I am here again. I know everything and yet I feel like an outsider . . . I believed I would be returning home here but instead I am in a foreign place’. I was as disoriented and insecure as I had been the first time around. On my third visit I was prepared for this and expected initially to feel foreign again upon my return, but then, however, things turned out different. I noted: ‘Neither I nor they are shy . . . I feel a far higher degree of self-confidence, I feel calmer and more relaxed instead of feeling the oppressive tension that I might be doing things the ‘wrong way’ – that is, to overlook things or not recognise things’. ‘Look, I am a foreigner’ – the key sentence in Fritz Morgenthaler’s beautiful tale – resolves this apparent paradox: every morning in New York he ordered coffee without sugar and only a drop of milk, and every morning he was served coffee with lots of sugar and milk just like every other New Yorker until one morning he said to the waiter: ‘Look, I am a foreigner!’ The waiter paused, looked at him in a surprised way, and then brought him the coffee he had actually ordered. This sentence ‘Look, I am a for-

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eigner’ can be told to someone else – or to oneself: ‘I am the foreigner’. This bordering creates an emotional opening and enables one to put oneself into another person’s position in order to understand something that one does not know or understand (Morgenthaler et al. 1984: 9–14). The longer I lived with the Sanou family and the more I was able to orientate myself and understand what was happening, the more aware I became of just how little I had understood before. Language skills are one example of this. In 1997 I was able to speak and understand Dioula well enough to be able to follow rapid conversations even when they took place between several speakers. Simultaneously I realised that proverbs were a crucial part of everyday communication, including for young people. In order to understand proverbs one must comprehend their meaning. Hence, at the moment when I spoke the language better than ever before I realised how much more I had yet to learn. I believe this to be illustrative of the movement within the research process in general: the more familiar we become with a person or a topic, the more obvious it becomes how much of the strange and misunderstood still lies ahead of us. At times of crisis – by this I mean those recurrent moments in which I felt foreign, lonely, disorientated – I was greatly aided by remembering that it was I who was the other, the stranger. Like this I was able to relax and once again approach others with a clear mind. I was the stranger who was imbued with a certain degree of familiarity; I was a woman and also a person attributed with certain male characteristics; I was the white woman, the European. One role did not simply replace another role; instead, all these roles existed flexibly, side by side. Depending on the situation and person in question, I was more foreign, more white, more male, more female, more familiar, more familial. These various roles were made the topic of conversation by the women and men of the household as well as by myself: we enacted ‘being equal’ in playful scenes, and we discussed the differences between us in conversations. This broad array of roles made it possible for me to experience very different aspects of their reality.

The Context of Power The White Woman A researcher manoeuvres herself into a situation of dependency in order to become acquainted with a foreign culture; on the other hand, she also represents the powerful white woman. This image is shaped by past and present relationships of power between Africa and Europe, and it influences contemporary relationships. There is a counter image to this image

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that suggests the need for reparation for the misery caused by conquest perpetrated by one’s ancestors as well as one’s contemporary European peers. This counter image is powerful and it expresses itself in feelings of guilt.5 I have to note that I was not the first white individual to interact with this family. Thirty years before my visit, my predecessor had left behind the image of the good white person. At that time, my host had been an uneducated temporary labourer at a soap factory. The director of that factory – a Frenchman – recognised his intelligence and keen perception, and enabled him to visit evening school in order to learn French and how to read and write. He encouraged him so much that he was able to become the technical director of the soap factory, despite his illiteracy and lack of training. He remains deeply grateful to him for this to this day. I was quickly confronted with the image of the white woman who was able to solve all sorts of existential problems. Two weeks after my arrival I noted: ‘I have money. Nobody around me has any money. This is how they approach me: Bema, who fails to hold onto 200 CFA,6 tells me that a Burkinabè with 200 CFA in his pocket is a rich man! Dull tells me he has no money. Ami asks me for 500 CFA. Adama, who comes to me with his broken moped, says that repairs cost 1500 CFA, which is very expensive, and he doesn’t know what to do about the cost. Yes, that is expensive, I tell him – I don’t know how to behave’. When relationships become deeper and more permanent, this image of white people can be softened and challenged. For example, at the outset of my second visit one of the young men told me: ‘We were thinking we would never see you again! Because that’s the way white people are: today they think Bobo is the most beautiful place in the world, tomorrow it is Abidjan, and the day after it will be Latin America. But you have returned’. Simultaneously realities persist that can serve to harden this image once again. For example, it is a fact that we meet again only when I have decided to come and visit; the women and men of the Sanou family cannot afford to visit me in Switzerland. And if I were to become seriously ill I would not hesitate to catch the next flight back to Switzerland. As mentioned above, due to the conditions of my initial arrival I quickly became aware of the system of giving and taking that exists here: who gives what to whom under which circumstances? Who has how much, and what does he do with it? Getting to know kinship roles helped me in my orientation. I began to understand what it is that an elder sister takes care of in relation to those who are younger – or, for that matter, as an adult daughter in relation to the elders – and I began to perceive everyday forms of exchange that showed how appreciation was expressed; or how the small gestures (such as the gift of a snack or small gifts from the

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market) showed individuals that others were aware of their existence. It is also a rule that those who are affluent are to share that affluence with others; thus, somebody who earns a large salary is expected to contribute more than somebody whose salary is limited. When I connected this with the role of an elder sister or daughter I became able to orientate myself and provide a framework for myself; this was not, however, a formula or directive for action. My role as a white woman within the Sanou family was always on my mind. I realised that the way in which exchange took place brought forth knowledge of how relationships worked. My relationships with the thirty men and women at the compound, as well as with the numerous relatives on the outside, were all very diverse, and differed in their intensity. I discovered that there were moments when I felt alien and lost my ability to assess relationships, and thereby lost my orientation within this system of exchange. My own insecurity then reactivated within me the image of the affluent white woman. For example, in the third month of my first visit I noted: ‘Today I once again have problems surrounding money issues, problems with the young people who come and get coffee and cigarettes from me. My fear returns that I am only liked here because of my financial means. This could be connected to my intense feeling of foreignness today. Much is going on, and everybody is being very nice to me, but they are not familiar with me in the sense of “not being foreign”’. In contrast to this, I felt that some people persisted in approaching me because I was the white woman who could solve any problems that arose. I realised that this occurred in relationships that were not deep enough to revise the common primary image of white people. Over the years I came to realise that in more intense relationships the image of powerful white people was disrupted and made more complex due to the fact that exchange is abolished in personal, lived experience. The appearance of this image hence indicates a disruption through which I once again become foreign and white. Despite all of the facets that have accrued to me over time, to this day I also remain the white woman who embodies people’s dreams through my connection to Europe. As European researchers, we belong to the powerful part of the world. I believe that the confrontation with this contradiction – that is, belonging to the powerful part of the world even as a person who lacks power – is an integral part of all relationships here.

The World of Women, the World of Men Intra-societal hierarchies amongst the Zara are structured by age and gender, and such hierarchies also contribute to the nature of relation-

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ships. When I arrived, I arrived in the world of men. The old men decided amongst themselves to accept me as a guest in their household; the young men made my arrival that much easier by helping me to furnish my room and showing me the city, amongst other things. After about ten days had passed I became annoyed with male society, and I began to think about why this should be. I felt cut off from women and realised that I was being kept away from them. It is men who greet and deal with outsiders; hence, my active attempt to connect with women irritated the men. I told Isaac’s father that I would greatly enjoy eating in female company because I wanted to learn more about their lives and work. ‘I understand you,’ he answered, ‘but I’m not sure their food will agree with your stomach’. I hesitated: ‘But don’t they cook for everybody here?’ He nodded and laughed. The young men told me to my face that they did not understand what it was that I wanted to know from the women: ‘They don’t know much and they can’t explain anything to you because they don’t know the world – elles sont des sauvages – they are uncivilised’. The women, on the other hand, were not surprised that I desired to be amongst them. The young men reacted with disruption when I approached the world of women, especially at the beginning. Whenever I sat with a young woman, one of them would inevitably join us and tell me: ‘There is no point in talking to her because she can’t speak French’. Or one of them would reprimand the woman I was talking to: ‘Say s’il vous plaît to her, you must use the polite form of address!’ Again and again I was warned: ‘Don’t believe all that these women tell you’. There was one phenomenon that irritated me more than anything else: whenever I was eating in the company of women and the young men were crossing the courtyard, the men would glance over us and fail to greet us. When I then returned to my room they would tell me: ‘You haven’t eaten anything yet today!’ – I would reply: ‘But you saw me sitting with Biba before, didn’t you?’ – ‘Ah, yes, you’re right’. At other times they would set aside food for me from the table as if I was away from the house. I became aware of two things when I transferred to the world of women: first, I realised how separate these two worlds were and that I was an interloper. While I was sitting with the women there would be no casual contact with the men, and vice versa. Young men’s disruptions arose from the fact that I remained unavailable to them whilst in the world of women and, hence, I was beyond their control. This was the reason for their warnings to me not to believe all that I heard from women. However, the knowledge that the world of women is beyond male control is very much part of their cultural body of thought.7

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Second, I realised that the world of women was far more foreign to me than the world of men, despite the fact that I myself am a woman. Men welcome strangers, I was imbued with male attributes (freedom of movement, the lack of male company outside the compound, childless, wearing trousers), I became acclimatised to the world of men, and I lived in a room in the men’s house. Despite all of its foreign elements, the world of young men was characterised for me through familiar things such as the French language, school and the concomitant awareness of Western values, of political discussions based on the news from the radio or television, and so on. When I transferred into the world of women I was also stepping into a foreign environment: the language, the work (their trading activities), everyday life – all of these aspects were new to me. It follows that it took more time for my relationships with women to become more intimate – an intimacy that culminated, for example, in the situation of the oldest woman of the compound calling upon me in the evening to come and sit by her bedside and chat with her because she had already gone to bed after a long day of trading activity. Amongst the men I was used to conversations that developed casually whilst we sat together. In the world of women I had to become accustomed to the notion that women were always busy and that their work (cooking, childcare, housework, preparation of goods, trading activities) was always a priority, and that conversations would be interrupted frequently.8 That is why I chose to accompany women to work – I would sit with them for hours while they did the cooking, prepared their trading goods in the courtyard, sold goods at the market stalls or produced soap at the soap production site, and so on.

Specific Relationships As a white woman I realised that the elders saw me as such yet refrained from comparing our respective ways of life. In my relationships with young men, however, I saw that this comparison never disappeared. Disaffection and feelings of being left out can lead to tensions and rivalries. As a woman I realised that I always remained a woman for other women, even if I was a woman with a different way of life; in my relationship with men, however, my gender changed depending on the context: at times I was more like a man or gender neutral, at other times more like a woman. As a middle-aged person I realised that the attribute of age oscillated in my dealings with young men: at times I was part of the young generation and, hence, of the same age as them, and at other times I was older

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and, thus, a person worthy of respect. For the elders I was always a member of the next generation. My relationship with the older men was characterised by the hierarchy of age, by the father–son relationship that also serves to create distance. It was impolite to ask questions because questions could unduly impose upon elders. I had conversations with old men about the history and organisational structure of the Zara, with the aid of one of the household’s sons. Old men can answer a single question for over an hour, sometimes even for two hours, and they only tell things that they feel are important. It is disrespectful to interrupt or follow up on a question because this is seen as contradicting what has been told. These conversations were exhausting for me as well as for the son. All the younger people are in this position; and I regard this as a characteristic element of this relationship of respect. Nowadays, however, I do wonder what it is that I perceive as my own foreignness in this relationship and that I have to defend myself from by becoming exhausted. The relationship with old women is also marked by respect towards age, yet it resembles the relationship between mothers and daughters in that it is effortless, motherly and relaxed. Because of this it is also permissible to ask questions pertaining to work, kinship and everyday life; the women enlighten me and impart their competency. I believe that relationships with old women are relaxed and easy in nature for me because they remind me of the grandmother generation, even though, age-wise, these women could easily be mothers to me: they have lived full lives, and it is a certain serenity that predominates rather than rivalry or demands. As discussed above, I am more familiar with the world of young men than of women: despite all our many differences, we are connected through common elements of socialisation such as language, education and freedom of movement. Our differences have been compounded this year by the issue of religion. Although conversations about faith in God have accompanied me since the very beginning, this year the young men insist on asking why it is that I do not pray to God, and whether it is because I do not believe in him. They say that I already have a Muslim name as well as the appropriate behaviour – only prayer is lacking in order to fully belong. For me this is allegorical for a foreignness that becomes more evident precisely because familiarity has increased. For the young women and me, the topic of children is an allegory for the unbridgeable distance that exists between us. They are concerned about my decision, which I made all by myself, not to have children; my explanations on this matter have no validity in the context of Bobo-Dioulasso. These conversations are unpleasant for me because I am unable to communicate my reasoning in such a way as to be understood, and I

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feel foreign because of this. I have only been able to finally relax once I realised that this was a barrier that would never be bridged and, hence, a fact that I simply had to accept. As mentioned, I also embody young women and men’s dreams of a good and simple life. I am more anxious about the rivalries or jealousy exhibited towards me by young women than by young men. I interpret my discomfort as an example of the confrontation with one’s own foreignness: in our society, the open expression of jealousy amongst women – and openly performed power struggles – are taboo and, hence, they are sequestered, that is, unconscious and strange. In Zara society, however, rivalry and jealousy are expressed bluntly by women. Both elements are present in polygamous households as well as between female traders at the market and in everyday communication between women. They argue with each other in a direct way when treated unjustly, physical fights can erupt that culminate in scuffles. When I tell women that women do not hit each other where I come from, I elicit disbelieving laughter, and one young woman once asked me: ‘So how do you argue with each other then?’ These direct expressions of feelings in my relationship with young women provoked a feeling of helplessness in me at first, especially when I experienced the aggression of women who felt cheated by me and showed this by bluntly expressing demands, making fun of me, or excluding me by ignoring my presence. For example, in the very first week of my first visit one of the young women of the household asked me for a large sum of money that she needed in order to revive her ailing business. I felt out of my depth, and only knew that I was being asked for money just after I had arrived – and that I did not want to be that kind of white woman. I was as yet unaware of my surroundings and I told myself that it was impossible that I was the only solution available to this young woman. She made me aware of the fact that I had let her down and mocked me aggressively, thereby hurting my feelings. My relationship with her improved in step with my Dioula language skills and my ability to parry her taunts in her own language. She would always laugh appreciatively after this, as if I had come to understand something important. The situation became defused, and so did our relationship. It was only when I realised that this blunt way of expressing rivalry or jealousy was foreign to me that I no longer felt threatened by it.

Not a Sitting Room These two aspects that I have discussed above – culture shock and the power context of a relationship – are both characterised by the fact that

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they cannot be ‘resolved’ or overcome but instead provoke never-ending contention. Culture shock is not a unique shock that is limited to the initial phase of an encounter; rather, it repeats itself in different contexts and becomes evident in insecurity, disorientation or simple incomprehension. The more acquainted we become with people from a different culture, the more we realise how little we understand of their lives and, possibly, will ever come to understand. The confrontation inherent in our contact with people from other cultures is, in essence, inherent in all relationships with people, regardless of culture or gender. The image of the powerful white woman – just as that of the powerless black woman – is a projection that is not easily resolved, because the power relations that give rise to such an imagery remain valid today and, therefore, contribute to the ways in which we behave. Feminist research is characterised by our attempt not to exploit our informants. Judith Stacey (1993) has questioned whether the equality demanded by feminist research is not merely a stronger form of exploitation. She focuses on the contradictory observation that the individual fates and conflicts of the people with whom a researcher builds a relationship are, ultimately, scientific data, and that through the publication of these data researchers come to wield the power of defining the nature of those relationships. By referring to the limits of cultural comparativity and the comprehension between people, she argues for researchers to remain humble in this context. These limits – that is, personal limits as well as those given by societal hierarchies – demarcate the segment of reality that we are able to observe. They are not immutable but instead change when we begin to tackle them. I believe that awareness of our frequent inability to understand another individual can be the basis of understanding them anyway, and of being able to communicate respectfully. Or, as Christina von Braun (1989: 24) has remarked, we should not convert overseas into home, not make that which is foreign into one’s own sitting room.

NOTES Original title and place of publication: Roth, Claudia. 1998. ‘Kulturschock, Macht und Erkenntnis: Zur Auseinandersetzung mit Grenzen in der ethnologischen Forschungssituation’, in Susanne Schröter (ed.), Körper und Identitäten: Ethnologische Ansätze zur Konstruktion von Geschlecht. Hamburg: LIT, pp. 169–85.

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1. In the following I reflect upon my own fears, insecurity and irritation as noted in my field diary. 2. For the results of my research, see Roth 1994, 1995, 1996a, 1996b, 1997a, 1997b. 3. On the importance of ‘social parenthood’ in the case of the Mossi in Ouagadougou, see Roost Vischer 1997. 4. On ‘situationally structured research’, see Roth 1994: 19–21. 5. See also Nadig 1986: 11–28. 6. CFA is the common currency of francophone West Africa; 1,000 CFA = 10 FF = roughly 3 DM. 7. This becomes particularly evident in West Africa through, for example, the widespread tales of unfaithful wives (see Lallemand 1985) as well as proverbs. 8. See also Weiss 1987: 172f.

REFERENCES Braun, Christina von. 1989. ‘Der Einbruch der Wohnstube in die Fremde’, in Christina von Braun (ed.), Die schamlose Schönheit des Vergangenen: Zum Verhältnis von Geschlecht und Geschichte. Frankfurt am Main: Verlag Neue Kritik, pp. 15–35. Devereux, Georges. 1976. Angst und Methode in den Verhaltenswissenschaften. Frankfurt am Main: Ullstein. Erdheim, Mario, and Maya Nadig. 1979. ‘Größenphantasien und sozialer Tod’, Kursbuch 58: 115–26. Lallemand, Suzanne. 1985. L’apprentissage de la sexualité dans les contes d’Afrique de l’Ouest. Paris: L’Harmattan. Morgenthaler, Fritz, et al. 1984. Gespräche am sterbenden Fluß: Ethnopsychoanalyse bei den Iatmul in Papua-Neuguinea. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer. Nadig, Maya. 1985. ‘Ethnopsychoanalyse und Feminismus – Grenzen und Möglichkeiten’, Feministische Studien 2: 105–18. ———. 1986. Die verborgene Kultur der Frau: Ethnopsychoanalytische Gespräche mit Bäuerinnen in Mexiko. Subjektivität und Gesellschaft im Alltag von OtomiFrauen. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer. ———. 1993. ‘Antworten auf das Fremde. Ethnopsychoanalytische Perspektiven auf das Fremde’, in WIDEE (ed.), Nahe Fremde – fremde Nähe: Frauen forschen zu Ethnos, Kultur, Geschlecht. Vienna: Wiener Frauenverlag, pp. 15–56. Roost Vischer, Lilo. 1997. Mütter zwischen Herd und Markt: Das Verhältnis von Mutterschaft, sozialer Elternschaft und Frauenarbeit bei den Moose (‘Mossi’) in Ouagadougou/Burkina Faso. Basler Beiträge zur Ethnologie 38. Basel: Wepf. Roth, Claudia. 1994. Und sie sind stolz: Zur Ökonomie der Liebe. Die Geschlechtertrennung bei den Zara in Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel.

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———. 1995. ‘Wehe, wenn die Frauen von Bobo sich schminken’: Ein ethnologischer Beitrag. Ethnopsychoanalyse 4, Arbeit, Alltag, Feste. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel, pp. 205–21. ———. 1996a. La séparation des sexes chez les Zara au Burkina Faso. Paris: L’Harmattan. ———. 1996b. ‘Blutbande als soziales Netz: Die afrikanische Grossfamilie als Wirtschaftsgemeinschaft’. Neue Zürcher Zeitung 103(4): 70. ———. 1997a. ‘Was ist Liebe? Zum Wandel der Ehe in Bobo-Dioulasso. Ein Beispiel’, in Beat Sottas et al. (eds), Werkschau Afrikastudien: Forum Suisse des Africanistes. Hamburg: LIT, pp. 198–208. ———. 1997b. Tee und Träume: Zum Generationenkonflikt der Männer in BoboDioulasso. Ethnopsychoanalyse 5, Jugend und Kulturwandel. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel, pp. 153–66. Stacey, Judith. 1993. ‘Ist feministische Ethnographie möglich?’, in Gabriele Rippl (ed.), Unbeschreiblich weiblich: Texte zur feministischen Anthropologie. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, pp. 196–208. Weiss, Florence. 1987. ‘Sprache und Geschlecht bei den Iatmul’, Ethnologica Helvetica 11: 151–90.

part i i

❍❍❍ Negotiating Love and Marriage

❍ c ha p te r 2

Beware When the Women of Bobo Dress Up! An Ethnographic Contribution Claudia Roth

oung women of the West African city of Bobo-Dioulasso have the leisure of courting and courtship before marriage, and the duties that come with it. The period of sunguruya (‘the way of the young woman’)1 is experienced as a time of festivities energetically shaped by these women themselves, and it can last for months or even years. Nevertheless, it is the aim of women to marry even if matrimony abruptly sets an end to the period of sunguruya. As wives, they are obliged to obey their husbands, who can now determine their doings and movements. In the urban environment of Bobo-Dioulasso divorce rates are high. Social change alters the matrimonial relationship of power in favour of men; and this provokes a spirit of resistance in women, with their fond memories of the sunguruya period with all its liberties – especially when women feel restricted in their traditional range of activities. Unhappy wives resort to the culturally determined form of sunguruya when looking for a new man. This contribution is based on fieldwork amongst the Zara in BoboDioulasso, the second-largest city of Burkina Faso. The Zara – a Mandé group that lives from agriculture as well as trading activities – migrated to Boboland in small groups in the seventeenth century; they settled in Bobo peacefully, and founded small villages. One clan settled in Sya (today’s Bobo-Dioulasso), and it was one branch of this clan that I visited. BoboDioulasso has always been a cosmopolitan city, and today twenty-four ethnic groups live there. This article discusses women of the Bobo, Dafni, Lobi and Peul groups.

Y

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The Festivities of Sunguruya In front of one of the large compounds, young women stand in a circle around two men playing the drums. A sixteen-year-old woman is dancing in their midst. Initially quite shy, she slowly begins to sway her hips and loosen up, turning towards the musicians and entering into a dialogue with them by letting her body follow the rhythm of the drums. She accelerates in step with them, energetically kicking up dust with her bare feet, throwing her arms out powerfully and in a precise manner; she moves faster and faster, bending over, placing her arms on her thighs, provocatively presenting her buttocks to the audience and bouncing them at astonishing speed. The young women cheer her by calling out and clapping, and the atmosphere is charged. She lunges and is suddenly out of breath, throwing herself back into the audience whilst laughing. The drumbeat slows and the next woman moves to the middle. Girls and young women replace each other in quick succession, some moving shyly and giggling in embarrassment, others full of confidence and proudly showing off their prowess. Drawn by the unmistakably audible djembe rhythms, loud laughter and whistling, more young women join the circle – the djembe dance is their dance: powerful, erotic, titillating and magnetic. It is taboo for married women, who are consigned to dancing the more moderate and melodious balafon dance. Young men loiter at a respectful distance and follow these performances and the wordless courting of these young women. Djembe are played at christenings and weddings; but young women from a particular neighbourhood may also pool their cash to hire drummers and pursue their desire to dance. The djembe dance is part of the sunguruya, the time of liberty before matrimony when women are no longer children but not yet wives, and hence the time when they are wooed and indulged by men. Women are enthusiastic when talking about this period in their lives. ‘It’s a good time. Yala dron – only strolling around. You’re free. You hardly have to work because your younger sisters help your mother with all the cooking and washing. You have no obligations. You are beautiful because you take care of yourself and your looks and appearance. You’re always on the move ka baro ke ni kambele ye – to chat with the young men. You go for walks with them, go dancing with them and to the movies. A man gives you everything without you having to ask for anything: he gives you freshly grilled meat, cakes, gifts . . .’ During sunguruya women are permitted a free, if clandestine, love life. Everybody is in the know, and mothers are often accomplices in their daughters’ trysts. Various suitors woo and give gifts to a young woman simultaneously. Love life consists in entertainment, dancing, caresses and

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eroticism; pregnancy, however, is to be avoided. Premarital sexual intercourse is taboo because a woman’s children are to belong to a specific patriline. Women permit various suitors to woo them in succession as well as simultaneously. ‘If you are seeing one man, and then another man wants you too, there will be a real competition between the two of them’, young women tell, full of mirth. ‘They are rivals and both try to outdo the other and win you over. And you, of course, choose the better of the two and drop the other one.’ The requirement of virginity upon marriage is still upheld, even if it is seldom adhered to. Most compounds contain a fille-mère, an unmarried mother. Fathers are powerless to prevent this even though they are livid when this happens. They threaten young women with statements like: ‘If you come home pregnant I will chase you off!’ Such threats are of no concern to women, however: ‘You simply don’t care’, one woman laughs. ‘You don’t listen to those words. You care about nothing and just enjoy your life. And if your father beats you, you take it in your stride and simply go out afterwards. He can do nothing about it.’ Young women are crafty in evading their father’s strict prohibitions: a pre-arranged whistle and off the woman goes on some excuse or another. When a woman desires to go out dancing one evening, she arranges for a skirt and shoes to be brought next door by one of the children ‘because if you leave home in a pagne nobody will suspect what your plans are’. Ka kene ta – scaling the courtyard’s walls – is a common expression. Children transmit the message to meet at a certain location; mothers are often privy to such activities. ‘If you let her in on it she will protect you. For example, if anybody notices that you’re away, she will claim to have sent you on some errands. She does this because she would be so happy if you find a man and get married, although of course she hopes you will not get pregnant like this because your father will get angry and accuse her of raising you badly.’ Women talk about this period of male wooing in pleasurable terms. Men as suitors, however, use different terms, and they acrimoniously call women ‘materialists’. A man who cannot at a minimum turn up riding a moped and jingling coins in his pocket cannot pick up a woman, they complain. ‘And then you have to give her gifts in order to hold onto her. Of course, she doesn’t ask you for anything; but before large festivals such as New Year’s Eve she will make a comment on how a friend of hers is skilled at mèche hairdos.2 And then you know it: either you get the money for the mèche or else she will find somebody else who will – and then she’ll go dancing with that man!’ A young woman asks her boyfriend for 6,000 CFA for mèche.3 He goes se débrouiller and borrows 200 CFA here, 500 CFA there, 1,000 CFA from

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somewhere else; in this way he perhaps gathers 3,000 CFA. He tries to give her the money but she becomes irate: ‘How dare you bring me 3,000 CFA when mèche cost 6,000 CFA? I don’t want that money!’ In order to placate her he uses the money to buy her a nice blouse instead. She is very happy and reconciled, but then tells him, ‘Now I will take the 3,000 CFA after all’. No woman would call herself a materialist. Being invited and presented with gifts belongs to the sunguruya. Some did indeed overdo it, I was sometimes told; yet many of the women I talked with about this told me drily: ‘My father took good care of me and paid for my dresses and hairdos at festivities, which is why I myself was never set on men’s gifts. But it is normal for women from a different background to ask men for such things’. Or also: ‘This is a sign of modernity. Women choose the man who offers them the most. This is quite understandable because you cannot live off love alone’. Two women I interview laugh about my question: ‘Did the men tell you they always had to buy fabrics for the women? Do you think they really do? They do not! A man who doesn’t is a bad man. Or do you think a man is good when he doesn’t give gifts and buy things for women? A man without money is difficult because who is going to feed the children later?’ Two female students graduating from high school in Bobo-Dioulasso answer my question on what they think of young women being designated as materialists: ‘Many girls are materialistic these days because there are many needs and it’s necessary to find somebody to help you fulfil these needs. I think you have to be a little materialistic, but not too much’. And: ‘Calling women materialistic is an ignorant thing to say. Every person, no matter from which class, race or social background, has but one aim, and that is to be materialistically and morally independent’. Receiving gifts from men is part of the sunguruya. Men complain about this because urban environments are full of desirable goods. ‘Materialism’ is the predominant term used by men to describe the demands made by women, which they cannot yet afford to ignore (if they desire to be involved with them), because the period of sunguruya is an ‘inverted’ world: a man cannot demand anything from his girlfriend, and a woman can take her time and search for an appropriate lover at her own leisure.

Everyday Life: Matrimony Married women remember the sunguruya as a great festival. ‘Everything changes after marriage! You become the guardian of the home. Your husband no longer goes dancing with you but instead he goes with his girl-

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friends. You become his old lady! He no longer gives you gifts; instead all you hear is “wari te y” – “there’s no money”! You cannot go out without his permission. This only changes again when you have to participate in providing money for food. From then onwards he can no longer forbid you to come and go as you like.’ A wife is to obey her husband: she hands him cool drinking water when he comes home, brings him dinner and provides heated water for his bathing. She is not allowed to contradict him and must follow his orders. One woman recounts: ‘If a man says that something is the colour blue even if a woman sees that it is green, she must agree with him and say that it is indeed blue. Maybe there will be a moment in time a little later when she can talk to him calmly and explain to him why it is actually green. But you cannot discuss such things with your husband. This is the position that my mother was in, and it is the same for me!’ A be ten – ‘this is normal’, women will explain calmly. Patriarchal society is manifested in the duty of a wife to be obedient, yet power is limited in everyday life by the effects of gender divisions. The division of the genders arises from the gendered division of labour, and constitutes the experiential space characterised by gender-specific tools, resources, decision-making options, rules, values, symbols and social relations. The term ‘gender division’ thus connotes more than a concrete division of labour by including the gendered division of social and cultural domains. In this way, women gain space to manoeuvre beyond male control. The mechanism that limits power is based on the twofold effects of the division of gender: the division always leads to separate domains. In a patriarchal society, this means that women can be excluded from positions of power due to male monopolisation of certain societal domains; however, it also means that specifically female domains are established through such divisions. Female domains should not be understood as spaces free of power relations or of female solidarity; they are characterised by the same social structures as pertain to society as a whole. Internal organisation, however, is not directly determined by men. These domains allow women to act and make decisions (amongst other things) independently from men – they are ‘a source of personal autonomy for women’ (Abu-Lughod 1985: 644; my translation). They also permit women to evade situations in which their pride is hurt – that is, in the context of encounters with people in authority (in other words, with elders and with men): ‘Women who live in a world divided by gender are able to reduce such encounters to a minimum throughout the largest part of their lives’. In this social environment, women ‘develop personal qualities that would not be of use

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to them if they were constantly in situations demanding their subjection and deference’ (ibid.: 648; my translation). A man from the generation of elders relates what the everyday division of genders looked like in an older society: It used to be difficult to treat a woman badly because husband and wife only spent nights together. The man would go out to the collective field whilst she stayed at home to grind millet and prepare to [millet gruel]. The men would eat together in the fields or on the first floor of the house, and the women would also eat together. When a stranger came to the compound he would be unable to discover which woman was which man’s wife. A man and woman had nothing to discuss with each other because it was the elders who solved family problems and resolved matrimonial conflicts. You would never see a husband and wife sitting together. And at night the woman would join her husband in a discrete way. And they would not be allowed to talk with each other at night, either. If an elder heard words being spoken in the silence of the night he would reprimand the man the following day by asking him, ‘What was there to talk about?’!

Limitations on power arising from gender divisions are enhanced by the right of women to own their own property – a right that is transmitted through kinship organisation. In the urban environment of Bobo-Dioulasso, the division of genders and the right to one’s own property remain in force: women and men eat separately, celebrate festivals separately, work separately and have their own, separate earnings. Nevertheless, the context has changed. The hierarchy of age that determined an older society has been modified: old men today no longer have the monopoly over land and resources that underlay their former power, although they do still wield control over the infrastructure of the compound as well as the social network of kinship relations. In the form of a type of social security these two elements ensure the existential survival of family members in economically precarious times. Young men are able to gain a little room for manoeuvre by earning their own money, yet they remain unable to become independent from the elders. This has a profound effect on matrimony. Change has also come to the importance accorded to gender-dependent goods connected to the division of the genders. In old society both husbands and wives were able to ensure their own survival with genderspecific goods and output; now, however, such goods and services can be procured as gender-neutral goods by any man or woman on the markets of urban third-world economies. Due to the penetrating economy of money and commodities the power relations of an older society – that is, those arising from the hierarchy

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of age and the hierarchy of gender – have been transformed; and the possession of money has become a critical resource for economic power and political and social influence. In the context of matrimony this means that men from younger generations are able to gain a certain degree of independence from elders through their own wages and, hence, extend their authority over their wives. Wives, on the other hand, are able to resist such male designs by having their own income. As a consequence, marital conflict often arises from arguments over who is to pay for family expenditures such as food, clothes, schooling, medicine and rent. Money that is not used to support the family allows both husbands and wives to maintain their own social networks that depend on the exchange of gifts. Such relations imbue individuals with social prestige and can be mobilised at times of financial emergency. Having one’s own salary also permits individuals to buy desirable goods such as fabrics, enamel dishes or beauty products (for women), and a radio, watch or pair of jeans (for men), or even a moped. A piece of land or a house is only rarely affordable for women, as they earn less than men. By investing in their own domain of work (for example, by purchasing work tools or extending their trade) women are able to extend economic independence from their husbands as well as increase their social prestige as shrewd traders. I have explored elsewhere the shifts in power within Zara society that have arisen from socio-economic transformation, and how this has resulted in marital conflict between the sexes (Roth 1994). Here I shall focus on a phenomenon that represents the claim to power by husbands in urban contexts: the proscription of work by wives outside the home. While in old society men were able to prohibit their wives from doing many things (especially with the support of the lineage’s eldest), this never included work. The proscription of earning her own money has dramatic consequences for a wife: she becomes directly dependent on her husband and loses her own, independent room for manoeuvre.

The Prohibition of Work Working outside of the home is an integral part of women’s self-conception and, indeed, made possible by the functioning social network amongst women themselves as well as through ‘social motherhood’ (Roost Vischer 1989, 1993). Most women pursue trading activities alongside laborious household chores and raising children. A man who prohibits his wife from working outside the home severely curtails a woman’s emotional as well as material and social room for manoeuvre. The prohibition of work is an exceptional case due to the fact that it is only wealthy or newly-wed men

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who can afford such a proscription in financial terms. In general, women resist this type of dependence on their husband. In the following I shall describe various cases of women who resist their husband’s prohibition to work, and we shall explore the importance women give to the notion of working outside the home. Djeneba wants to sell oranges in the playground again, just like she did before her marriage. She tells me that her husband adamantly refuses to agree. ‘But why?’ I ask him. He answers abruptly: ‘Trading in the streets is not fitting for a young woman!’ Djeneba is bored at home. One day I observe her sitting in front of the compound with a basket full of oranges that she is in the process of peeling deftly so that they can easily be squeezed to make juice. ‘Is your husband now in agreement?’ I ask. ‘He said nothing.’ – ‘He said nothing?’ – ‘I told him I was going to sell oranges from tomorrow onwards, and he said nothing.’ Later I ask her husband, ‘So Djeneba is now selling oranges?’ – ‘Yes, one day she told everybody, but not me directly, that she would be selling oranges from tomorrow onwards. I said nothing!’ To ‘say nothing’ means that he had not yet laid down the law; he had not yet said no or yes. Since then Djeneba has been selling oranges. In exactly the same way, another young woman whose husband had explained to me why such street trade was inappropriate began to sell wares in the street. ‘Because’, she tells me, ‘he cannot even pay for a bar of soap or some wood.’ And it is here that we discover the ambivalent attitude of young husbands: they are convinced of their supériorité – of their natural right to tell a woman what she may or may not do – but simultaneously they do not have the financial means necessary to enforce this superiority. After marriage, poverty appears to descend upon newly-weds. Instead of a husband giving his wife freshly grilled meat or beautiful fabrics as he had done during the sunguruya, now he chooses to answer her pleas with the common ‘wari te y’ – ‘there is no money for it’. Thus, women primarily fight for the right to work outside of the home. Bintou’s husband is one of the few who has the means necessary to provide for her family all on his own. He has a good salary as a computer scientist, and plans to move from his relatives’ compound to a four-room house in the nicest neighbourhood of the city. Bintou – the mother of a six-year-old girl – is not forced to contribute to the family’s upkeep. Unlike the other women of the compound, she does not have to rise at five in the morning to make a fire in order to heat water for her husband and prepare the millet gruel for breakfast, because ‘he is quite astute and heats his own water and then drinks his morning coffee at a cafe on his way to work’.

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As a child, Bintou had sold soap balls for her mother next to school, and she knows how tough the production of soap is; today she is proud of her higher social status. She has a diploma as a secretary and regards herself as being an educated person – she supports birth control and condemns female circumcision. Nevertheless, she was unable to prevail against the compound’s eldest woman and prevent the circumcision of her own daughter. ‘You cannot escape from the elders’, she says. In regard to herself, she perceives herself as a modern woman. Bintou, however, is in an ambiguous position: on the one hand, she regards the lack of needing to work as a sign of affluence, and she enjoys presenting this to others. On the other hand, she is limited in her freedom – she cannot leave the home whenever she likes, and nor does she have a single franc of her own. It is her husband who decides when the time has come for new mèche for her hairdo, or for purchasing new fabrics, or even whether (and, if so, how much) pocket money is necessary for small incidental purchases. Bintou is an enterprising person by nature. In order to mingle despite the prohibition to work – in order to have an excuse to leave the home – she is a member of two female dance troupes. These troupes are invited to weddings and perform to ballafon music. In one of these troupes the women are recognised by their ‘uniform’ – they all wear garments made from the same fabrics. Bintou with her stately figure resembles a queen when she leaves the home with a glowing face, her boubou streaming in the wind and a scarf elegantly wrapped around her head. As soon as her husband starts to feel that she is going out too frequently he stops providing her with the cash for membership fees. At those times Bintou can be seen once again sitting in the yard in front of the compound for hours on end, lost in thought and alone, while the other women of the compound are outside at work, where they produce soap at the soap yard in the industrial quarter at the other end of town, journey to nearby villages to buy millet, or trade in gombo, tomatoes or spices at the large city market place. Those women return in the evenings, exhausted yet full of news of friends and relatives, of the day’s events, of secrets – and with their own money in their pockets, however little that may be. They have traded, chatted, heard and told new things, argued and laughed, solved problems – or maybe not, on bad days. Bintou lacks the room for manoeuvre that women can only gain by working outside of the home. She lacks a respectable reason to leave the compound. And she lacks her own money, which is necessary for women to be able to make decisions themselves on their own purchases and to maintain their own network of social relations.

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Bintou experiments a little with selling roasted corn or peanuts at a stall in front of the compound, but she feels uncomfortable doing this because it contradicts her image of herself as a reputable and educated woman. She tells me about her dreams: most of all she would enjoy working as an official in an office, yet her husband does not want her to be in a room with strange men. She could enter into the wholesale business and travel to Abidjan and Lomé to procure fabrics and shoes, yet her husband does not want her to go on extended trips. She would even be willing to run a supermarket or clothes boutique in town, because this would allow her to make a considerable amount of money – yet her husband is strictly opposed to it. At present the enhanced social status that she has gained through her husband still outweighs the restrictions that it has entailed; at times she accepts these restrictions, and at times she secretly – sometimes even openly – evades them and provokes marital conflict, which leads her to acquiesce to them again for a short while. After some years, Bintou realises that she cannot bear a second or third child; she becomes agitated and goes to see a doctor, who tells her that she suffers from Fallopian tube obstruction. She tells me: ‘Something was moving for a long time in my ovaries and it felt like a baby swimming around inside. For three months now, however, all has become silent and I no longer feel anything. It has become inert and now feels like a ball. The doctor recommended an operation but I am afraid of it. I would rather go to the village and get indigenous treatment. I know a woman who gave birth first to such a ball and then later to two children’. The thought that she may never bear children again weighs heavily upon her. Women who become mothers multiple times are highly respected, and children provide women with much influence and support. Bintou must also fear that her husband might marry a second wife in order to have more progeny. She does not want to live in a polygamous household under any circumstances: ‘I would immediately leave my husband and return to my family’. Bintou accuses one of her husband’s relatives of envy and of having fashioned a grigris;4 the women in her husband’s compound, however, suspect that Bintou has been using contraceptives. Bintou becomes aware of her precarious position: the wealth and status she is living with does not belong to her and, hence, remains fragile. If a second wife were to join the household and bear numerous children, that woman would accrue the status of being a first wife and, informally, Bintou would lose out. In addition to this, both women would be sharing their husband’s income. Were Bintou to abandon her husband she would be on her own, possibly even losing her only child if a court should recognise her husband’s traditional right to their daughter. Bintou has no professional experience that is consistent with her image of herself as a

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modern woman – hence, she has no financial base. She looks for alternatives and decides to train as a tailor. Her husband is in agreement with this as it would permit her to work at home. Money is an important element of a husband’s power in a capitalistically structured society. This is consistent with observations made by Abu-Lughod of Bedouin women: ‘Their well-being and standard of life now critically depend on husbands in a world in which everything costs money, where many more things can be purchased with it, and where women have almost no independent access to it. This is most evident when we observe that women’s resistance to the unjust distribution of purchased goods, ranging from bed sheets to bars of soap and matchboxes, is the most common cause of conflict in most households; the power of men now crucially includes the power to purchase items and to punish or reward women by giving these items to them’ (Abu-Lughod 1990: 50; my translation). By the time of the second child’s birth, there remain few men who resist the notion of allowing their wives to work, because due to the economic situation in an urban environment a man can only rarely be the family’s sole provider. In this way, matrimonial power relations become transformed: a man’s power no longer rests in his ability to give or withhold goods but instead in him assuming his share of the burden of supporting the family or choosing to neglect such a duty, thereby heavily encumbering his wife and limiting her ability to invest in her own affairs that go beyond the family. These power relations are in abeyance as soon as a woman earns enough money to no longer depend on her husband’s contributions. This is the case for Kadiatou, as I now show. Kadiatou is the third of her husband’s wives and the mother of four sons. She lives in a house outside of her husband’s compound – a form of residence in polygamous households that is common in an urban environment. In the ten years that she has been married, Kadiatou has been working as a healer and making grigris: she treats people who come to her with specific ailments with indigenous medication, and she receives women and men who come to see her about their concerns and fears. This type of work has a long tradition in her family: her grandfather was a healer too, and she learnt the trade from a cousin. Now her husband is demanding that Kadiatou give up this line of business because grigris contradict the strictures of Islam, the one true faith. Over the course of the past years he has already asked her three times to stop; through an intermediary she has always asked for his forgiveness yet continued her work in secret. Just like in the past, her husband now withholds her food money – that is, he excludes her from the cycle of wives: she no longer cooks for three days in a row every nine days, she

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does not wash his clothes and no longer shares his bed – she is no longer his wife. This comes at a time when she is three-months pregnant with her fourth child. Kadiatou earns well: she has bought a moped, wears nice clothes, has hairdos, and her sons own pairs of jeans and sneakers; in other words, she is financially independent. Her husband reaffirms the work prohibition for her when he hears, by chance, that she has much money in her bank account – 100,000 CFA (in 1991 this amounted to roughly 5,000 DM, or over three times the monthly salary of the average labourer). Kadiatou tells me that she has purchased some land and is building a house on it that she will rent out. Her husband remains unaware of this. Conflict persists, and both parties insist on their respective points of view. Kadiatou says: ‘What should I live off? Food money every sixth day? And am I to wear rags? This is of course what he wants: he wants me to have to beg him for every franc! He cannot bear the thought that I’m able to buy myself a moped without having to ask him. After every single one of my purchases he started a fight; he cannot bear me being able to pay for everything myself’. And she believes that the accusation that her work contradicts the teachings of Islam is but a ridiculous excuse: firstly, she and her family are Muslims who pray on a daily basis. Secondly, her husband’s father has also fashioned grigris alongside his profession as a tailor. Furthermore, somebody has informed her that her husband has sacrificed chickens back in the village. Give up her work? She would never agree to that demand. Her mother and entire kin are supporting her in her endeavour. Several months later, Kadiatou bears her fourth son and her husband pays for a wonderful ceremony; for a brief period, all seems to be in order again. But then, again, there is a split – the frontlines of this conflict have not changed. The husband claims it is not he who is arguing but her. She would immediately be allowed to rejoin him, if only she gave up her work. Kadiatou’s reaction was: ‘He should take me back with me doing this work – or not. I will not budge. After all, I have four sons. What should they live off otherwise? I’m not in a position to give up this work because I would seal my own doom like that’. Later she tells me: ‘My mother advised me, “If your husband gives up the fight then return to him”. I told her I don’t want him anymore. And she said “Do it anyway, for the children”. And so I will, because you cannot refuse the words of your mother. But one thing is clear: I will never give up my work!’ Kadiatou considers her options for the future in the case that her husband insists on prohibiting her from working. ‘I shall wait until the youngest child is three years old. Then the two eldest will move in with

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their father and I shall keep the two younger children with me for a while. Later on, all four of them will live with their father – that’s the way it is. It would also be difficult to bring along four children to a new marriage because few men would agree to such a thing. I already know him, my next husband’, she laughs. ‘He was my adolescent sweetheart, before I met my husband. We were together afterwards, too. My husband would go mad if he knew about it!’

Falling Back on the Sunguruya Separation is common, and many women live with their second or third husbands. Women do not leave their husbands lightly, but they do seek a way out when their marital position becomes untenable for them, when their husband overly limits their room for manoeuvre by encumbering them with responsibilities to provide for the whole family on their own or, as in the case of Kadiatou, they proscribe their work, or when a woman feels demoted in relation to her co-wives and is in constant conflict with them. A woman in her early thirties left her husband because she had been responsible for her five children all on her own while he had squandered his income: ‘So I didn’t want him anymore. I lived with my mother for a year, then found a new man and have now been married for four months. It’s not at all difficult to meet a new man. I dressed up and immediately men in the streets would call out to me “Ah! muso nyuman! i ce ka nye! – Ah! My dear! You look so good!”’ By falling back on the sunguruya, women are able to transform their personal everyday situation: they call to mind the festive period of sunguruya and fall back on its repertoire. They remember a former lover, or they search for a new man by using the inviting signals of the sunguruya – for a ‘good man’ this time around. A ‘good man’ is one who fulfils his financial duties. When women talk about what a ‘good man’ is they refer to matrimony as it was commonly understood in an older society: married men and women exchanged goods and services with each other, and thereby provided for the family together. This was also what underlay the mutual respect that was demanded in traditional society. Men, on the other hand, refer to the form of matrimony that has developed in urban environments. They emphasise their own position of authority, their right to exert direct control over their wives and to limit their room for manoeuvre, and they ignore their own, neglected duties. This is an assault on women’s self-conceptualisation that is informed by gender division and the right to one’s own property. Women have

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many methods to argue in their own interest, even without using words. Their last recourse is falling back on the sunguruya. In this way they may not be able to change societal structures of matrimony but they are able to transform their own personal position in life. They do not call into question the traditional duty of a wife’s obedience but, instead, the newly acquired right of husbands to limit their wife’s traditionally granted room for manoeuvre, no matter whether this is expressed through work prohibitions or unfulfilled male obligations. The sunguruya is a cultural language activated by women to implement their own concepts of a ‘good marriage’ that are derived from old society. Fatou sells deep-fried plantains at a street stall and earns just enough to support herself and her child. Her husband has been unemployed for years and therefore she is providing for the family on her own. But for how much longer? Her initial sympathy is turning into resentment: she is breaking her back day after day, while her husband strolls through town for days on end looking for work. A second child is out of the question for her under these circumstances, so she remembers her childhood sweetheart, whom she left in favour of her husband. That man now lives in another city and owns a tailor shop. His latest creation is men’s trousers with three stitches sewn into the side; these trousers are well known throughout town and in high demand. Fatou wants to see him again, and she asks me to visit that city with her. I agree because I can see how important this is to her although I do not yet know of her intentions. Unnoticed and ignored by all, I follow her like a shadow throughout this day; everybody treats me exactly the way she wanted: as an alibi. At her compound Fatou tells people that she will be accompanying me and will therefore be leaving her child in their care. A be taa sunguruya ke – she is embarking on the way of the young woman: she is carefully groomed and her eyes sparkle from the depths of the dark kajal dust that line them; she is wearing her new dress, lipstick, nail varnish and glittering shoes – this is how I encounter her on the morning of our departure. And off we go. Upon our arrival, Fatou asks around at the large market for directions to the tailor’s shop of her former love. And there he is, sitting at his pair of treadle sewing machines, a model of his trousers slung over a taut line; three boys are ironing shirts with coal irons, fabrics are strewn all about, and people are coming in and asking about their clothes or placing orders before leaving again. Her friend is surprised and happy to see Fatou. He immediately has one of the boys fetch a cold can of Fanta for her, and asks her about her life and her child, talks about his own seven-monthold son – and, no, he is not married. Fatou is impressed by the visibly successful business he is running. At lunchtime he gives her 1,000 CFA – a

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three-day salary for her – and suggests taking me to a nearby restaurant to eat because he was unable to leave right at that moment. When we return to the workshop after lunch, Fatou gathers all her courage and says to him: ‘Marry me!’ He replies: ‘We will have to discuss this matter’. They go off to a bar. ‘You left me, don’t forget that!’ he says, whilst holding her hand. She nods shyly. Yes, that is the way it had been back then. He wants to think about everything and asks her to return the following weekend so that they can take it from there. Together they concoct an excuse she can use back home: she had met her aunt at the market and promised to visit her for a longer period in the near future. He accompanies us to the shared-taxi stand. As we are crossing the market square he buys Fatou some large and small baskets, and an assortment of spices and sweets, and he gives her money to make sure that she will return. She laughs. The next weekend Fatou goes to visit ‘her aunt’. Her mother-in-law has begun to suspect that something is afoot because she can read the signs of the sunguruya, yet Fatou remains inscrutable: her aunt is not well and she cannot postpone the visit. Glowing, she returns – it had been so wonderful and she had danced all night. . .

NOTES Original title and place of publication: Roth, Claudia. 1995. ‘Wehe, wenn die Frauen von Bobo sich schminken’: Ein ethnologischer Beitrag. Ethnopsychoanalyse 4, Arbeit, Alltag, Feste. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel, pp. 205–21. 1. I translate all Dioula expressions throughout this contribution. 2. This refers to long artificial hair that is interwoven with one’s natural hair. 3. CFA is Francophone West Africa’s common currency; 1,000 CFA = roughly 2.50 DM. 4. In Francophone Africa, a grigris is an amulet – an object imbued with magical powers – that is thought to protect its owner from mishap, sickness, sorcery and the Evil Eye, as well as providing its owner with the power to vanquish enemies and obtain one’s desires (which can then also include the ability to inflict damage upon one’s enemies).

REFERENCES Abu-Lughod, Lila. 1985. ‘A Community of Secrets: The Separate World of Bedouin Women’. Signs 10(4): 637–57. ———. 1990. ‘The Romance of Resistance: Tracing Transformations of Power through Bedouin Women’. American Ethnologist: 41–55.

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Roost Vischer, Lilo. 1989. ‘Nicht nur der Not gehorchend: Kleinhändlerinnen in Ouagadougou’. Mosquito 9/10: 20–24. ———. 1993. Häuslich gegen öffentlich oder: die fremden Mütter. FRAZ (Frauezitig) 45: 30–32. Roth, Claudia. 1994. Und sie sind stolz: Zur Ökonomie der Liebe. Die Geschlechtertrennung bei den Zara in Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel.

❍ c ha p te r 3

‘What is Love?’ Changing Matrimony in Bobo-Dioulasso – A Case Study Claudia Roth

o what is love?’ a perplexed young man asked me in Bobo-Dioulasso.1 The definition commonly given by young men is ‘l’amour propre – pure love – a woman who does not desire money’. Women, however, understand ‘love’ to mean receiving gifts from a man. The ways in which men and women understand the manifestation of love are in contradiction to one another. I relate this to societal constellations in Bobo-Dioulasso: relationship structures, attitudes and perspectives that derive from traditional society play as much of a role as do relationship structures and transmitted images of ‘modernity’ influenced by an urban market economy. These old and new patterns are reinterpreted and recombined, depending on personal points of view of old and young, men and women. Similarly, understandings of matrimony and love are in transition. I explore this issue by drawing on the example of an unmarried couple, and I show how women and men differ in their interpretations of matrimony as it is commonly understood in urban settings – that is, where men are the heads and sole providers of families. While young husbands there choose to emphasise control over their wives’ movements and neglect their roles in providing for the family, young women embrace the notion of male providers whilst refusing to surrender control over their movements.

‘S

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Transformation of Old Structures Young men of the Zara ethnic group in Bobo-Dioulasso are convinced of their right, as the head of a family, to decide on their wives’ affairs. This corresponds with the ideology of an older Zara society in which men represented the community as political agents. However, in accordance with the hierarchy of age it was old men who administered collective resources, made decisions of importance, and arranged marriages whose sanctity they then supervised by watching over the behaviour of husbands and wives in order to preserve relationships between two families. Common knowledge also extends to a second, oppositional body of thought that goes beyond patriarchal ideology. This refers to stories revolving around the triad ‘husband/wife/lover’ that are widespread throughout western Africa and that express the limited options for control available to husbands in general. Suzanne Lallemand has argued that this triad is best understood as both the opposite as well as an integral part of marriages arranged by elders. Thus, adultery is not formally accepted, yet it is common knowledge that married men and women have amorous liaisons. Tales of adulterous wives include the central theme of a husband’s ambiguity – his control over his wife comes to an end where his wife’s own domain begins. Women’s domains, which arise from the gendered division of labour and the concomitant division of the sexes, must be respected by their husbands and are to be taken more seriously than the male fear of infidelity. According to Lallemand:2 Between the two exigencies of, on the one hand, fidelity and, on the other hand, the strict division of obligations and the autonomy of their achievements, the tale acknowledges the primacy of the latter over the former: before being the passive subject of the spouse’s mistrust, an African woman of Ivory Coast, Togo or Senegal is, first of all, an independent producer; the rule of marital chastity cannot supersede the norms of the economic division of labour, as we are reminded by these narrations. (Lallemand 1985: 48, translated by the editors)

Beyond this, Dioula proverbs such as ce te se ka muso korosiri (‘a man cannot control a woman’) and mogo te se ka muso dende (‘it is not possible to spy on a woman’) remind us of the boundaries of a husband’s authority provided by gender segregation in old Zara society. Based on the gendered division of labour and characterised by a woman’s right to her own possessions amongst the Zara, such segregation is to be understood as a structural limitation of power that manifests itself in the segregated everyday lives of women and men.

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Hence, age hierarchy and gender segregation serve to limit a husband’s authority of decision. In matrimony – understood as a pragmatic relationship – men and women are to mutually respect one another and, therefore, this means performing specific duties where husband and wife conjugally exchange goods and thus mutually ensure the upkeep of the family. In the context of a societal hierarchy of gender, this includes a wife’s obligation to be obedient. But what about love in this environment? In his history of occidental sexuality the historian Philippe Ariès makes us aware of the phenomenon that, until the eighteenth century, ‘people in nearly all societies and in nearly all epochs (except ours today) differentiated between love within wedlock and love outside of wedlock’ (Ariès 1984: 165, my translation). Amongst the Zara, liaisons outside of matrimony occurred again and again. However, even arranged marriages did not preclude love and affection; love was evident not in avowals but rather in the courteous fulfilling of one’s obligations and the services and gifts that went beyond this. The encroaching money and market economy fundamentally changed power relationships between old and young men, and thus affected conjugality. In traditional society, lineage elders provided the young with a means to existence through their administration of collective resources; in an urban economy, however, they no longer have the power to provide work for the young due to their own, similar position as part of a floating workforce. Nevertheless, elders do possess the compound as an infrastructure that can serve as social insurance;3 and they do control the social network of kinship relations that can indeed, under certain circumstances, offer the young access to land or work. Unemployed youth receive food and shelter at their father’s home, as well as medical support in case of sickness; but in order to fulfil their comprehensive social obligations to kin, elders are also dependent on the support of the young. In light of the fracturing of older age hierarchies – and the reinterpretation thereof that has accompanied this process – free choice of marriage is a concession made by elders. While elders continue to discuss possibilities of marriage alliances amongst themselves, they have come to accept their sons’ and daughters’ independent choices much more frequently today. Society does not accept life outside of wedlock, even if it does tolerate certain reasons for making exceptions in this matter – for example, when a pregnant woman’s relatives do not live in the same city. Women insist on marriage because it is only in matrimony that they are completely integrated into their husband’s family and come to be worthy of respect. In everyday life, however, the rights and duties of a couple within or outside of wedlock do not differ. As soon as a woman relocates to a man’s paternal household, he or his family are responsible for her upkeep and she is

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obliged to support her parents-in-law (that is, her father-in-law’s wives) in their household chores. I now proceed to discuss the disputes of an unmarried couple (to clarify, marriage negotiations between both parties’ relatives have begun, and are to continue for another two years). This is a type of dispute I have witnessed amongst freshly married couples as well. These negotiations revolve around understandings of matrimony in the urban environment of Bobo-Dioulasso.

Kabir and Nafi – A Case Example Kabir and Nafi met in another city. At that time Kabir was a 26-year-old Zara student; Nafi – who is a Lobi – was the same age and had an eightyear-old daughter who lived in her village with Nafi’s mother. Nafi went to school for three years and is illiterate. In theory Kabir has already been allocated a cousin as a wife, but he has been able to avert this marriage without being disrespectful to his elders by arguing that he would not be able to feed a family as a student. ‘It’s good that you think so responsibly. But don’t bring home a pregnant woman’, is what they tell him. Nevertheless, Kabir’s father accepts his choice when he brings home pregnant Nafi one year later. Nafi’s pregnancy coincides with Kabir’s graduation. He becomes unemployed and, following the birth of his daughter, he returns home to his ‘paternal’ home with his wife and child, where they live in the same room. They are fed by the family: Kabir eats in the circle of men while Nafi is provided for by her mothers-in-law and also by other female kin. She quickly becomes accepted at the compound thanks to her affable and cooperative personality. It appears as if all is going well; yet arguments are beginning to arise between Kabir and Nafi. Nafi is insisting on marriage: ‘Tell me now if you don’t want to marry me so that I don’t waste too much time’, she tells him. Nafi is hurt: ‘This means that she would actually know to whom she could go instead’. She puts pressure on him to finally find a job, but Kabir continues to hope for employment that befits his education. He feels deeply misunderstood by Nafi as well as by his mother and father – by his entire family even – who are silently indicating to him that the time has now come to earn money. Nafi can ask her father-in-law for anything she needs. Despite this, she wants to have her own money, and she would like to be a trader. Kabir forbids this and accuses her of wanting to be courted by other men. Nafi

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wants further education, but Kabir will not permit this: ‘We don’t have the money for evening school. And apart from that, everybody knows that those teachers have affairs with their pupils’. One day, Nafi begins to bake small cakes and sell them in front of the compound. The start-up capital is provided by an elder sister, and her business turns a small profit. ‘Kabir can’t even pay for some soap or wood’, is her reasoning behind this activity. ‘He didn’t say anything’, she recounts, meaning that he did not voice an opinion when confronted about her trading activities. Kabir’s sole action is to eat the small cakes that have not been sold and that Nafi has failed to adequately conceal from him. The arguments continue, and the reason for them remains unchanged: Nafi wants Kabir to marry her and earn money; and Kabir is of the opinion that she has only her own interests at heart and does not comprehend his problems. She only wants money, and he does not trust her when she visits her girlfriends or relatives because he is haunted by the thought of other men. He concludes that Nafi does not show him any respect. He tells me that this is the reason why he once hit her. Safiatou – a classificatory mother and the eldest woman at the compound4 – had immediately intervened and angrily scolded him. In a different incident, he had thrown Nafi’s bag outside following a big argument, and told her to leave. Nafi had turned to her father-in-law for help, and he (along with Safiatou) had told Kabir that he would not be permitted to treat her like this because she was a good woman and well integrated into the compound. Kabir had been forced to apologise to Nafi, and he expresses frustration: ‘Nafi is always right, she wins over everybody – this is her talent. On the outside, she always behaves in an exemplary way but she does not respect me’. He explains what this means to him: ‘For example, when we have a fight and I then ask her an hour later to clean my shoes, she says “no” instead of doing it, and then says “you’re no good – first that fight and now this!” If she were to have done it, she would have shown that she cared about me, no matter what’. Nafi wants to visit her relatives in another city for Christmas. Kabir does not allow her to go because he fears she will use the opportunity to meet another man. Her relatives ask him to allow her to leave and he cannot refuse such a request. He does, however, set a limit of seven days for her absence, and he decides on her day of departure – it is in his power to do so and thus he denies her wish to leave on 10 December and instead chooses 18 December. She is powerless to disagree, and she is to return on 25 December rather than on 2 January as she had requested. New Year’s Eve with all of its festivities would be too dangerous for her, he decides.

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18 December: Just before Nafi boards the bus she asks her parentsin-law to be permitted to remain with her relatives for longer. They tell Kabir to ‘let her go until the 26th’; Kabir is unable to refuse this request. 21 December: Nafi leaves a telephone message with somebody to inform her husband that she would not be returning until the 27th because she wanted to visit an uncle of hers. Kabir feels that he has been proven correct in asserting that she does not show him enough respect. He has told his father about this, who similarly disagrees with what has occurred and would be talking to her upon her return. Kabir: ‘Actually I would like to solve my problems on my own. It’s not good to call upon the family to constantly mediate, because once we live together on our own we will be unaccustomed to taking care of our own affairs’. 26 December: One of Nafi’s aunts calls Kabir and says that Nafi has to see a dentist and so will not be able to return on the 27th as promised. Kabir is enraged about Nafi apparently involving all of her relatives and not telling them that he had forbidden her to stay away for longer. He intends to inform his father and get him to do something about this situation immediately. 27 December: Kabir’s father calls Nafi’s elder sister, who is unaware of what has happened; she tells him that Nafi would soon be returning. 30 December: Nafi gets a message to Kabir telling him that if he does not want her to return, could he please send on her belongings. Kabir: ‘No, I shall not do this, because if I do then it will be said that I chased her away. I will solve all these matters after she returns, and in the presence of my father’. I ask him whether Nafi’s message has caught him by surprise. Kabir: ‘You once asked me how Nafi shows her affection and I was unable to answer your question because I don’t know how she does. Therefore I also couldn’t recognise that she wanted to leave, because she doesn’t show such things’. 4 January: Nafi returns.

Kabir tells me: ‘You cannot trust women. All those visits, they’re all excuses. You have to guide them or else they simply do as they wish. They abuse the freedom you give them. It’s important to maintain a certain distance between men and women. If a woman makes a mistake you can morally put them under pressure’. Thus, Kabir remains silent in order to corner Nafi. But Nafi likewise remains silent – she does not explain why she only returned on the 4th. After several days, Kabir breaks the silence that so oppresses him: ‘I told Nafi “I simply don’t trust you”. And then she said, “What am I to do? I cannot plant such trust in your head!” But she could send out clearer signals. But she chooses not to do so’.

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A couple of days later Kabir, in his own words, provokes an argument over a minor matter. He slaps her. She grabs a mirror and hits him over the head so that his ear bleeds. He leaves without uttering a word. He gets a tetanus vaccination and now has a large plaster on his ear. Before I depart, Nafi tells me about her next outing: ‘I plan to visit my mother at the village because I miss her. Kabir didn’t react to my request and so I went to my father-in-law and asked him to permit my trip. His support is crucial because he will be paying for transport. He said to me, “You do know that you should have returned on the 27th, don’t you?” I said nothing to that’. Later I hear that Nafi spent several weeks visiting her mother.

Bargaining for the Concept of Matrimony The scenes illustrated above show that Kabir primarily associates his role as family head with absolute control over his wife. He attempts to enforce this through various proscriptions. Yet this does not satisfy him, and he is pursued by his wife’s imaginary lover – or, in other words, the cultural knowledge that there are limitations to control over a wife. Nafi, for her part, insists on Kabir’s role as a provider. While she does laborious chores and takes care of their child, he appears not to be contributing his share to matrimony. Nafi takes matters into her own hands and begins to act. Despite proscribing her work, Kabir cannot intervene and is unable to prevent her activities because he cannot offer an alternative. This in turn creates a realistic basis for his fears of her infidelity because unhappy women can look for another man under such circumstances (see Roth 1995).5 Kabir made his choice of wife independent of the elders but he cannot withdraw from their influence – or from the influence of his wife’s relatives – because of his financial dependency on them. Only those who are certain that they will never again have to rely on such support can afford to rebuff relatives and risk their alienation. Yet apart from this, the very notion of solving matrimonial conflict without the mediating support of his relatives appears inconceivable to Kabir. In the ways in which Kabir and Nafi communicate with each other we can identify the relationship structures of an older society that brings about distance between men and women. On the one hand, this is apparent in the fact that the organisation of kinship promotes descent over alliance for both men and women (Roost Vischer 1997: 186), and results in orientation within their own respective lineage. On the other hand, this relates to a relationship between the sexes that is characterised by

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gender hierarchy as well as the limitations on power that derive from the division of the sexes. Men and women live their separate everyday lives in matrimony; these are connected in the domains of nutrition and sexuality. Husbands and wives share news that concerns the family and their children – there are no discussions, however. Neither women nor men openly profess their love for each other. Love manifests itself, just as it did in an older society, in non-verbal gestures, signs and gifts. There is much talk about ‘respect’ within the context of matrimony. This term is interpreted differently by women and men. According to Kabir, it is Nafi who was behaving disrespectfully when she refused to clean his shoes following their fight. He would be able to recognise her love for him were she to obediently follow his demand and, thus, symbolically recognise his authority. In this he relies on the unconditional respect of a man by a woman, which is an element of the concept of urban matrimony. In contrast, Nafi’s refusal to clean his shoes after the fight, which had been provoked by Kabir himself, hints at a type of respect based upon reciprocity – an element of the old concept of matrimony. The duty of a woman to be obedient – expressed by her in terms of showing respect – was not congruent with control over a woman’s everyday life in traditional society. Similarly, in traditional Zara society it was not the man who was sole provider but rather men and women who both contributed to supporting a family. One reason why young men in particular overly focus on control over their wives may lie in their difficulty in actually playing the role of provider in an economically difficult environment, where little work is available. Just like love, conflict is expressed non-verbally through men’s slaps and women’s silence and refusal. Kabir reacts to Nafi’s return by hitting her. In African society, elders demonstrate their power over youth through silence, just as men do over women. Kabir’s demonstration of power seems futile because Nafi’s silence is stronger. In this way she obscures the reasons for her protracted absence and refuses to justify her actions, even to her father-in-law; and thereby she eludes their control. Nafi integrates elements of an older matrimonial concept – such as reciprocity and a woman’s freedom of movement – with its urban counterpart: she does indeed desire to be provided for by her husband. She chooses those elements that support her, and combines these in novel ways. Kabir cannot be as much at ease as this because his self-image is contested on a daily basis. Although he sees himself as independent of the elders – and hence as head of a family – due to his own choice of wife, he is simultaneously confronted by a reality of material and emotional dependency on his father.

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Old attitudes do not change as rapidly as do external circumstances.6 When the circumstances of life undergo change, those attitudes provide an orientation. In difficult times, it is primarily one’s own relatives who offer the most important relationships of trust for both men and women – and, within those relationships, those of siblings and of the same sex. Francois Le Guennec-Coppens (1987) went as far as noting an increased division of the sexes provoked by unstable matrimony amongst the Lamu of Kenya. At present it remains unclear how gender relations will develop and what the emergent matrimonial model will look like. Old concepts and new models can be found side by side: – The urban concept of matrimony that is influenced by Islam as well as the model of small Western families; in reality, there are hardly any couples living in this way. – Romantic images of love as transmitted, for example, in the television serial ‘Dynasty’: husband and wife living a life of deep devotion until all-consuming jealousy drives him or her to homicide. Women and men in Bobo-Dioulasso take note of this in surprise and smiling disbelief. Calixthe Beyala from Cameroon comments: ‘At the very most, this awakes in us feelings of pity for these Whites, who are so weak that they allow themselves to be dominated by their feelings’ (Beyala 1996: 8, my translation). – The old concept of matrimony: ‘Marriage is nothing more than a contract that aims to link two families’ (ibid., my translation). – The old concept of love: ‘No letter, no poem, no tears, not even sweet words that express such loving feelings could replace the gifts. Do not tell us that you love us; give us the gifts, and we will understand that you love us’ (ibid., my translation). Old patterns do not decay and new images do not simply impose themselves; instead, both are reinterpreted and combined in novel ways. The confusing element is that now, with the freedom to choose matrimony, love and matrimony are to be a single unit. This then leads us to ask helplessly, ‘so what is love?’

NOTES Original title and place of publication: Roth, Claudia. 1997. ‘Was ist Liebe? Zum Wandel der Ehe in Bobo-Dioulasso. Ein Beispiel’, in Beat Sottas et al. (eds), Werkschau Afrikastudien: Forum Suisse des Africanistes. Hamburg: LIT, pp. 198–208.

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1. This article is based on fourteen months of field research (between 1989 and 1992) amongst the Zara of Bobo-Dioulasso in Burkina Faso. See Roth 1994, 1996a. 2. ‘Entre deux exigences, celle de la fidélité, d’une part, celle de la stricte répartition des tâches et de l’autonomie de leur accomplissement d’autre part, le conte reconnaît la primauté de la seconde par rapport à la première: avant d’être l’objet passif de la méfiance du conjoint, l’Africaine de Côte d’Ivoire, du Togo ou du Sénégal est avant tout une productrice indépendante; la règle de chasteté conjugale ne peut avoir le pas sur les normes de partage des domaines économiques, rapellent ces narrations.’ 3. This ‘social insurance’ would not function without the labour of women; see Roth 1996b. 4. On the meaning of ‘social parenthood’ in the lives of women and mothers as well as in the raising of children, see Lilo Roost Vischer 1997. 5. Silvia Büchi (1993) discusses how young Lobi women deal with conflict, and she discovers that ‘departure’ serves as a typical societal method of dealing with conflict. 6. This is illustrated by Florence Weiss (1991) in the case of those Iatmul of New Guinea who move from villages to cities: although women become financially dependent on their husbands in the context of capitalist labour markets, both men and women continue to regard women as autonomous and independent (just as they had been in the village context), and they act accordingly.

REFERENCES Ariès, Philippe. 1984. ‘Liebe in der Ehe’, in Philippe Ariès et al. (eds), Masken des Begehrens und die Metamorphosen der Sinnlichkeit: Zur Geschichte der Sexualitat im Abendland. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, pp. 165–75. Beyala, Calixthe. 1996. ‘En Afrique, l’amour cache’. Figaro, 2 August, p. 8. Büchi, Silvia. 1993. ‘Junge Frauen in Gaoua, Burkina Faso: Vom gesellschaftlichen und individuellen Umgang mit Konflikten’. Masters thesis. Zurich: University of Zurich. Bop, Codou. 1996. ‘Les femmes chefs de famille à Dakar’, in Jeanne Bisilliat (ed.), Femmes du Sud, chefs de famille. Paris: Karthala, pp. 129–49. Bosch, Ellie. 1985. Les femmes du marché de Bobo: La vie et le travail des commerçantes dans la ville de Bobo-Dioulasso au Burkina Faso. Leiden: Centre de Recherche et de Documentation Femmes et Développement. Lallemand, Suzanne. 1985. L’apprentissage de la sexualité dans les contes d’Afrique de l’Ouest. Paris: L’Harmattan. Le Guennec-Coppens, Françoise. 1987. ‘L’Instabilité conjugale et ses conséquences dans la société swahili de Lamu (Kenya)’, in David Parkin and David Nyamwaya (eds), Transformations of African Mariage. Manchester: Manchester University Press, pp. 233–45.

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Le Moal, Guy. 1980. Les Bobo: Nature et fonction des masques. Paris: ORSTOM. Marie, Alain. 1997a. ‘Du sujet communautaire au sujet individuel: une lecture anthropologique de la réalité africaine contemporaine’, in Alain Marie (ed.), L’Afrique des individus. Paris: Karthala, pp. 53–110 . ———. 1997b. ‘Conclusion. Individualisation: entre communauté et société, l’avènement du sujet’, in Alain Marie (ed.), L’Afrique des individus. Paris: Karthala, pp. 407–36. Meillassoux, Claude. 1978. Die wilden Früchte der Frau: Über häusliche Produktion und kapitalistische Wirtschaft. Frankfurt am Main: Syndikat. Peletz, Michael. 1994. ‘Neither Reasonable nor Responsible: Contrasting Representations of Masculinity in a Malay Society’. Cultural Anthropology 9: 135–78. Rondeau, Chantal. 1996. ‘Femmes chefs de famille à Bamako’, in Jeanne Bisilliat (ed.), Femmes du Sud, chefs de famille. Paris: Karthala, pp. 151–70. Roost Vischer, Lilo. 1997. Mütter zwischen Herd und Markt: Das Verhältnis von Mutterschaft, sozialer Elternschaft und Frauenarbeit bei den Moose (‘Mossi’) in Ouagadougou/Burkina Faso. Basler Beiträge zur Ethnologie 38. Basel: Wepf. Roth, Claudia. 1994. Und sie sind stolz: Zur Ökonomie der Liebe. Die Geschlechtertrennung bei den Zara in Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel. ———. 1995. ‘Wehe, wenn die Frauen von Bobo sich schminken’: Ein ethnologischer Beitrag. Ethnopsychoanalyse 4, Arbeit, Alltag, Feste. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel, pp. 205–21. ———. 1996a. La séparation des sexes chez les Zara au Burkina Faso. Paris: L’Harmattan. ———. 1996b. ‘Blutbande als soziales Netz: Die afrikanische Grossfamilie als Wirtschaftsgemeinschaft’. Neue Zürcher Zeitung 103(4): 70. ———. 1997a. ‘Was ist Liebe? Zum Wandel der Ehe in Bobo-Dioulasso. Ein Beispiel’, in Beat Sottas et al. (eds), Werkschau Afrikastudien: Forum Suisse des Africanistes. Hamburg: LIT, pp. 198–208 . ———. 1997b. Tee und Träume: Zum Generationenkonflikt der Männer in BoboDioulasso. Ethnopsychoanalyse 5, Jugend und Kulturwandel. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel, pp. 153–66. ———. 1998. ‘Kulturschock, Macht und Erkenntnis: Zur Auseinandersetzung mit Grenzen in der ethnologischen Forschungssituation’, in Susanne Schröter (ed.), Körper und Identitäten: Ethnologische Ansätze zur Konstruktion von Geschlecht. Hamburg: LIT, pp. 169–85. ———. 1999. ‘Was suchen die zwei weissen Frauen hier? Bei den Seifenfrauen in Bobo-Dioulasso. Ein Forschungsbericht’, in Lilo Roost Vischer, Anne Mayor and Dag Heinrichsen (eds), Brücken und Grenzen – Passages et frontières: Werkschau Afrikastudien – Le forum suisse des africanistes 2. Hamburg: LIT, pp. 49–65. Sanou, Bruno Doti. 1989. L’émancipation des femmes Madare: L’impact du projet administratif et missionnaire sur une société africaine 1900–1960. Louvain: Université catholique de Louvain.

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Sevede-Bardem, Isabelle. 1997. Précarites juveniles en milieu urbain africain (Ouagadougou): Aujourd’hui chacun se cherche (French Edition). Paris: L’Harmattan. Vidal, Claudine. 1991. Sociologie des passions (Côte-d’Ivoire, Rwanda). Paris: Karthala. Weiss, Florence. 1991. ‘Frauen in der urbanethnologischen Forschung’, in Brigitta Hauser-Schäublin (ed.), Ethnologische Frauenforschung: Ansätze, Methoden, Resultate. Berlin: Reimer, pp. 250–81.

❍ c ha p te r 4

Social Security and Gender Marital Crisis as a Mirror of the Economic Crisis Claudia Roth

he economic crisis in Africa is mirrored in marital crises, as I will show in this contribution. There is a direct correlation between an economic crisis and social security. When family members who are responsible for a family’s upkeep lose their income, or when their income decreases drastically, social support from other sources becomes relevant. In the Global North the term ‘social security’ tends to be used in the institutional context of the welfare state and social insurance. In contrast, I focus on the comprehensive term used by Franz and Keebet von Benda-Beckmann (2000), who use ‘social security’ to describe not only the institutions of the welfare state but also the dimension of provision organised by social relationships and groups. My analysis derives from work conducted by the Nord-Süd-Forschungsprojekt (North–South Research Project) on social security, age and gender in India and Burkina Faso (de Jong et al. 2005).1 Our research has revealed that the extended family as the epitome of social security is, in fact, a myth. While the extended family remains important, it should not be understood as simply being there as an institution that provides for its members. Rather, it is individuals who are charged with forming and maintaining social relationships, including those that connect them to relatives. Such relationships depend crucially on continuous giving and taking. Thus, an individual must retain at least some resources in order to be able to take part in a reciprocal cycle. Each individual creates their own security relations by giving, and assuming that others will also give when they themselves, in turn, require support. In conditions of great poverty (that is, the scarcity of resources), an individual’s ability to

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participate in such reciprocal cycles is constantly in question. In an emergency, a person can be forced to invest available cash in food rather than in gifts – and, hence, in social relationships (Vuarin 2000). The fewer the resources, the fewer the relationships and, thus, the less the social security; this is the finding of our research. The paradox lies in realising that those who are neediest are also those who have the least social security, and thereby they become even poorer – in other words, a vicious circle exists (Roth 2005). In the context of contemporary West African society, two types of social security relationships have become critically important: those that connect parents with children, and those between spouses. Matrimony is important for three reasons: both spouses contribute to the existential support of the family; both spouses have their own social networks that can be used in an emergency to support one another; and through marriage four patrilineal kinship groups (the paternal and maternal families of both husband and wife) become connected and thereby provide a large network of relationships. Beyond its function as an important security relationship, matrimony has always been – and remains so today – the basis for all other social security relationships, because it converts young women and men into social adults and, thereby, into respectable members of society. In the following I reflect upon societal change in terms of two interconnected developments: the penetration of the money and market economy that has appeared in the wake of colonialism and neocolonialism, and that has deeply affected social and gender relationships; and an economic development that has been blocked. The economic situation in Africa has been deteriorating for more than three decades now: large sections of the population have been impoverished, men and women must work more for less money, as wages have been falling in both the formal and informal sectors of the economy, and unemployment is widespread (see Rogerson 1997). I now turn to a discussion of how matrimony has become the site of social insecurity over the course of such societal change, and how this affects women and men in different ways. I focus primarily on West African peasant societies, and the context of societal change in mainly urban environments.

Age before Gender: Matrimony in Old Society Old peasant societies were structured through two relationships of power: the hierarchy of age and the hierarchy of gender. Both of these characterised matrimony. The former hierarchy meant that elders were responsi-

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ble for the production and reproduction of the community – and thus of power. They administrated land and apportioned its usage to the young, specifically to the men of the patrilineal kinship group and their wives, as well as to daughters who had returned. Power relationships between the old and the young are conceived of as relationships of debt: elders are creditors to the young; they raise them and give them their first wives. The young recompense this debt by working for their fathers. Formerly, the power of the elders stemmed from their administration of access to land and collective goods – in other words, to the basis of existence. They wielded their power, for example, by arranging marriages and guarding over matrimony as a socially important relationship between two kinship groups. It follows that young husbands were dependents, just as women were. The second relationship of power in old society was the hierarchy of gender, which expressed itself according to the specific society in question. Commonly in West African societies we observe that the more hierarchical the society, the more hierarchical matrimonial gender relations were. However, no matter how hierarchical the society was, all societies regarded the man as head of the family. It was he who had the right to speak in public, and he made all the important decisions. In practice, however, age hierarchy outweighed gender hierarchy. This means, first, that it was the elders who had the real authority; thus, it was ‘fathers’ rather than simply ‘men’ who were the true patriarchs. Second, women were also elders. In many societies (for example, the Mandé societies of West Africa) the status of older women was comparable to that of older men (Baerends 1998). The gendered division of labour differed from society to society, yet both husband and wife were involved in supporting the family. Women in West African societies have always had the right to own their own property, and to this day women have their own products of labour and income arising, for example, from trading activities. Matrimony was based on a specific exchange: a man’s duty matched a woman’s rights, and vice versa (Baerends 1998; Roth 1994). This also accounted for social security in matrimony. Matrimony in West African societies connected two kinship groups rather than two individuals. Marital relations – a relationship of respect – only became more familiar over the years and with the gradual integration of the wife into her husband’s kinship group. Communication between spouses was distant, and problems, conflict and also feelings of love were not addressed directly by either husband or wife. As formal subordinates, women were, however, able to express themselves in the language of the pagnes (‘fabrics’). These fabrics bear names such as ‘the

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husband is ungrateful’; ‘if you leave me I will not eat sand’; ‘sit down and think for a moment’; and ‘I love you’.2 Rose Marie Beck’s contribution on urban East Africa in this volume [Roth was referring here to Thomas Bearth et al. (eds), Afrika im Wandel. Zurich: vdf] discusses how spouses communicate with each other by using such a language of fabrics. Gender relations are constructed in the context of kinship and matrimony. In order to grasp the situation of women in kinship-based societies we must understand women not only as wives (as is done commonly) but also as mothers, sisters and daughters. Hence, as a member of their kinship group a woman has rights and duties irrespective of matrimony. Thus matrimony is but one of the relations that characterise her scope of action and her identity. As wives, women are subordinate; they are the strangers in their husband’s family – the ones who come from the outside and are to subject themselves and become integrated into the family by bearing children. In this, wives are not exposed to the direct authority of their husband but instead to the authority of the female and male elders of their husband’s kinship group.3 As mothers, however, women are superior: they command great respect and are highly valued individuals as well as having a closer relationship with their children than do their husbands. Furthermore, as mothers they also transfer to children their relations to their own relatives. In many West African societies, brothers and sisters have a close relationship of solidarity with each other, and the relationship between a mother’s brother and his nephew or niece – that is, between a woman’s brother and her children – is as cordial and familiar as to one’s mother. It is also the brother’s duty to protect his sister and care for her in cases when her husband fails to do so. For womenas-daughters, the patrilineal kinship group remains central throughout their lives (Roth 2003). The historian John Iliffe (2005) contends that the contemporary practice of Africans (both male and female) cannot be understood without reflecting upon their old code of honour, which he believes continues to influence practice to this day, albeit in new ways. It was not only a warrior’s honour that played an important role in various societies; indeed, the code of honour was also pronounced in the context of families. Honour was based on the satisfactory accomplishment of one’s own duties, and feelings of guilt served to sanction a lack of fulfilling one’s duties.4 As an elder, a man of honour had authority over the women and youth of his compound and was able to fulfil his duties to those who depended upon him. A woman of honour was able to successfully provide for and feed her family and raise children. By relating the code of honour to the family we can appreciate the authority of the elders, as well as identify the crucial contribution of women to a family’s well-being.

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To summarise, I observe that, first, age was more influential than gender in traditional society. That is, the power of elders – who in many societies were both male and female – was of more importance than the power of young husbands. As a term, patriarchy here really does refer to the power of fathers, and not of men in general. Second, women are not only subordinate wives but also superior mothers, and (as sisters and daughters) are members of their own kinship group with their own rights.

Effects of Socio-economic Change on Marital Relations From a historical perspective, the penetration of the money and market economy has fundamentally transformed power relationships and, with this, the social relations of an older society. In the context of the hierarchy of age, the young are now in a position to generate their own means of existence, independent of the elders. This has become possible through individualised production of market goods, the income generated as a migrant worker, and employment in cities. The young have been able to achieve independence from elders through their own income, but they have not become entirely independent: blocked economic development means that nobody’s existential independence can be guaranteed, and young people have been driven back into dependence on the elders (Marie 1997). Age hierarchy has not been dissolved but rather has undergone transformation and a degree of loosening. Certain things have become negotiable – for example, matrimony. An important concession made by elders to the young is the permission to choose one’s own wives. On the one hand, young women and men have attained a type of freedom. On the other hand, it was only like this that husbands became heads of families and were granted direct authority over their wives. In cases of conflict, elders are no longer in a position to mediate; women have lost protection and security, and are now exposed to their husband’s claims to power in a far more immediate way. It is within this transformation that the image has been generated of men as the primary providers of the family. The gendered ideology of the men as breadwinners arrived in West Africa alongside Islam and the Western concept of pater familias; and this notion has been fused with the genuinely African concept of men as family chiefs. In reality, however, women have always been deeply involved in supporting their families, especially in West Africa. Women who remain but housewives, and do not have any occupation in the outside world, are extremely rare in West Africa (see also Roost Vischer 1997).

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Such new conceptualisations of men as sole providers exist alongside an older concept of furugundo (‘the secret of matrimony’) in West African Mandé societies. This old concept states that the honour of a man rests in his wife’s hands; a woman’s honour lies in protecting her husband’s honour. Hence, if a man becomes unable to fulfil his duties it is his wife who tacitly replaces him and takes care of the whole family alone (Roth 2005; Vuarin 2000). To summarise, the concept of husbands as chiefs of families derives from older understandings, whilst the concomitant direct authority exerted by them over their wives (as a result of a loosened hierarchy of age) and their responsibilities as sole providers are both new developments. Societal transformation has weakened the power of elders while invigorating the power of husbands. And yet, as I now proceed to show, such newly won power has immediately become contested due to the fact that, under present economic conditions, many men are not able to fulfil their role as sole providers of the family.

Consequences of Impoverishment on Marital Social Security The first obstacle that many young people must overcome today is to be in a position to marry in the first place. As mentioned above, marriage remains the precondition to recognition as a respectable member of society. Many people, however, live together outside of wedlock due to their financial situation. Economic crises that directly affect both married and unmarried couples’ household budgets are, for example, the collapse of cocoa prices on world markets, the loss of employment due to restructuring programmes, or income reduction due to rising competition within the informal sector. Today we witness a pan-African phenomenon (Ekejiuba 2005; Endeley 1998; Iliffe 2005) of women testing the limits of what is possible by diversifying and multiplying their sources of income in order to provide for their families in times of crisis, whilst men succumb to paralysis and do nothing. Men become depressed and turn to alcohol or violence; in such a frame of mind they withdraw entirely from family obligations and transfer all their duties to women. It is not uncommon for men to compensate for this loss of manliness by becoming promiscuous and siring children all over. What has happened here? Impoverishment undermines male honour. According to Iliffe (2005) this process has been underway since the late nineteenth century, when the honour of warriors from many societies was called into question after losing battles with colonial forces. The victorious colonial masters

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proceeded to subjugate men and women, sometimes even adolescents, through forced labour; elders were unable to protect their own families or communities. Defeat by white forces led to the fragmentation of male honour. Some of these elements have been transferred to a modern urban environment: in earlier days, cities were regarded as tough and dangerous places and, hence, as a challenge fit for the most courageous of men. In parts of southern Africa some elements of the honour code were transferred to the dangerous work in mines – diamond and gold mines became male battlefields. Sending home up to 50 per cent of one’s salary as a migrant worker was part of a family chief’s honour, and returning from there without gifts was comparable to losing in battle. This is the reason why many have not returned, even today. Matrimony is a crucial institution for the social security of men, because it is only by living in matrimony (or in something closely resembling it) that they are provided for in their everyday lives by a woman who cooks for them, cleans and washes their clothes, as well as taking care of them in cases of illness. And it is the secret of matrimony that protects men in difficult economic times. Numerous men who become unemployed divest themselves of their obligations and leave their duties to their wives. My research in Bobo-Dioulasso has shown that half of the middle class, as well as poor women, live with the furugundo – the secret of matrimony – and provide for their families alone. Like this, in the long term, men undermine not only their own patriarchal authority but also their own social security, because women lose their respect for them. Furthermore, due to the insecure nature of matrimony today, women have begun to develop new strategies: they increasingly focus on their children and their own relatives, or for example live with a mari de passage, a ‘visiting husband’, because matrimony remains important in order to retain their reputation and to avoid being regarded as prostitutes; they then divorce their husbands as soon as their children are old enough. Children also lose their respect for their fathers. This not only means that they no longer take their father seriously but also that they will not care for him when he is an old man. Women and men who were neglected in their childhood and adolescence do not feel obliged later to take care of their parents, as research in Burkina Faso has shown (see also van der Geest 2002). Why do men not do all they can to provide for their families if it is precisely this upon which their honour depends? Men are in a quandary: if they ‘do all they can’ – which would include women’s work such as petty trade, soap production or even poorly paid work – they invariably undermine what society, and men themselves, regard as male honour and the honour of being the head of the family; and if they do not, the result remains the same.

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Women are not in the same predicament, and their tasks exhibit a certain degree of continuity. Women do as their honour dictates and what women have already done for generations: they provide for their families and raise children. However, the crux is that they do this under different preconditions. Macroeconomic developments undermine their social security, too; women are increasingly overburdened. On the one hand, they carry a great workload alongside their laborious household chores in order to compensate for the lack of income from an unemployed or absent husband. Like this they work more and more, but increasingly earn less due to steadily growing competition in the informal sector. On the other hand, they receive ever less support in their social task of raising children. Both husbands and women in extended families play a decreasing role. Christine Oppong (2004), who has been researching societal and gender relations in Ghana since the 1970s, has conducted work on the consequences that arise from this situation. She has encountered malnourished children as well as malnourished mothers; contrary to what may be expected, such mothers are not only members of the poor segment of society but are also to be found amongst the middle class. The reason for this lies in the growing inability of women in today’s circumstances to fulfil a West African female ideal that connects production with reproduction. They not only suffer from financial poverty but also from a lack of time available for childcare and social support through relatives. Their social security is being eroded; and this threatens their honour as providers.

Conclusion Over the course of societal transformation, matrimony, alongside the relationship between different generations, has become the most important relationship for guaranteeing social security. Social security based on social relations requires a minimum of resources in order to maintain such reciprocal security relations. Macroeconomic transformation affects gender relations, the division of labour by gender and its related obligations, and, thus, the family resources that are available. Impoverishment calls matrimony into question because it undermines the honour of men as breadwinners and thereby also their social security, thus leaving men paralysed. Impoverishment also undermines female social security and, thus, women’s honour as providers – they work themselves to exhaustion and are socially left to their own devices. In such types of matrimonial arguments, conflict and violence easily become everyday phenomena. The economic crisis is mirrored in marital crises, as I have shown in the case

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of West Africa. The only question that remains is, how specifically African this phenomenon actually is.

NOTES Original title and place of publication: Roth, Claudia. 2007. ‘Soziale Sicherheit und Geschlecht: Ehekrisen als ein Spiegel der Wirtschaftskrise’, in Thomas Bearth et al. (eds), Afrika im Wandel. Zurich: vdf, pp. 155–66. 1. Nord-Süd-Forschungsprojekt ‘Local Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso’, funded by the Swiss National Science Foundation (SNF) and the Swiss Agency for Development and Cooperation (DEZA) (2000–2003). Research partners were Prof. Dr Willemijn de Jong, University of Zurich (on urban Kerala); Dr Fatoumata Badini-Kinda, University of Ouagadougou (on rural Burkina Faso); and Dr cand. Seema Bhagyanath, University of Pune (on rural Kerala). In Koko – a small and old neighbourhood of Bobo-Dioulasso – I conducted over one hundred interviews with old and young women and men of the middle class and the poor class, as well as representatives of the neighbourhood and the city. 2. ‘L’homme est ingrat’; ‘Si tu m’abandonnes, je ne mangerai pas de sable’; (and in the lingua franca Dioula) ‘Ta si doni’; and ‘N b’i fe’ (Sanogo 1992, as quoted in Roth 1994). 3. It is virilocality rather than patrilineality that severs a woman from her resources and social support (Ekejiuba [1995] 2005). 4. On the aggregate ‘honour–obligations–guilt’, see Vuarin (2000). Badini-Kinda (2005) recounts the memorable case of a family chief who could no longer fulfil his obligations and committed suicide.

REFERENCES Badini-Kinda, Fatoumata. 2005. ‘The Gap between Ideas and Practices: Elderly Social Insecurity in Rural Burkina Faso’ / ‘L’ecart entre idées et pratiques: l’insécurité sociale des personnes âgées en milieu rural burkinabè’, in Willemijn de Jong et al., Ageing in Insecurity: Case Studies on Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso / Vieillir dans I’insecurite: Sécurité sociale et genre en lnde et au Burkina Faso. Etudes de case. Hamburg: LIT, pp. 139–66, 323–51. Baerends, Elsa. 1998. ‘Changing Kinship: Family and Gender Relations in SubSaharan Africa’, in Carla Risseeuw and Kamala Ganesh (eds), Negotiation and Social Space: A Gendered Analysis of Changing Kin and Security Networks in South Asia and Sub-Saharan Africa. New Delhi: Sage, pp. 47–86.

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Benda-Beckmann, Franz von, and Keebet von Benda-Beckman. 2000. ‘Coping with Insecurity’, in Franz von Benda-Beckmann, Keebet von Benda-Beckmann and Hans Marks (eds), Coping with Insecurity: An ‘Underall’ Perspective on Social Security in the Third World. Yogyakarta: Pustaka Pelajar & Focaal Foundation, pp. 7–31 (Second Imprint). Ekejiuba, Felicia. (1995) 2005. ‘Down to Fundamentals: Women-Centered Hearthholds in Rural West Africa’, in Andrea Cornwall (ed.), Readings in Gender in Africa. Bloomington: Indiana University Press; Oxford: James Currey (Second Edition), pp. 41–46. Endeley, Joyce. 1998. ‘Structural Adjustment and the Cameroonian Women’s Lifeline: 1986 to 1995’ in Carla Risseeuw and Kamala Ganesh (eds), Negotiation and Social Space: A Gendered Analysis of Changing Kin and Security Networks in South Asia and Sub-Saharan Africa. New Delhi: Sage, pp. 226–55. Geest, Sjaak van der. 2002. ‘Respect and Reciprocity: Care of Elderly People in Rural Ghana’. Journal of Cross-cultural Gerontology 17: 3–31. Iliffe, John. 2005. Honour in African History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jong, Willemijn de, et al. 2005. Ageing in Insecurity: Case Studies on Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso / Vieillir dans l’insécurité: Sécurité sociale et genre en Inde et au Burkina Faso. Études de cas. Hamburg: LIT. Marie, Alain. 1997. ‘Conclusion. Individualisation: entre communauté et société, l’avènement du sujet’, in Alain Marie (ed.), L’Afrique des individus. Paris: Karthala, pp. 407–36. Oppong, Christine. 2004. ‘Demographic Innovation and Nutritional Catastrophe: Change, Lack of Change and Difference in Ghanaian Family Systems’, in Göran Therborn (ed.), African Families in a Global Context. Uppsala: Nordic Africa Institute, pp. 49–78. Rogerson, Christian. 1997. ‘Globalization or Informalization? African Urban Economies in the 1990s’, in Carole Rakodi (ed.), The Urban Challenge in Africa: Growth and Management of its Large Cities. Tokyo: United Nations University Press, pp. 337–70 . Roost Vischer, Lilo. 1997. Mütter zwischen Herd und Markt: Das Verhältnis von Mutterschaft, sozialer Elternschaft und Frauenarbeit bei den Moose (‘Mossi’) in Ouagadougou/Burkina Faso’. Basler Beiträge zur Ethnologie 38. Basel: Wepf. Roth, Claudia. 1994. Und sie sind stolz: Zur Ökonomie der Liebe. Die Geschlechtertrennung bei den Zara in Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel. ———. 2003. ‘Der mütterliche Schutz: Fünf Hypothesen zur sozialen Sicherheit in Burkina Faso’, in Jürg Schneider, Lilo Roost Vischer and Didier Péclard (eds), Werkschau Afrikastudien – Le forum suisse des africanistes 4. Münster: LIT, pp. 113–32. ———. 2005. ‘Threatening Dependency: Limits of Social Security, Old Age and Gender in Urban Burkina Faso / Dépendance menaçante: limites de la sécurité sociale, vieil âge et genre en milieu urbain burkinabè’, in Willemijn

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de Jong et al. (eds), Ageing in Insecurity: Case Studies on Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso / Vieillir dans l’insécurité: Sécurité sociale et genre en Inde et au Burkina Faso. Études de cas. Hamburg: LIT, pp. 107–37, 289–322. Vuarin, Robert. 2000. Un système africain de protection sociale au temps de la mondialisation ou ‘Venez m’aider à tuer mon lion. . .’. Paris: L’Harmattan.

part i i i

❍❍❍ Elderly Parents and Their Children Sharing or Living in Poverty

❍ c ha p te r 5

Blood Ties as a Social Network The African Extended Family as an Economic Association Claudia Roth

The extended family functions as a type of ‘social security’ in Africa, largely also due to the resolute appropriation of the informal sector by women; it goes without saying that this organic structure is under increasing pressure. t is Saturday afternoon in a family household in Bobo-Dioulasso. Youssouf, a computer scientist in his mid-thirties, is relaxing in a deckchair in front of his house. He has installed a tape recorder beside him, put on sunglasses and is now enjoying Salif Keita’s singing, which echoes around the courtyard. Next to him, Safiatou, a sixty-year-old woman, is processing soap. She wipes the sweat from her forehead at regular intervals. She will be able to sell the balls of soap at a small profit once she has finished. Fatima, a mother of seven, sits by her fireplace and is counting the coins wrapped in the scarf around her hips. She is not happy: her husband has once again failed to provide her with money for food. Yazid, the son of her co-wife and an employee at a factory, is crossing the courtyard on his moped and stows it away in his room to protect it from theft. He joins us in the round of young male tea-drinkers, half of whom are unemployed. One man here wants to become a detective. ‘How do you become a detective?’, he asks me. Under the branches of a mango tree there is a large blackboard. Mamadou is trying to concentrate and solve logarithms. On a mat next to him sit his mother and an aunt, who has come to visit them from the village. They converse in Dioula, the language of the Bobo and Zara peoples,

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which Mamadou understands but can no longer speak. Just like many urban youths, he grew up speaking the Dioula lingua franca.

Unemployed: Only the Men Bobo-Dioulasso is Burkina Faso’s second-largest city and has remained a manageable city despite its population of 320,000. Buildings in the centre clearly indicate the time when Bobo was the French colonial capital. Spread out across 1,500 m2 around these structures are the old neighbourhoods and compounds of groups who have greatly influenced the city’s fortunes for centuries – the Bobo, Zara and Dioula. Farther away from the centre are the newer neighbourhoods with smaller compounds; the edge of town consists of unsurveyed areas and, still farther away, fields of corn and sorghum belonging to farmers, who constitute a fifth of the city’s population. During my fieldwork, I was invited to stay with a Zara family. The home of the family Sanou contains thirty adults and the same number of children; three generations live together here: three older brothers and a sister, their sons and unmarried daughters, nephews, granddaughters and grandsons, as well as the wives who have married into the family. One third of these men are unemployed. The others work in areas ranging from technical director of a factory and computer scientist to temporary work, casual labour and self-employment. There are no unemployed women. The women of the Sanou household trade in a diverse selection of goods; Bintou, for example, deals in fabric from Abidjan, and Alima sells peanuts she has roasted herself in front of the house. The salaries of these men and women range from almost nothing, up to 3,000 Swiss francs. On this Saturday afternoon, Oumi and Alima have been invited to a friend’s wedding in an adjacent neighbourhood; all the women will be dancing there in their finest clothes. Oumi can choose her dress from a wide range of boubous and fabrics, while Alima does not need to make such choices: she knows what she will be wearing because she owns but one hip scarf good enough for such festivities. What is it that connects these women and men despite their disparate types of education, work opportunities and salaries?

Clan as a Social Network This compound is not an isolated family unit. Instead it is embedded within a network of households belonging to the Sanou clan. The mem-

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bers of the clan live throughout the entire city as well as in neighbouring villages, and in other cities of Burkina Faso and in Abidjan, where a branch settled years ago. There is vibrant exchange between these homes: people circulate and, with them, news, goods and cash circulate. Those family members who are employed are asked for financial support. The men of the generation of elders guarantee the continuous existence of the extended family through their land policies, thereby also guaranteeing the social reproduction of the extended family. As members of a clan that has lived here since the city’s founding they have privileged access to plots of land. They buy up land all over the city and sign over much of it to their sons and nephews – sometimes even to their wives or nieces. Twenty-six-year-old Gaoussou proudly shows me his plot, which lies in a newly surveyed part of town right next to plots belonging to Kabir, Moussa and Madina, the children of his father’s siblings. Gaoussou assumes that his mother, and possibly even one of his younger brothers, will come to live with him. It is like this that an extended family develops and comes to form part of a network that envelops the city. That moment in time has not quite arrived yet, however. Gaoussou already has a wife and a child, but he lacks a job and, hence, the money to build a house. The three of them are able to live in the family’s compound – the elders always provide the unemployed with a bed and food. Akin to social security, they provide security in precarious times by making available the infrastructure of the compound, and granting access to social relations. This is an uncomfortable position to be in for the unemployed, however, because they are not regarded with sympathy but rather with suspicion. The unemployed are seen as failures who endanger a community built upon every individual’s contribution to that community. Issa, twenty-nine years old, rises at lunchtime and quietly slips away from the compound to join a round of tea drinkers in another neighbourhood – a place where he is not exposed to any unspoken expectations. When he scurries past Raïssa, the oldest woman in the compound, she disparagingly remarks, ‘He doesn’t have any money! Despite having gone to school for years and learning to read and write’. Issa himself admits: ‘I feel like a stranger in this compound’. There is an especially heavy burden resting upon his shoulders because he is the eldest of twenty siblings and, therefore, the direct successor of his father, whom he is also expected to support financially. Years later I meet Issa again: he is a changed man due to having found well-paid employment – now he is relaxed, upright, worthy of respect. He admonishes those who are younger and sends them on errands; he behaves the way an elder ought to behave when fulfilling his duties.

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Female Strategies When I first arrived at the Sanou compound I felt it to be a chaotic jumble of randomly placed rusting steel barrels, iron shavings in one corner of the yard, completely rusted basins lacking a bottom, sacks of millet, drying balls of soap, heaps of cotton waste by all the fireplaces, wooden mortars, pots and basins. After some time, however, I learnt to decipher this image and I recognised that the yard is the women’s workplace and that everything is in fact ordered. Even if a group of old men are sitting together and debating in one corner, or the young men are drinking tea here, it is the women who shape this space and its ambience through their activities. Without the work of women – that is, without their household work and their trading activities – ‘social security’ would not function. Fatima tells about her husband: ‘He leaves the compound early in the morning and returns late in the evening. I take care of our seven children!’ Women have their own strategy to secure their earnings, no matter how meagre they may be: the tontine system. The tontines are savings groups of usually twenty to thirty women who, for example, every week deposit a pre-arranged amount of cash. On the appointed date, one of these women receives the entire savings on a rotational basis. The young woman, Aïsha, informs us: ‘I cannot save money on my own. If I earn 300 CFA and contribute 200 CFA to the tontine, the other 100 CFA will be enough for food, and later I receive a large amount of cash. Without the tontine the 300 CFA would be spent entirely on food and other small expenses – the money would be eaten!’ On this Saturday evening I suddenly hear the voices of angry women, and everybody is startled: Fatima is berating her co-wife Aminata, and her daughter; they are screaming at each other and start to scuffle – any attempt to tear them apart fails. When their husband puts his foot down the effect is as oil on fire, and Fatima insults him: ‘Kill me if you are truly your father’s son!’ He hits her, yet her rage does not dissipate. All of us who are present watch the argument in silence and it is many hours before matters calm down. Everybody knows the reason for Fatima’s rage: she is raising seven children and feels financially neglected by her husband in relation to her co-wives, whose children have all grown up already. However, opinion is divided on whether or not she has the right to be so enraged. Fatima’s reluctance returns frequently and, many years later, she will separate from her husband: she will no longer cook for him or wash his clothes, nor will she share his bed – but she will remain at the compound in order to be close to her children, who, as is customary, are to grow up

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in their father’s family. This unconventional solution is but one example of the many exceptions that are accepted alongside the rules that prevail and that make life together bearable despite frequent conflict. Extended families are held together by the network of a widely distributed kinship that supports individuals in emergency situations. Beyond this, in everyday life, family members convey news, mediate relations, and exchange goods and land. Belonging to the long-established Sanou clan, with its transmitted and omnipresent (and sometimes heroic) history, is part of an individual’s self-image, and these old ties are part of clan members’ identities. Members who want to withdraw from their financial obligations are threatened with exclusion from the widespread network of social relations – and they risk social death. It is eleven o’clock on Saturday night and the compound has become a quiet place. Driven by ‘Saturday night fever’, the young men are out and about; the young women are keeping Aïsha company at her stall outside the compound, and chatting with acquaintances who pass by. Four women sit in the courtyard. By the light of a neon lamp they are busy sifting cottonseeds that they will soon be pounding, drying and selling as sauce ingredients. It is still too warm to go to bed. Young children sleep on mats. The women work at a leisurely pace and quietly talk about Fatima’s argument earlier that day. Old Safiatou disapprovingly shakes her head at Fatima’s bad behaviour. The young woman Sanata dares to comment: ‘Men are in an easier position than we are. We work from dawn to dusk but the men only work when they have a job – and even then, it’s only from 8 to 12 and 2 to 5’. And Safiatou remains silent.

NOTE Original title and place of publication: Roth, Claudia. 1996. ‘Blutbande als soziales Netz: Die afrikanische Grossfamilie als Wirtschaftsgemeinschaft’. Neue Zürcher Zeitung 103(4): 70.

❍ c ha p te r 6

The Invisible Impoverishment of the Elderly in Bobo-Dioulasso Claudia Roth

ife is not like it used to be anymore’, declares a young man in an interview, during which he explains in detail the reasons that led him to want to live differently from his parents and ancestors. ‘But’, he continues, ‘humanity (mogoya)1 still exists. We are certainly poor but it is precisely mogoya that creates our wealth: we see each other regularly, we visit each other, your problem is my problem – this is the case today for small problems and it will always be that way. I recently went to the studio where I was a welder’s apprentice. An old mason who had been sick for five months was there that day. He has five children to take care of and can no longer pay his rent. He told us his story and it touched us all. We all contributed immediately, one person gave 500, somebody else gave 1,000; the total amounted to 10,000 FCFA (around €15). It’s compassion (hine)! If you feel compassion, then you are human (n’i be hine, mogoya b’i ra). That’s Africa!’, the young man exclaims enthusiastically; ‘the problem is certainly not resolved, but this man received enough to feed himself for two days. That is how people here, even the very poor, manage to eat.’ This image of solidarity is widespread in Burkinabè society, and draws a veil over the impoverishment of the elderly. In Koko, one of the neighbourhoods of Bobo-Dioulasso, two-thirds of the elderly amongst the poor live in precarity. In other words, their daily meals are not guaranteed, or they live on the margins of society as beggars. These people spend their entire lives working as launderers, soap-makers, farmers, mechanics or shopkeepers, and they earn just enough to feed their family and raise their children. When old age arrives they fall into poverty: they have no savings and, as their strength wanes, their income shrinks. In addition,

‘L

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their children are often unemployed. These men and women had imagined their old age differently: they had hoped that their children would take care of them, allowing them to live out the rest of their lives in security. In what follows, we shall illuminate how ideas about poverty, old age, dependency and autonomy serve to obscure, on the social level, the massive impoverishment of the elderly, thereby turning it into an individual problem. The interviews and reflections presented in this article are based on ethnological research carried out in Bobo-Dioulasso, the second-largest city in Burkina Faso.2

The Impoverishment of the Elderly In Burkina Faso, 46.4 per cent of the total population lives below the poverty line, which was set at 82,672 FCFA (around €125) per person per year in 2002 (see Soulama 2005). Poverty is on the rise in Burkina Faso, according to a study by Lachaud (2003), especially in the two large cities of Ouagadougou and Bobo-Dioulasso.3 Figures pertaining to the poverty rate among the older generations are not available. According to our qualitative study of old age and social security, between half and twothirds of the elderly poor in rural and urban areas live in precarity or are socially marginalised (Badini-Kinda 2005: 326; Roth 2005: 299–300). The primary criteria that characterise a precarious life became apparent to us following various interviews. The meals of elderly men and women are not guaranteed on a daily basis: sometimes they have nothing but millet gruel or a little millet couscous (to) left over from the day before, or they must simply make do with a glass of water.4 Our definition of precarity intersects with that of the Burkinabè: any person who does not receive two meals per day is considered poor (Somda and Sawadogo 2001: 103). Our research reveals that old age is a state of impoverishment. Women and men – who had been able to properly feed their families for their entire lives – in old age find themselves confronted not only with the loss of strength and chronic illnesses resulting from a life of hard labour, but also with the unemployment of the children who were supposed to take care of them, or even with the fact of their illness or death from complications related to AIDS. During interviews the elderly evoked the anguish and tragedy of having to bury their own children. In order to begin this discussion, we shall briefly consider the situation of the poor in pre-colonial Africa. According to Iliffe (1987: 230), prior to colonisation, the elderly, along with the handicapped, unsupported women and young children, belonged to the category of the structurally poor. In Africa, which is richly endowed with land, access to land was, in

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principle, not regulated by property rights but given as an usufruct. For women living in patrilinear societies, this was done indirectly by means of spousal lineage. Poverty was thus the fate of those who could not work and did not dispose of labour power, such as that offered by the children in a family or of women who could lose their means of indirect access to land (ibid.: 5–8). Some Islamic (and later, Christian) charitable institutions existed in pre-colonial Africa, but support through personal relationships was always preferred over them (Iliffe 1987: 42–47). This is why the family constituted the first place of refuge where the poor could find help. However, according to Iliffe, the idea that the extended family provides for the needs of all its members has always been a myth. There is a close correlation between family structure and poverty: thus, there were few beggars in the Mandé region because the large patrilineages took care of their elderly, whilst the bilateral system of kinship among the Hausa produced many beggars (ibid.: 33–35).5 In the second place, Iliffe explains, the poor managed to survive thanks to their own efforts: ‘By protecting themselves from famine, by exploiting or industry or guile, by the resourcefulness of the blind or the courage of the cripple, by the ambition of the young or the patience of the old – by all these means the African poor survived in their harsh world’ (ibid.: 8). Labour power – one’s own or that of third parties under one’s control – thus constituted the essential factor in preventing poverty prior to the colonial period. Loss of strength certainly placed the elderly within the group of the structurally poor, but in societies structured by large patrilineages they did have the labour power of the young at their disposal. We can deduce from this that the pauperisation of the elderly observed today is a historically new phenomenon for populations in a patrilinear system.

Conditional Respect A proverb says that elders must be respected because they are close to ancestors. In Africa, where respect is paid to elders in many societies according to the principle of birthright (cf. Attias-Donfut and Rosenmayr 1994), elderly men and women nevertheless live in poverty. How can this be explained? The respect for elders is conditional. The comparison with BadiniKinda’s research (2005) on the rural areas of Burkina Faso clearly indicates that in places where the elderly are in possession of land – a means of production and, therefore, the source of subsistence for the young –

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their sphere of influence and the respect given to them are much greater than in urban areas, where the young make a living independently of their parents. Ideologically, elders are close to ancestors but, now just as in the past, their ability to have economic access to the labour power of their children remains essential. The inhabitants of Bobo-Dioulasso believe that successful old age is based on good physical condition that permits the elderly to work, or on the power of negotiation – that is, the ability to profit from the strength and labour of third parties. This idea is also reflected in the term for poverty (fantanya) in Mandé societies. It is composed of the root fanga (strength) and fama (power, government), meaning: to be without strength, without power.6 Thus, the most positive qualities to have in old age are being active and agile, and performing an activity for as long as possible, which includes having influence in social affairs and decision-making power. To be strong and productive, to be able to feed others: these are the most esteemed values, ones to which the elderly aspire as the elders of a lineage and heads of an extended family, even when their sons and daughters take care of them. These values are, in fact, the source of their own esteem and of the respect they are paid. Active people are admired (Cattell 2002). Thus, the failure of children has far-reaching consequences for parents, who see it as their own failure. An elderly man of the poor class says: ‘If children don’t succeed, as in my case, that’s my problem. Who will take care of them? Me, of course! Children’s failure is the problem of the elderly. It’s as if we didn’t do what we were supposed to do. You didn’t help your child to find work, you didn’t help him succeed. The success of the child is also my success; his failure is also my failure. So I have to take care of him. If your children do not succeed, your old age is not enviable. You are a bad old person, you did not find a way to set your children on the right path’. Bintou T., an elderly woman of the poor class, also feels responsible for the fact that her children have neither work nor income nor spouse. ‘I did nothing for them. I couldn’t save for their future. Their father paid for their schooling as much as he could, and then my maternal uncle took over, but he couldn’t do it for very long either. So they had to leave school. I couldn’t do anything about it. If the children don’t have a position, if they don’t have any work and don’t marry, it’s as if I am the one who failed. If we had had money, they could have finished school and found work.’ ‘Do you feel as though you didn’t do enough for your children?’, I ask her. ‘Yes, that is exactly my feeling. The children could think: our parents didn’t do enough for us. So they could blame us for it.’

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‘Do your children express such reproach towards you?’, I ask. ‘No, but I worry about it. They could easily blame me one day. Parents are responsible for the success of their children. It is their duty.’ In addition to this, maintaining social relations is part of one’s happiness in old age. A large network of relations is synonymous with both wealth and autonomy. Poverty produces dependence and contradicts the image of the elders of a lineage as having many dependants. The following declarations made by men and women of all ages illustrate this point well. A young man of the poor class declares: ‘Wealth in old age means that you have successful children, you own your own land, and you can solve all your problems yourself. A person who is seen as poor is someone who cannot support himself’. An elderly person of the middle class says: ‘A well-off person can be distinguished by the fact that he can solve problems, he does not ask for anyone’s help because he manages by himself. Being poor requires you to seek help’. A destitute old woman says: ‘Being rich is when you can feed yourself sufficiently and take care of yourself. Being poor is when you have nothing and you have to call upon others’. A young woman of the middle class adds: ‘A person is poor when he cannot do anything without asking others for help’. ‘Being old is bad if you are not intelligent and clever’, remarks Brahima D., a destitute old man; ‘intelligence (hakili) allows you to find a way to obtain resources. If you have money, you are surrounded by people; if you don’t, you have no one. Today, all relationships depend on one’s material situation, that’s the only thing that counts. If an old person has money, everyone courts him; if he doesn’t, he ends up alone. No one wants a poor old man. The old man is responsible for his own situation. This is because we are responsible for our words and actions. And if you are destitute, you are also responsible and you only have yourself to blame.’ Thus, money is also part of a dignified old age. It is not possible to maintain relationships without money or resources. Generalised reciprocity certainly defines the image of social security in daily life, but it primarily occurs only with one’s own children (the implicit contract between generations)7 and in matrimony. For all other relationships, there is a trend towards balanced reciprocity.8 Gifts of money to the elderly of course also signify respect for them, but such gifts are not given due to their age. Money is actually given to those who are respected precisely because they embody all that constitutes a dignified old age: success, money and autonomy. Van der Geest illustrates this in a study on the importance of money in old age: ‘Respect represents a compelling relation of reciprocity. In spite of what some may say, respect is not an automatic result of growing old. . . . True respect, mingled with admiration and fear, is felt towards those who have

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achieved something during their lives, especially those who have given their children and other relatives a good education and who have built a house’ (van der Geest 1997: 545). Good behaviour – another characteristic of being successful in old age – implies, above all else, the knowledge of how to talk to and behave around people according to one’s life experience. This is exactly what is lacking from those who are abandoned and live in great poverty. Since men and women consider old age to be the result of the life they have led, it seems logical that those who do not live well only have themselves to blame. Salimata T. is convinced of this as well: ‘If someone is neglected when he is old, it is because he has acted poorly. He doesn’t know how to be any other way! Being abandoned means you are alone, you are no longer taken into consideration. But if you behave well, there will always be people who will come to ask you for advice and bring you aid’. Even though Salimata T. is poor, she does manage to have one meal every day. How does she account for this fact? It is due to her good behaviour. ‘I always gave things away when I could, whether it was food or money. I never left anyone who had a problem, no matter whether it was a child or an adult, without coming to their aid when I was able to – that never happened. I think that is why I can always find someone to help me overcome my difficulties. My mother liked to say: if you do good to somebody, it will come back to you, another person will help you. That is how I lived.’ ‘How can we find a solution to poverty?’, I asked her. ‘I don’t see how we could solve it for the elderly. We have no strength and no means. For example, I am poor now but I wasn’t poor in the past. I used to be able to work and earn money. Here I am now, sick, widowed, and the children who supported me have passed away. Nevertheless, when you pray, you are helped by good-willed people. Prayer helps to solve some small problems – you at least get some breakfast. You pray in the morning asking for God’s mercy and then a person goes by, greets you and gives you 100 francs for some millet porridge for breakfast. If God wants to do good to you, He sends you someone. I never ask anything of anyone, only God directs people to me!’ ‘Does God always do that?’ ‘I hope that God will never stop doing it, for without the aid of goodwilled people, I would rather die!’ The common denominator of the different ideas described here is the expression of work and personal responsibility as highly esteemed social values. He who manages to work hard is regarded as neither old nor poor. Förster (1998: 157) suggests that work is the most important identity marker among the Senufo of Ivory Coast, even serving as the proof of one’s discriminating intelligence – the loss of strength can certainly be

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compensated with new responsibilities, but this remains an ambivalent issue. According to Vuarin (2000: 39), this is a universal phenomenon, valid for all societies: whoever does not take part in the social division of labour is asocial. The link between aid and work lies in the fact that only he who helps himself can count on the help of others. This is what constitutes relationships of protection and social security. Poverty and old age thus connote the loss or lack of strength, the absence of power and diminished room to manoeuvre – hence the dependence on others, on people of goodwill. ‘These perceptions emphasise the lack of agency of the individual’ (Hagberg 2001: 44). This dependence brings with it the sense of shame for having to ask others for help.9 Reality is confronted with the local imaginary, which considers ageing in dignity as having the strength to remain active until very late in life, and to retain a power of action in order to perform ‘socially admired actions’ (ibid.). This implies access to proper revenue, savings and/or to indebted people such as one’s own children. Having money is the mark of dignified old age: ‘Money begets money and poverty breeds poverty’ (van der Geest 1997: 551). The aim of living in a responsible manner is just as valid for women as it is for men. On the other hand, and in the context of the division of labour between men and women, the content of that responsibility – that is, one’s duties – differs by gender. Women and men living in precarity strive to preserve their dignity despite difficult economic conditions. For them, old age is anything but the pleasant twilight of one’s life. The life of Ibrahim M. bears witness to what it means to be forced to worry constantly about one’s own social security in old age.

‘Poverty strips you bare’ Ibrahim M., a 59-year-old monogamous carpenter, is father to ten children, two of whom are deceased. He told me that as a carpenter he had earned a decent living, ‘but when the children reached school age, matters got more difficult. I had to give up a lot of things to be able to send them to school. And the school supplies were very expensive. I sent them all to school, but none of them succeeded. Some of them got the certificate for completing primary school, but none of them continued past that. I don’t really blame them since my financial situation was the cause of it. When children go to school, they need books and notebooks and I wasn’t able to buy them. As I couldn’t find the money within two days and so didn’t buy them the supplies until a month later, they couldn’t learn. That is what explains their failure’.

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‘During that time, had you thought about providing for your old age?’, I asked him. ‘Yes, I concentrated all my energy on the children. I told myself that if at least two of them succeeded, my old age would be secured. Unfortunately for me, five of my children were going to school at the same time. It was a huge problem for me. During a meeting for parents of pupils we were informed that we had to buy uniforms, two per child. For me this meant buying ten uniforms. At 2,000 FCFA each, I would have had to spend 20,000 FCFA (around €30) per year. A young, recently married man who only had one child said to me, “What are you complaining about? 4,000 FCFA isn’t too much!” I bought one uniform per child and I explained the situation to the teacher, telling him that we could wash them in the evening and they would be dry by the next morning. I confessed to him that there was no way I could buy two for each child, which he accepted. When I made money, I invested it in school notebooks because I knew perfectly well that at the beginning of the school year, I would not be able to pay the 15,000 FCFA (around €23) necessary for notebooks for all the children.’ Ibrahim M. was also of the opinion that ‘abandonment in old age is a consequence of the life you have lived. If you neglect the members of your family in your youth, who will take care of you in your old age? If you have five children and none of them take care of you, you owe it to your previous behaviour’. ‘What attitude should be taken, then?’, I asked him. ‘You reap what you sow in your youth. If you do good for as long as you have the strength, you harvest it in old age. Some elderly people don’t even need to leave home anymore, as everything they need is brought to them. All because they behaved well in the past.’ Ibrahim M. and his family had also known precarious situations at times. ‘There have been times when I haven’t been able to find any food for two days in a row. I have never gone to ask someone else for food. I never reveal my problems. It has always been this way. The children have had to bear the situation. One day, one of the children of my brother-in-law was at our place, and he cried because he wasn’t used to it. I managed to find him a bite to eat, but he kept on crying. After that, I had to take him back to his parents because he couldn’t cope with our living conditions.’ ‘Your children were able to cope with not eating for two days running?’, I asked in astonishment. ‘Yes, they were used to it. There was no breakfast, and on days when there was nothing to eat they bore their pain with patience. But two days truly without food, that was an exception. It’s not that I had nothing

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during those two days, but certainly not enough to satisfy them. A bit of millet porridge and some sugar doesn’t really fill you up!’ Ten years ago, Ibrahim M. was able to buy a small plot of land for 50,000 FCFA (around €75) in another neighbourhood and build two houses there in wattle and daub. Today he is living precariously in his old age. ‘I have a good wife, we get along well, she isn’t demanding, she doesn’t complain when I have nothing. She understands me. I tell her: I am going to work, and as soon as I make some money, I will bring it back to you. She doesn’t make a big deal about it, unlike other women. If it pleases God, I make a bit of money and then I borrow a bike and immediately bring her the money. Also, I often have a small reserve, for example 500 francs (around €0.75) for the next day. When I make no money, I draw on the reserve and I buy coffee, bread and a bit of rice or millet couscous for the children. It doesn’t fill them up, but it appeases their hunger. When I have a lot of money, I go to buy them food from a restaurant – also when my wife is sick and can’t cook, or when the money arrives too late in the day to cook. As soon as I receive money, whether it be at 3 or 4 in the afternoon, I bring it to my wife immediately. There are days when we have nothing, but it’s very rare for us to stay hungry for a whole day. We may not have anything in the morning, but before nightfall I find a solution. I pray to God: You entrusted these children to me, help me now! And before nightfall a compassionate client arrives and pays for a table, for example, that he had ordered two days before. So I take the money home immediately.’ Ibrahim M. continued: ‘We have a grin – a group of men, who meet daily for tea. It would never occur to me to reveal my situation to any of these men. No one knows about it. That’s why some of them ask me for money, for gas or something else. But I have a more crucial problem than they do: I can’t afford the price of the condiments (nansongo). If I have 1,000 CFA (around €1.5) in my pocket, I give 500 francs. That is why people imagine that I have money. I’m the “chief officer”, I’m the one who created the meeting place near my studio, I’m the founder of the group. Many of the group members manage just fine, others not so well. For example, one of our members is the son of a wealthy man. The men have confidence in me, so one day one of them wanted to entrust me with 100,000 FCFA (around €152). “Are you crazy?” I said to him; “Haven’t you ever heard of a bank?”’ ‘Why are living conditions a secret?’ I wanted to know. ‘If people happen to learn that you’re poor, it’s as though you’ve betrayed yourself. Poverty strips you bare. My (work) clothes are certainly torn, but nobody knows whether or not my pockets are empty. No one can know my situation. Torn clothes don’t necessarily mean that you don’t

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have any money, but as soon as you talk about it, all is revealed. I have my dignity, I am proud. I would never go and ask someone for help. Africans are difficult: you ask for money today, you ask for money tomorrow and the day after, and your interlocutor starts to change his attitude towards you and avoids you. If you hold out your hand, people will avoid you. That is the reason why I never ask for help. I care about maintaining my relationships. I consider myself as poor, yet I have relationships. People visit me often, and since they know nothing of my problems, they come back to see me. They don’t know the extent to which I have to struggle day after day.’ ‘What do you get from these relationships?’, I asked him. ‘What I get from them is the esteem that people express for me. The proof is that if they don’t see me, they come looking for me to find out what’s wrong. That’s very important. Furthermore, if I have a serious problem, for example if I’m ill and bedridden and don’t have the money to be treated, these men would contribute and pay for all the medication, they would take me to the hospital. If they didn’t do it, people would say things to them, like: “Oh, your friend is ill and you don’t even lift a finger”. But if I asked them for help frequently, they wouldn’t help me in case of illness. They would say to themselves: he already costs us a lot when he’s in good health, so it’s better to avoid going to see him when he’s sick.’

Conclusion From a historical point of view, the impoverishment of the elderly is a new phenomenon in this part of Africa. Local representations of old age, poverty and wealth, the ability to work, autonomy and dependence, testify to the enormous value accorded to personal responsibility. As a result, impoverishment is considered an individual problem and is not approached as a social phenomenon. The fact that elderly men and women are considered responsible for their old age may be perceived as the expression of their power and competence as the elders of a lineage. The material foundation of this power is decreasing, diminishing at a more drastic rate in urban areas than in rural ones. Elders can no longer help youth to find work, and the young are less and less dependent on elders for their upward mobility.10 Based on what we have shown here, we present the following thesis: the novelty of the process of impoverishment of the elderly, associated with the idea that the elderly are personally responsible for their quality of life in old age, obscures the reality of this phenomenon.11 The elderly

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themselves hide their pauperisation and strive to display a dignified old age by camouflaging their distress. They show nothing, demand nothing, and silence their needs. They act as though the system of generalised reciprocity were still functioning. If one has sufficiently helped others throughout one’s life and has behaved well, one can thus expect to be helped. They speak ill of those who are abandoned and have no one left to support them. They thus deprive themselves of the possibility of expressing their difficulties. And society draws a veil over this situation. Its members boast about the respect paid to the elderly, but fail to mention the fact that respect is only shown under specific conditions. They defer to African solidarity, which in the current economic situation is unfortunately nothing but a myth, as Claudine Vidal (1994) has revealed.

NOTES Original title and place of publication: Roth, Claudia. 2005. ‘L’appauvrissement invisible des personnes âgées au Burkina Faso’, in Anne Mayor, Claudia Roth and Yvan Droz (eds), Soziale Sicherheit und Entwicklung – Sécurité sociale et développement: Werkschau Afrikastudien – Le forum suisse des africanistes 5. Münster: LIT, 51–68. 1. Words in italic are in Bambara and Dioula, the vehicular languages spoken in Bobo-Dioulasso (languages of the Mandé family). 2. North–South research project ‘Local Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso’, financed by the Swiss National Science Foundation (SNSF) and the Direction of Development and Cooperation DDC (2000–2003), with research partners Willemijn de Jong, University of Zurich (urban Kerala); Seema Bhagyanath, University of Pune (rural Kerala); and Fatoumata BadiniKinda, University of Ouagadougou (rural Burkina Faso). In Koko, a small, ancient neighbourhood of Bobo-Dioulasso, we carried out more than one hundred interviews with women and men, young and old, of the middle and poor classes, as well as with neighbourhood and municipal leaders (Middle class: former government employees who earned good salaries and now receive retirement pensions, or wealthy independent professionals. Poor class: small vendors, artisans, peasants, all of whom are without savings, with a daily revenue of between zero and roughly 500 FCFA [around €0.8]). On the theoretical context of our research, see de Jong 2005. 3. Regarding Bobo-Dioulasso’s potential for economic development, see Fauré and Labazée 2002. 4. For a definition of the poor class, and the differentiation between the poor, those living in precarity, and the socially marginalised, see Roth 2007. 5. Mandé: linguistic family comprising approximately forty languages in West Africa (Gambia, Senegal, Guinea, Guinea-Bissau, Mali, Liberia, Ivory Coast, Burkina Faso, Sierra Leone) and, partially, linguistic pockets in Ghana, Be-

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9. 10.

11.

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nin, Nigeria (Mabe 2001: 376). Hausa: native language in northern Nigeria and Niger, the most widely spoken West African language (ibid.: 242). The populations that speak these languages are designated as Mandé or Hausa. See also Iliffe 1987: 41; Hagberg 2001: 44; Roth 2005: 304–5. On the implicit contract between generations in Africa, see, among others, Badini-Kinda 2005; Cattell 1997, 2002; Roth 2007; Udvardy and Cattell 1992. Generalised reciprocity: the expectation of a countergift is undetermined. Balanced reciprocity: equivalent items are exchanged in the context of a fixed duration (Sahlins [1965] 2004: 193–95). See Vuarin 2000 on the concepts of honour and shame. On the transformation of the implicit contract between the generations, and the new forms of dependence between young and old in urban areas, see Roth 2007. See also the research carried out in Kerala (de Jong 2003; de Jong et al. 2005).

REFERENCES Attias-Donfut, Claudine, and Leopold Rosenmayr (eds). 1994. Vieillir en Afrique. Paris: PUF. Badini-Kinda, Fatoumata. 2005. ‘The Gap between Ideas and Practices: Elderly Social Insecurity in Rural Burkina Faso / L’ecart entre idées et pratiques: l’insécurité sociale des personnes âgées en milieu rural burkinabè’, in Willemijn de Jong et al. (eds), Ageing in Insecurity: Case Studies on Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso / Vieillir dans l’insecurite: Sécurité sociale et genre en lnde et au Burkina Faso. Etudes de case. Hamburg: LIT, pp. 139–66, 323–51. Cattell, Maria. 1997. ‘The Discourse of Neglect: Family Support for the Elderly in Samia’, in Thomas Weisner, Candice Bradley and Philip Kilbride (eds), African Families and the Crisis of Social Change. London: Bergin & Garvey, pp. 157–83. ———. 2002. ‘Holding Up the Sky: Gender, Age and Work among the Abaluyia of Kenya’, in Sinfree Makoni and Koenraad Stroeken (eds), Ageing in Africa. Aldershot: Ashgate, pp. 155–75. Fauré, Yves-A., and Pascal Labazée (eds). 2002. Socio-économie des villes africaines: Bobo et Korhogo dans les défis de Ia decentralisation. Paris: IRD Editions, Karthala. Förster, Till. 1998. ‘Das Alter des Mannes: Über Jugend und Alter bei den Senufo (Côte d’Ivoire)’, in Dorle Dracklé (ed.), Alt und zahm? Berlin and Hamburg: Reimer, pp. 151–70. Geest, Sjaak van der. 1997. ‘Money and Respect: The Changing Value of Old Age in Rural Ghana’. Africa 67(4): 534–59. ———. 2002. ‘Respect and Reciprocity: Care of Elderly People in Rural Ghana’. Journal of Cross-cultural Gerontology 17: 3–31.

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Hagberg, Sten. 2001. Poverty in Burkina Faso: Representations and Realities. Uppsala: Uppsala University. Iliffe, John. 1987. The African Poor: A History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jong, Willemijn de. 2003. ‘Local Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso: Social Security, Old Age and Gender in Urban Kerala’. Unpublished Final Report of the SNSF/SDC Project. ———. 2005. ‘Towards an Anthropology of Social Security’, in Anne Mayor, Claudia Roth and Yvan Droz (eds), Soziale Sicherheit und Entwicklung – Sécurité sociale et développement: Werkschau Afrikastudien – Le forum suisse des africanistes 5. Münster: LIT, pp. 15–34. Jong, Willemijn de, et al. (eds). 2005. Ageing in Insecurity: Case Studies on Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso / Vieillir dans l’insécurité: Sécurité sociale et genre en Inde et au Burkina Faso. Études de cas. Hamburg: LIT. Lachaud, Jean-Pierre. 2003. Dynamique de pauvreté, inégalité et urbanisation au Burkina Faso. Bordeaux: Presses universitaires de Bordeaux. Mabe, Jacob (ed.). 2001. Das Afrika-Lexikon: Ein Kontinent in 1000 Stichwörtern. Wuppertal and Stuttgart: Peter Hammer and J.B. Metzler. Roth, Claudia. 2005. ‘Threatening Dependency: Limits of Social Security, Old Age and Gender in Urban Burkina Faso / Dépendance menaçante: limites de la sécurité sociale, vieil âge et genre en milieu urbain burkinabè’, in Willemijn de Jong et al. (eds), Ageing in Insecurity: Case Studies on Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso / Vieillir dans l’insécurité: Sécurité sociale et genre en Inde et au Burkina Faso. Études de cas. Hamburg: LIT, pp. 107–37, 289–322. ———. 2007. ‘“Tu ne peux pas rejeter ton enfant!”: Contrat entre les générations, sécurité sociale et vieillesse en milieu urbain burkinabè’. Cahiers d’Études africaines XLVII (1), 185: 93–116. Sahlins, Marshall. (1965) 2004. Stone Age Economics. London: Routledge. Somda, Prosper, and Sita Malick Sawadogo. 2001. ‘Le suivi de la pauvreté au Burkina Faso: instruments et contraintes’, in Mamadou Koulibaly (ed.), La pauvreté en Afrique de l’Ouest. Paris and Dakar: Karthala, CODESRIA, pp. 89–111. Soulama, Souleymane. 2005. ‘Action collective de type coopératif et protection sociale dans le contexte burkinabè’, in Anne Mayor, Claudia Roth and Yvan Droz (eds), Soziale Sicherheit und Entwicklung – Sécurité sociale et développement: Werkschau Afrikastudien – Le forum suisse des africanistes 5. Münster: LIT, pp. 35–50. Udvardy, Monica, and Maria Cattell. 1992. ‘Gender, Ageing and Power in SubSaharan Africa: Challenges and Puzzles’. Journal of Cross-Cultural Gerontology 7: 275–88. Vidal, Claudine. 1994. ‘La “solidarité africaine”: un mythe à revisiter’. Cahiers d’Etudes africaines 34(136): 687–91. Vuarin, Robert. 2000. Un système africain de protection sociale au temps de la mondialisation ou ‘Venez m’aider à tuer mon lion. . .’. Paris: L’Harmattan.

❍ c ha p te r 7

‘Shameful!’ The Inverted Intergenerational Contract in Bobo-Dioulasso Claudia Roth

urrent social trends in sub-Saharan Africa are severely testing the intergenerational relationship as a form of social security. The intergenerational contract implies the traditional duty of the young to be responsible for caring for the old in accordance with the principle of generalised reciprocity. Foner (1993) has asked under what conditions the implicit intergenerational contract in non-industrial societies breaks down, and whether this leads to neglect of the elderly. Her answer is that this occurs when the latter have no children or when the children have migrated and as a result cannot be contacted, as well as when the elderly have no resources in respect to labour, property or knowledge, which are crucial as ways of countering neglect. Central to this article is a special case of a failing intergenerational contract, expressed in the following question: how does it come about that the elderly are caring for their grown-up children? One result of my study carried out in Bobo-Dioulasso is that this situation – referred to here as an ‘inverted intergenerational contract’ – is emerging strikingly often as a phenomenon in urban contexts. In African conditions, the inverted intergenerational contract can be traced back to the blocked social mobility of the contemporary generation of young people. The young are exposed to conflicting forces by virtually becoming part of a world from which they are in fact excluded. Hansen (2005) mentions the contradiction that the young become part of a global world through the media, schools and NGOs from which they are cut off locally. In the words of Cole (2004), although the young are continually addressed

C

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as consumers, they are unable to take part in consumer society due to a lack of resources. Abbink (2005) points out that the overwhelming majority of young people on the African continent do not hold their future in their own hands. The exponential growth in population and the bitter struggle for scarce resources in the context of a failing state are preventing the integration of young people into society. Instead they remain dependent and powerless, their social mobility having become blocked. The circumstances of the inverted intergenerational contract and its consequences for those involved are the themes of this article. I discuss them from the different perspectives of old and young, men and women.1

The Research Site Bobo-Dioulasso, the second-largest city in Burkina Faso, has for years had about 400,000 inhabitants and is growing quite slowly in comparison to the vibrant capital Ouagadougou, whose population has doubled in the past fifteen years to 1.2 million. Thanks to its advantageous geographical location, Bobo-Dioulasso was once a pivotal point for long-distance trade and a centre of Islamic belief. Under French colonial rule, the industrial centre Bobo-Dioulasso became the ‘economic capital’ of the country and rapidly prospered. Its slow but steady economic decline began in the 1960s. Today approximately 50 per cent of local wealth is generated in the informal sector, including agriculture, which employs over 70 per cent of the population (cf. Fauré and Labazée 2002).2 This has especially been the case since the Structural Adjustment Programmes of the 1990s led to dismissals and company closures. As a result, many young people are unemployed today. The neighbourhood of Koko is situated in the centre of the city. It is one of the oldest districts and, with about 10,000 inhabitants, one of the smallest. A characteristic feature of Koko is the old family compounds of about 1,500 m2 each. Koko has a stable social structure: the familyowned compounds have hardly changed hands and remain in large part collective property, occupied by family members and tenants. Everyone knows everyone else. The ethnic diversity in Koko is the same as in Bobo-Dioulasso as a whole, with some twenty-five ethnic groups living together in families of the Zara, Bobo, Bwa, Dioula, Peul, Dafing, Senoufo, Moose, Gourounsi, and many more. Koko is also an Islamic neighbourhood and the home of one of the three largest marabout families in the city, which owns three of the five mosques in Koko. One characteristic of Koko is its ‘generational depth’ (Vuarin 2000: 187), with kinship, neighbourhood and religious re-

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lationships overlapping and reinforcing each other. Economically Koko is an average-income neighbourhood. Within the frame of the research project on ‘Local Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso’3 I conducted over a hundred interviews with old and young men and women from the middle and lower income classes4 on old age, intergenerational relations and social security, with key individuals in the neighbourhood and the city and with ‘local experts’5 about the history of Koko and the presentday situation of the elderly. I also conducted focus-group interviews with old men and women on concepts, practices and strategies linked to local social security in old age. Everyday conversations, participant observation and my own familiarity with Koko as a neighbourhood for the past eighteen years helped me situate the interviews in their historical and socio-cultural contexts.

The Intergenerational Contract and its Inversion Old age as a time of declining physical strength is a key period for the building of social institutions (Elwert 1992). The institutionalisation of intergenerational conflicts through the regulation of familial intergenerational relationships – an apparent paradox – is a task that every society must solve and which manifests itself as an intergenerational contract. Through the regulated relationship between the elderly and the young, care and support are guaranteed to the old in society, although this is regulated differently from society to society. The institutionalisation of intergenerational conflicts means that genuinely diverging and contradictory interests between the generations are channelled in such a way that care and support of neither the children nor the elderly are endangered. An intergenerational contract is not a contract in the legal sense, but an institutionalised relationship between family generations (Höpflinger 1999; Richter 1997). This implies, among other things, that not everything is negotiable, as would be the case with a contract (cf. Douglas 1986). Yet the notion is often used in socio-political and academic debates in countries of the South as well as the North. According to Cattell, from an exchange perspective family relationships can be perceived as ‘implicit contracts’: ‘Family contracts involve shared ideas about relationships and appropriate exchanges between kin dyads such as parent and child, in-laws of different generations (for example, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law), siblings, and grandparent and grandchild’ (Cattell 1997: 159). Attias-Donfut and Arber (2000) also speak of an intergenerational contract in the context of the reciprocal exchange relationship be-

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tween family generations. For lack of a useful alternative, I shall continue to use the term here as well. The implicit intergenerational contract is at the heart of old-age provision in Burkina Faso (Roth 2005a, 2007). As Foner (1993) points out, to live in old age without the support of one’s children means an old age of poverty and loneliness. This applies more than ever today. Aside from the marriage relationship, the generational relationship within the family is the most important relationship for the social security of both young and old. Kinship in the form of the extended family certainly remains important, but it is not a caring institution for its members: instead, individuals must maintain and cultivate their relations of kinship themselves and shape them as relations of social security. An extended family may become very small for someone who lacks the necessary resources to sustain it (Roth 2005a). As a result, having children of one’s own is more important than ever. Like other relationships of social security, the intergenerational contract is based on the ‘logic of debt’ and includes the idea that parents raise their children as their creditors, the children later fulfilling this debt on their own account by caring for their parents (Marie 1997b). The old provide a living for the young, bring them up and give each son his first wife and a field; and the young people repay this by working for their fathers. The power of the old is based on their control of the extended family at the economic, social, religious and political levels. This does not mean that intergenerational conflicts did not exist previously. On the contrary, in West African peasant societies segmentation occurred frequently: a young man might leave his lineage and move elsewhere if he felt that a polygamous elder was taking too long to find a first wife for him. Under rural conditions, the power of the elders is still at work (see Badini-Kinda 2005), but in urban areas this relationship of subordination has broken down because the young have new opportunities to earn their livelihoods outside the familial age hierarchy. In addition, thanks to education, modern working conditions and other urban stimuli, they are developing their own ideas of life and questioning the age hierarchy, with women also calling into question the gender hierarchy, and they strive for a degree of independence and for a life they have modelled themselves. During my research, I sought to determine whether the implicit intergenerational contract is still at work in Bobo-Dioulasso. In response to my question, both old and young said, ‘Yes, that’s the way it should be, the contract is still effective’. But upon closer examination it emerged that about a third of the grown-up children in both the middle and lower economic classes were caring for their old parents and supporting them, although in most cases not by securing their livelihoods entirely.6 What

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was also striking was the widespread inversion of the intergenerational contract: half the elderly of both classes supported their grown-up children and grandchildren. The inverted intergenerational contract is very much an actual urban phenomenon. In the rural context, on the other hand, the inverted intergenerational contract cannot be called a fact, as Badini-Kinda’s research shows: ‘This can be explained by the fact that in the village the land is managed by the oldest, as in the past, and that working the land and Moaga social organisation give responsibility to youngsters very early in life by providing them with fields of their own to cultivate’ (2005: 150). Nonetheless, Badini-Kinda stresses that, as a ‘discourse of neglect’ (Cattell 1997), the inverted intergenerational contract is nowadays widespread in villages. I developed the following definition of the inverted intergenerational contract during my research. It consists in the old offering their grown-up children (and sometimes their grandchildren) food and lodging. For clothing, money, etc., the children must in principle look after themselves. In the case of sickness, however, attempts are made to mobilise other relationships in order to raise money for expensive medicine and medical treatment. When the children have some money thanks to casual work, they support their parents, though irregularly and often only by making small contributions (see Roth 2005a, 2007). The inverted intergenerational contract and the prolonged period of adolescence linked with it result from urbanisation and as such are usual developments of intergenerational relationships. For instance, in the European middle classes many parents finance the education of their grown-up children for many years. But this routine development becomes problematic in the context of the poverty found in Bobo-Dioulasso. First, I shall describe in more detail how, under urban conditions, the new opportunities for young people to become economically independent carve a space for negotiation out of the intergenerational contract. This background will shed light on the changed relationship of dependence between old and young people living in inverted intergenerational contracts and the interlinked and great ambivalence that pertains on both sides.

The Intergenerational Contract: A Space for Negotiation Because of current social trends it has become possible for the contemporary generation of young people to question existing social hierarchies, especially those shaped by age and gender. As a result the relationship between the familial generations is being transformed. This new space

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for manoeuvre is based on the fact that in principle it is possible for young people to secure their existence independently of their family elders, and for women to do so independently of any husband. It is precisely this economic independence that allows people to take their place in the ‘cycle of debt’.7 Only material independence permits social integration into the community; economic dependence, however, marginalises a person. The young can thus obtain relative independence through personal success. And success, which implies material independence, is a strategy because it gives individuals the freedom to decide on the circumstances in which they will assume their place within the cycle of debt. It is through this strategy that reciprocal relationships are transformed. This is also true for women. My research in Bobo-Dioulasso revealed that married daughters, who unlike sons are not themselves duty-bound to care for their elderly parents, nonetheless do so more and more often today. In addition to practical support (provided they live nearby) daughters also give gifts of cloth or clothing and, increasingly, considerable amounts of money. Thus gift-giving is becoming degendered. Through gift-giving, daughters strengthen their relationships with their own kin, thus creating a social position for themselves and acquiring influence in family matters and the possibility of turning to their relatives in times of crisis. For instance, economically successful women may adopt the role of the eldest brother, thereby acquiring the rights and duties as well as the social position linked with this. These actions are also a strategy to provide for their own social security. I interpret this as a characteristic of the urban situation, in which, for women, the natal family is a more reliable source of support than their conjugal family.8 Although the respect given to old men and women is certainly an important social value in West African societies, in practice the young give more respect to those elders who have been able to accumulate sufficient power-producing resources in their lives, no matter whether these are material (property), social (personal dependencies, social networks), cultural (knowledge) or supernatural (magic), or a combination of these.9 As Marie (1997b) argues, individualisation as a process produces the individual subject, who reflects on, manages, shapes and seeks personal compromises in order to find a space of his or her own in this field of tension, a dialectical process in which the individual is shaped and the society transformed. In respect to social security, there exists no alternative to the community. Everyone owes a debt to the community, although absolute debt can be rejected and renegotiated because it is conditional and relative. This determines the strategies of both men and women. The implicit intergenerational contract opens up a space for negotiation of the new power relationship between old and young. It is a space full of

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conflicts, where different ideas about life clash. Old and young must negotiate their claims, demands and priorities. The ability of both the old and the young to negotiate is therefore dependent on resources. Economic dependence marginalises young and old equally. Unsuccessful young people, that is, those without means, cannot assume their places in the cycle of debt nor, therefore, gain respect. Young people living in an inverted intergenerational contract therefore count as good-for-nothings and failures. It is unemployed young men, perhaps with their wives and children, and filles-mères, that is, single women with children, who allow themselves to be provided with meals in the compounds of their parents. Increasingly, however, children suffering from AIDS and orphaned grandchildren also live there. In what follows, I show why it is that in the inverted intergenerational contract the relationship between the familial generations is marked by great ambivalence on both sides.

The Inverted Intergenerational Contract from the Perspective of the Elderly: A Great Ambivalence Old people are ambivalent about giving shelter to their grown-up children. On the one hand, they feel responsible for their lot and are preoccupied with the thought that they may not have done everything that young people need to be able to care for their parents later on. This corresponds to their own self-understanding that they are responsible for the reproduction of their extended family (cf. der Geest 1997). One old man from amongst the poor said: ‘When one’s children have been unsuccessful, as in my case, that’s my problem. Who will care for them? I will! The failure of children is a problem for their parents. It’s as if we did something wrong. You haven’t helped your child into work, to success. When the children don’t have any success, you must think about what it is you’ve actually done for them. If you haven’t done anything for them, then their failure is your fault. If a child is successful, that’s also my success; if a child has no success, that’s a failure of mine. The responsibility is the parents’: you’re a bad old man, you haven’t found a way of leading your children along the path of good’. Everyone, men as well as women of both the middle and lower income classes, still try to send their children to school for as long as possible in the hope of obtaining a secure old age, and the wealthy help their children to acquire a place to live in the future by buying plots of land in urban areas.10 But recently this strategy, which appears in all countries with growing wealth, has created fatal counterproductive effects: since

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the 1980s, many jobs in industry and government administration have been abolished and wages in the formal economy have been declining, while the importance of the informal sector has grown. There are many unemployed people who hold a diploma, and young people with only a few years of schooling have better chances to obtain a job than those who are more qualified on paper (cf. Cole 2004; Marie 1997b; Rogerson 1997). Having a school education has become a fatal strategy for obtaining social security, one which costs a great deal but generally does not fulfil its aim.11 On the other hand, the old do not accept or respect their destitute children as full family members, but instead regard them as failures and goodfor-nothings. As Osmont (1987) aptly writes, for the unemployed the family compound is simultaneously a refuge and a place of purgatory. Being unemployed – and thus without an income and unable to marry – means that they are prevented from acquiring adult status and respect as responsible members of society (cf. Ringsted 2008). In addition, however, those in old age are existentially dependent on the physical presence of young people. Adult children are important as a source of day-to-day practical support: they draw water, take over heavy tasks and small repairs, and, in the case of daughters, help with the cooking, washing and care in cases of illness. Living alone is in conflict with social norms. Old people who have no grown-up children living with them are accorded no respect – indeed, old women living alone run the risk of being denounced as witches, even in urban conditions as in Bobo-Dioulasso. All the old men and women I spoke to had adult children in their households, and more than three-quarters of them lived in three-generation households. Biba, thirty-one years old and the mother of two children by two different fathers, lives in her mother’s compound in circumstances of an inverted intergenerational contract, just as do her younger brother and his wife and children. Biba is economically dependent on her mother but she regards her mother as being the dependant party. She continually thinks about whether she should migrate: ‘I often think of going to my big sisters.12 Yet when I think of mother, I cannot leave her, I’m the only one who does all these little jobs for her; otherwise she would be alone. I would like to go since I cannot really rely on my mother’s relatives, and my little brother is unsuccessful, my big brother is far away.13 Thus it would be good to go to my sisters. We have a family compound there, where I could live and trade. If I were near my sisters, they would look after me. If my economic situation gets no better, I can rely on my sisters and their husbands’. In the less hierarchically organised societies of south-west Burkina Faso, the situation for old women resembles that of men in that they

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are acquiring ever more influence, decision-making powers and authority over younger men and women, as well as a voice in family affairs or even those of the local neighbourhood. One significant finding of my research in Bobo-Dioulasso is that women focus on their children when thinking about their care in old age, and they do everything for them, emotionally, socially and materially. In the best case their children will care for them later on, while in the worst case the women will care for their grown-up children. Men, on the other hand, focus on marriage as their only way of acquiring continued access to provision and care in the household. In addition, as mothers, women care throughout their lives for children who, due to their affiliation to the patrilinear kin-group, are not their own – in the hope that they will later care for them in return. Because of the gender division of labour and their role as mothers, women therefore seek social security in old age from their children – which also shapes their actions throughout their lives – and men seek social security in old age through marriage. It is their wives who mediate men’s relations with their own children. As described elsewhere, the ambivalence of these two relationships of security for women – the intergenerational relationship and the marriage relationship – is indicated by the fact that, for them, these form a community of destiny: when the children find work, mothers will often receive more from them than fathers, while if they do not find any work, women will care not only for their grown-up children and grandchildren but also for their husbands. My research in Bobo-Dioulasso has shown that there is a strong correlation between the inverted intergenerational contract and the ‘inverted marriage contract’ (Roth 2003, 2005a, 2007). Aminata’s story illustrates this situation.

The Case of Aminata S. Aminata is sixty years old and has a medium-size business selling tomatoes from Legema, her place of birth, in the large market in BoboDioulasso. She began small-time trading as a child by selling her father’s harvest. ‘At that time there were still no cars’, said Aminata. ‘We went on foot from Legema to Bobo [about 8 km] and made a profit each time of 15 or 25 francs [about €0.04].14 Today she owns two compounds, in one of which one of her sons lives with his wife and children. He is a Qur’anic teacher and can feed his family himself: ‘He never asks me for anything’, says Aminata. Aminata lives in the other compound together with her eldest son, his wife and three children, as well as four other relatives from Legema. He is unskilled, uneducated and unemployed. Aminata’s daughters are deceased.

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When I met her and explained our research interest she began to talk straightaway: ‘Earlier, people didn’t need any wage labour; they cared for their families by working in the fields. Life was easy, they had no worries concerning school costs, no expenses. Today the situation is difficult. You’re constantly looking for money; work in the fields no longer provides enough. Thus one suffers to support the children and pay for their schooling. Yet if they are not successful at school, they stay at home with you, eat with you, and you continue to bear the whole burden, you have to care for them. . . I expect nothing from my children! I see their situation and know I must care for them. I have no hopes concerning my children. I must feed them and even buy medicine for them when they are ill. My son doesn’t work, but he drives a moped. I must provide food three times a day – morning, noon and night – that is my concern’. I asked her, ‘Did you buy your son the moped?’ ‘Yes’, she replied. ‘That is, no, I bought it for myself, but every day he takes me to the market and runs errands for me. He keeps the moped the whole day, rides around on it, with me paying for the petrol. I also pay for his and his family’s clothing; I take care of everything.’ She added, ‘If the children had work, I could rest easy; I shouldn’t have to go to the market every day and sell tomatoes’. Aminata is one of those women who has cared for her family on her own all her life. She recalled: ‘I have fed the children; for many years a part of my profits has gone on the household and in caring for the children. My husband was never in a good situation materially, only having a small wage. I alone have been responsible for all the costs. My husband never had a compound of his own; he lived in his father’s. I have paid for all the children’s schooling. Yet the children had no success. Despite this the sons got married, and their wives and children now live at my cost. I provide everything; I feed them all: in the foyer, the household, there are ten of us eating from one plate’. Aminata has lived apart from her husband for years, though she still lets him take a sack of millet every so often and also pays for his medicine. ‘I lived with my husband without having our own compound; I couldn’t accept that. Therefore I soon made myself independent and bought the two compounds. Even today I am responsible for all the costs of the household. Even when my husband is ill, I pay for him.’ I asked Aminata what security in old age meant to her. She replied: ‘It should mean that one’s children are successful, then they would provide everything; I would be secure, not having to beg from anyone. Yet today I am caring for my husband and children, so I don’t live in security. Therefore I still work a lot, going every day to the market early. I go to sleep around 7.30 p.m. because I’m always so tired. The fact that I should bear such great burdens, that’s the great crisis for me: feeding my family. . . .

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The big problem today is how to get the young to look after themselves so that they can also take care of the old. All the prayers of the old are directed to this goal: the young should be independent so that they can care for the old’. I asked Aminata how the situation differed for men and women in old age. She replied: ‘If I take myself as an example I can say this: in old age, there is no rest. I keep working while my husband and children sit at home, waiting for their meals and resting. That’s the case for many old couples. Only old women whose husband and children are in a good situation have it better. Cew te maloya! Men feel no shame. The woman is responsible for the children; she can’t allow herself not to work, to sit around and wait; she must prepare the food. Men take three or four wives, even when they can’t feed them, yet they feel no shame in doing so. They are even capable of going somewhere to beg for food. A woman would never do that. Thus women must struggle and find solutions’. I asked Aminata whether she has told her unemployed son that she is unhappy with the situation. She replied: ‘I’m always telling him. I tell him that even working with your hands is good enough to earn money, and that he should do it. But he doesn’t listen to me!’ ‘Then why do you feed him nonetheless?’, I asked. She replied, ‘What am I to do? I gave birth to him! In Europe you can chase a child away. Here in Africa you can’t do that; your child is still your child, even when unsuccessful. That’s a responsibility that one has’. Old men and women who live in an inverted intergenerational contract never disengage from the role of carer for their entire lives. When they were young they cared for their children and parents, today they care for their children and grandchildren. People in the middle-income classes who have far-sightedly prepared for their old age can cope more easily with the inverted intergenerational contract. People from amongst the poor, however, just grow poorer because they only have their children to provide for them in their old age. They do not have any savings or property, and their income progressively declines because of the weakness brought about by their old age (Roth 2005b).

The Inverted Intergenerational Contract from the Perspective of the Young Generation: A Shameful Dependence ‘Getting stuck in the compound’ (Hansen 2005) means that young women and men are blocked, without a space for their development and lacking the ability to become adults. The prolonged phase of their adolescence is a consequence of the fact that unemployed and unmarried young women

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and men are not integrated into society, are not taken seriously, and do not have any social duties. Abbink (2005: 5, 6) asks how the young should be defined: ‘what about people in their thirties or early forties? . . . In Africa there are many such people who have had to delay their entry into adulthood: they feel excluded and powerless, and struggle to survive. But despite this there has to be a limit to calling someone a ‘youngster’: forty-year olds, for instance, are no longer youths but pass into another category, perhaps that of street people, beggars or vagrants’. In Dioula15 a youngster is a kamalen, a young unmarried man. In the eyes of the indigenous population, a forty-year-old kamalen is a man who failed to get married and therefore belongs to the losers. Ultimately the blocking of one’s socio-economic development leads to an extended adolescence and not, as in the European middle classes mentioned above, the extended period of education. As a result, rights and duties are not reversed, as would be necessary for a relationship based on generalised reciprocity. The attitude of the young corresponds to that of the old: as described above, the elderly switch between self-criticism and indignation. They question whether, as heads of the family, they have done enough for the future of their children. This is understandable, as they can use this self-critical analysis to ensure their position of power as the manager of the family. On the other hand they are indignant at the fact that the flow of benefits is not becoming inverted and they are not able to enjoy their well-earned old age. Parallel to this, young people alternate between the idea that the elderly have not yet fulfilled their task and still have to help them to have an existence, and the suffering of not having grown up and thus not being able to integrate themselves into society. In this respect, young men suffer more than young women: without work, a house, a wife and children, they are further removed from the ideal male role than the fille-mères, the young women with children outside marriage, are from the ideal female role (cf. Hansen 2005). Madou S. paints a clear picture of the sufferings of the young men: without education or work they are ‘stuck in the compound’ with no prospects of socially becoming adults.

The Case of Madou S. Madou, thirty years old, is a young man from the middle-income classes. He attended the lycée for a couple of years but left without taking his A levels. He has not completed his education and lives in the compound of his father’s extended family. He recounted: ‘No one believes that I am thirty since I have no children: no wife, no money, dependent on my father’. Unemployed young men suffer from their status as children,

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but they see no way out. Madou said: ‘I sleep a lot, otherwise I think too much and get a headache. You must tell yourself every day: Ça ira! Force yourself, ça ira! It’ll be all right! Even when you don’t know how, though otherwise it gets even worse’. While pupils still beg their fathers for money, unemployed young men consciously refrain from doing so in order to retain a sense of their own worth. They struggle to buy a pair of trousers, a shirt or the stamps they need to send off applications, begging their mothers, aunts or friends for money. ‘Mais c’est la honte’ (it’s shameful), said Madou; ‘I become ashamed and try to avoid it as much as possible by trying to make ends meet with the little money I get. For the past two years, for example, I have not bought any clothes’. The young men buy cigarettes singly and smoke them together. Brothers and friends who earn money pay for the daily tea ceremony that structures their days. When an older brother from the capital came to visit for a couple of days and told his younger brother that he should finally exert himself to find work instead of hanging around the compound, there was an argument: ‘It’s degrading’, said the younger brother; ‘I’m not lazy! None of us are. There is simply no work in Bobo’. The unemployed dream of future independence from their fathers, and they place their hopes in the state, an employed older brother or some other relationship to find work. The unemployed are partly disappointed by their older brothers, to whom they attribute the ability to pull them out of their misery by providing them with some start-up capital or arranging work for them, while suspecting them of not doing enough for them. Like young men, young women too think it is the duty of the old to help them obtain a livelihood, and they expect their parents to find them work. When I asked Biba how she would characterise old people, she said: ‘Old people can do things that the young cannot. They can look after you, they can feed the young, look for work for them. Yet the young, when they are not looked after, it doesn’t work. They can’t look after themselves’. Like Madou, Biba thinks it is the duty of old people to take care of the young: ‘They must feed the young and look for work for them. Young people need this support, they need this kind of help. It’s easier. Otherwise you suffer until you’re ready. You need their ideas, advice, experience. There are unemployed children being fed by their parents in almost every compound. This also leads to many conflicts. The parents put their foot down and say, ‘You must cope by yourself! You must seek work’. And the young reply, ‘It’s difficult to find work.’ You can’t go far without the support of your parents or relatives. Thus parents should entrust others to help them find work for their children’. ‘Did your mother do this?’ I wanted to know from Biba. ‘Yes, she tried to find work for my little brother. She entrusted the matter to different people, but without success. It didn’t go far. Yet the

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parents say, “The day I’m no longer here, you will be alone”. It’s better that they look for a solution for you.’ To this day marriage is decisive in becoming a social adult, to be respected, to be asked for advice or included in discussions of family affairs. As a result, when they are in the company of their neighbours and acquaintances, many young couples living in concubinage pretend to be married. Allasan is a 27-year-old poor man living in his father’s compound within an inverted intergenerational contract. Not only is he not one of his father’s favourite children, but in addition he is not married and is frequently unemployed, or else in precarious employment without a future. As a result, he is not summoned to important family gatherings. Allasan says: ‘As a married man, you are respected. When, out of a hundred men, one is married, perhaps the youngest, then he will lead the group and assume responsibility for them all. Marriage implies having better relationships with your relatives and with society. There is no family gathering to which you are not summoned. Through marriage you acquire relationships, responsibility and respect. You are responsible for your younger siblings and the elderly: they expect you to support them. When a husband works, people approach him directly; the old people would like to have his entire salary, but they can’t take it because he has his own family – that’s why conflicts arise. Nonetheless,’ Allasan stresses, ‘no matter how important marriage is in order to be respected, an unmarried man with work is still respected more than a married man without work’. Influenced by school and the media, and addressed as consumers, young urbanites also have different ideas about life and a different work ethic from their parents. There is no question of them walking for hours on foot under the hot sun, as was still usual for their parents’ generation. Sent on an errand, young people will only go by motorbike, even a bicycle being enough to undermine their self-image as young urbanites. And one young unemployed man, who regularly meets his fellow sufferers for tea at midday, said: ‘There isn’t any work! You might get a hole to dig in roadworks, a metre deep in hard, stony earth, for 300 francs CFA [€0.45]. Maybe you can dig two in a day, so earning 600 francs, but it makes you ill, you have torn hands, so you spend the money straightaway on medical care. So we don’t do such work’. Young urban women offer up their bodies to be able to fulfil their desires as consumers. This consumption defines simultaneously the new identity of urban youth and the new way of becoming an adult. Consuming specific products signifies success and brings one respect. ‘At the heart . . . is the assumption that desire for new, foreign things – styles, clothes, commodities – is both constitutive of what it means to be young and part of a new path to adulthood. . . . Urban youth, however, believe

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that they yearn in a special, urgent way to improve their conditions and that this ceaseless searching can lead to progress or change. Their desire to achieve these goals leads them into the sexual economy’ (Cole 2004: 579). Young urban women are involved in a balancing act: owing to their short-term relationships, they risk the bad reputation of being a prostitute, while simultaneously they maintain a certain independence of male control through temporary relationships. Through their own successful economic activities, they are also able to support their parents and kin, thus winning influence and respect in their own family. They might even make themselves the centre of a system of patronage and, as Cole clearly illustrates, reverse the gender hierarchy if they can earn more money through their sexual relationships than unemployed men of the same age. The analyses of Cole (2004) and Haram (2004) are equally appropriate in the context of Bobo-Dioulasso. The transitions between the following four possible types are fluid: the young woman (sungurun)16 who – a usual attitude during sungurunya, the permissive period of adolescence – allows men to declare their love for her by giving her presents, the material focused young woman who is notorious for consuming eagerly, the femme libre who desires to maintain a certain independence by having relationships with different men, and the prostitute (see Roth 1996a). Salimata S. is an example of a young woman who found herself on such a tightrope and has slid into the sexual economy.

The Case of Salimata S. Salimata died three years ago from AIDS at the age of twenty-four. She was a fille-mère and lived with her son, born in 1994, in her parents’ compound. She was always a good pupil at school but she dropped out at fifteen when she became pregnant. Initially she sold self-prepared salad in front of the compound, as she had done in her childhood. But she only earned a little with this petty trade, not enough to meet all sorts of consumer desires she had. Young men visited her in the compound, although often she was no longer to be found at home. Her beautiful clothes and elegant mèche hairstyle cost a great deal of money, an indication of the number of her admirers. Later, Salimata found work as a cashier in Pastis Plus, a local dive with shelves full of pastis, whisky and other spirits. Only men went there who regularly drank too much, a gross, drunken atmosphere pervading the room. Salimata stood behind the bar with her usual sad expression. She had to list every glass of spirits she sold in a school exercise book. She worked there non-stop from eight in the morning to ten at night and

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earned 15,000 CFA (about €23) a month. Her parents and relatives had no idea where she worked. In 2003 she died of AIDS. Her son continues to be provided for and brought up by his grandmother, Salimata’s mother, just as he had been ever since his birth. In contrast to the old men and women, who express their difficulties in putting their children out onto the streets, siblings of those living in an inverted intergenerational contract put them under pressure (intragenerational relationship). Karim thinks that the elderly are to blame for the inverted intergenerational contract: ‘They ought to throw the young people out onto the streets, even if they have to drag sacks around or dig holes. The old people are tired. Yet the young show no initiative, since they already have everything. That’s the fault of the elderly. Why they do it,’ he laughed, ‘I don’t know. My generation doesn’t want it. I have a little cousin here in the compound, twenty-four years old; I found him work as an electrician; I forced him to work. Then I watched him and saw what he did with his earnings. He did not think of making a contribution to the household at the end of the month. I called him: “I thought you understood. Yet it seems not. From now on you’ll pay for the electricity you use yourself, and you won’t eat here anymore!” He can live here because it’s not my compound but the family compound. If it were mine, he’d have to pay rent. My generation is forcing the young ones. I myself only realised what money is when my father died. I didn’t contribute anything before that either. One must put the young people out onto the streets. That’s starting now; we’re not going along with it anymore’. Young people dream of wealth, power and consumer goods, yet only a few will have the opportunity to acquire social position, influence or a good income. It is this blocking of mobility that pushes the young into opposition, mafia networks or war (cf. Abbink 2005; Dacher 2003). According to Abbink, we can detect a trace of revenge here: the young acquire by violence what the old deny them. Van Dongen’s study (2008) is an eloquent example of this type of de-institutionalisation of intergenerational conflicts under conditions of great economic crisis and social disintegration. As mentioned above and as illustrated by the case of Salimata S., the blocking of mobility is also pushing young women into the sexual economy (Cole 2004; Haram 2004).

Conclusion The cause of the inverted intergenerational contract in Africa is the blocked social mobility of the contemporary generation of young people. On the one hand, in the course of the development of society, the rela-

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tionship between the familial generations and thus the intergenerational contract has become a space of negotiation. The possibility to finance their existence independently of their elders – in the case of women also of their husbands – allows young people to challenge age and gender hierarchies and, thus, make the formerly absolute debt relative and negotiable. In this way, the position of power of elders and men is called into question. On the other hand, the blocked economic development prevents young men and women from becoming social adults and respected members of society. The old can cope with the inverted intergenerational contract because they have both compounds and incomes, which suffice to provide food. Also, they wish to carry this burden under precarious economic conditions too, since in this way they can act against their disempowerment – a very ambivalent matter. The inverted intergenerational contract is an urban phenomenon, as it involves prolonged dependence on one’s parents, whose sons cannot even acquire a plot of land to farm and thus manage their path to becoming adults, as they do under rural conditions (see Badini-Kinda 2005). The desire of young people for the urban way of life of the consumer society is confronted with the macro-economic context of blocked economic development and continuing impoverishment. The inverted intergenerational contract is therefore not only a reference to the development of the relationship between the familial generations, but also a measure of the course of urbanisation in African societies. The inverted intergenerational contract is responsible for a highly conflictual situation, which has negative consequences for all participants as well as for society as a whole. Old people are not receiving their due, and in the poorer classes they are becoming impoverished. This affects old women more than old men, since they live with their children in a sort of community of destiny: if the children are doing well their mothers do better than their fathers, while if the children are doing badly their mothers do worse than their fathers, who rely for their own social security on their wives. Young people remain dependent, non-self-supporting, vulnerable, without any perspective, and live their whole lives as adolescents by being denied integration into society as adults and not given any role in determining its destiny. This may drive young men to alcohol and the criminal economy and young women into the sex economy. For African societies this change in social relations through the inverted intergenerational contract represents an additional disadvantage on the global level, since one consequence of it is that the contemporary generation of young people cannot sufficiently fulfil its potential. The AIDS epidemic also contributes to the fact that the social security of all the members of society is constantly in danger. Children are being

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orphaned and cared for by their grandparents, men and women are being widowed and are forced to raise their families alone, and old men and women are losing their old-age provision. My research in Bobo-Dioulasso shows, on the one hand, that there is great solidarity between the familial generations while, on the other hand and in situations of great financial or emotional burdens, the intergenerational relationship is breaking apart. In a city like Bobo-Dioulasso the inverted intergenerational contract still appears to be bearable despite many conflicts. The questions now are: At what point does the relationship between the familial generations become overloaded as a result of the processes taking place in society at large? Where are the limits of intergenerational solidarities? And finally, what are the long-term effects for the societies and economies of African states? These topics require further research.

NOTES Original title and place of publication: Roth, Claudia. 2008. ‘“Shameful!” The Inverted Intergenerational Contract in Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso’, in Erdmute Alber, Sjaak van der Geest and Susan Reynolds Whyte (eds), Generations in Africa: Connections and Conflicts. Münster: LIT, pp. 47–69. 1. I would like to thank Prof. Dr Sjaak van der Geest (Amsterdam), Prof. Dr Willemijn de Jong (Zurich), Dr Manfred Perlik (Basel) and Daniela Renner (Zurich and Cotonou) for their helpful criticism and stimulating comments on the text. 2. Interview in 2000 with Prof. Souleymane Soulama, University of Ouagadougou, social economist and collaborator in the study by Fauré and Labazée 2002 (see also Soulama 2005). 3. Financed by the Swiss National Science Foundation (SNSF) and the Department for Development and Cooperation (DDC) from 2000 to 2003, and conducted with my research partners, Prof. Dr Willemijn de Jong, University of Zurich (on urban Kerala), Dr Fatoumata Badini-Kinda, University of Ouagadougou (on rural Burkina Faso) and doctoral candidate Seema Bhagyanath, University of Pune (on rural Kerala). 4. Definition of the middle-income class: pensioned functionaries, who have earned well and now have a small old-age pension and savings, as well as an income from acquisitions made in old age through trade, plantations, cattleraising, etc., and selfemployed high earners. Definition of the lower-income class: small traders, artisans, farmers, washerwomen, women producing soap, all without savings and with just a small daily income of between zero

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6.

7.

8.

9. 10. 11.

12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

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and 500 FCFA (about €0.8). The poor can be differentiated further into those ‘living poor’, ‘living precariously’ and ‘living socially marginalised’ (for these definitions, see Roth 2007). I define ‘local experts’ as people who, as a result of their activities as griots, marabouts, activists in women’s organisations or in the neighbourhood, and their social engagement and interests generally, deal reflexively with social and historical conditions in Koko. I held repeated conversations with five men and women of both socio-economic classes. Definition of the ‘intergenerational contract fulfilled without securing a livelihood’: mostly, the children pay for meals, but not always or only once a day. They lack the money to pay for medicine or clothes, or to make contributions to their parents’ rituals (Roth 2007). The duty to help is linked to the right to be given help and support. In other words, one has rights because one has fulfilled one’s duties. All relations of social security, not just those involving kinship, are also nowadays based on the circulation of debt (see also Marie 1997a; Vuarin 2000). Economic independence is linked to a high social reputation. This is equally true of those successful businesswomen who formerly earned their capital through prostitution (see also Cole 2004). A businesswoman who formerly prostituted herself only earns a bad reputation when she fails. In her differentiated analysis of the life stories of single women in urban Tanzania, Haram (2004) shows that the widespread image of young women exchanging their bodies for money is inappropriate when stated in such bold terms. Single women are faced with the dilemma of needing husbands in order to maintain their reputation as respectable women, while wanting to maintain their own autonomy from male control. In this dilemma, they move through temporary relationships and ‘visiting husbands’ (ibid.) because the frequent exchange of partners prevents them from falling under the fixed control of a husband. They thus deploy their bodies and their sexuality to develop new forms of kinship and marriage and to transform the traditional gender relationship. See Badini-Kinda 2005; Foner 1993; Van der Geest 1997, 2002; Nydegger 1983; Roth 2005a, 2007; Silverman 1987; Spittler 1990; etc. See Langlade and Jacob 2004; Le Bris et al. 1987; Roth 1996b. As a result, the democratisation of education is at risk of being undermined. Research investigating what this means in the long term for the development of African countries is required. They live in a small town south-west of Bobo-Dioulasso. In Lomé, trying to earn money. €1 = 655.95 FCFA (francs CFA). Dioula is the widespread commercial language and lingua franca in BoboDioulasso. In Dioula: sungurun = young woman; sungurunya = the state of being a young woman. Sungurun.ba is literally ‘the big young woman’ i.e. ‘the prostitute’.

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REFERENCES Abbink, Jon. 2005. ‘Being Young in Africa: The Politics of Despair and Renewal’, in Jon Abbink and Ineke van Kessel (eds), Vanguard or Vandals: Youth, Politics and Conflict in Africa. Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill, pp. 1–34. Attias-Donfut, Claudine, and Sara Arber. 2000. ‘Equity and Solidarity across the Generations’, in Sara Arber and Claudine Attias-Donfut (eds), The Myth of Generational Conflict: The Family and State in Ageing Societies. London and New York: Routledge, pp. 1–21. Badini-Kinda, Fatoumata. 2005. ‘The Gap between Ideas and Practices: Elderly Social Insecurity in Rural Burkina Faso / L’ecart entre idées et pratiques: l’insécurité sociale des personnes âgées en milieu rural burkinabè’, in Willemijn de Jong et al. (eds), Ageing in Insecurity: Case Studies on Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso / Vieillir dans I’insecurite: Sécurité sociale et genre en lnde et au Burkina Faso. Etudes de case. Hamburg: LIT, pp. 139–66, 323–51. Cattell, Maria.1997. ‘The Discourse of Neglect: Family Support for the Elderly in Samia’, in Thomas Weisner, Candice Bradley and Philip Kilbride (eds), African Families and the Crisis of Social Change. London: Bergin & Garvey, pp. 157–83 . Cole, Jennifer. 2004. ‘Fresh Contact in Tamatave, Madagascar: Sex, Money, and Intergenerational Transformation’. American Ethnologist 31(4): 573–88. Dacher, Michèle. 2003. ‘Chronique des violences ordinaires: parcours d’un jeune paysan burkinabè immigré en Côte d’Ivoire’. Journal des Africanistes 73(2): 137–61. Dongen, Els van. 2008. ‘“That was your time . . . this time is ours!” Memories and Intergenerational Conflicts in South Africa’, in Erdmute Alber, Sjaak van der Geest and Susan Reynolds Whyte (eds), Generations in Africa: Connections and Conflicts. Münster: LIT, pp. 183–208. Douglas, Mary. 1986. How Institutions Think. Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press. Elwert, Georg. 1992. ‘Alter im interkulturellen Vergleich’, in Paul Baltes and Jürgen Mittelstrass (eds), Zukunft des Alterns und gesellschaftliche Entwicklung. Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, pp. 260–82. Fauré, Yves-A., and Pascal Labazée (eds). 2002. Socio-économie des villes africaines: Bobo et Korhogo dans les défis de Ia decentralisation. Paris: IRD Editions, Karthala. Foner, Nancy. 1993. ‘When the Contract Fails: Care for the Elderly in Nonindustrial Cultures’, in Vern L. Bengston and W. Andrew Achenbaum (eds), The Changing Contract across Generations. New York: Aldine de Gruyter, pp. 101–17. Geest, Sjaak van der. 1997. ‘Money and Respect: The Changing Value of Old Age in Rural Ghana’. Africa 67(4): 534–59. ———. 2002. ‘Respect and Reciprocity: Care of Elderly People in Rural Ghana’. Journal of Cross-cultural Gerontology 17: 3–31.

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Hansen, Karen Tranberg. 2005. ‘Getting Stuck in the Compound: Some Odds against Social Adulthood in Lusaka, Zambia’. Africa Today 51(49): 3–16. Haram, Liv. 2004. ‘“Prostitutes” or Modern Women? Negotiating Respectability in Northern Tanzania’, in Signe Arnfred (ed.), Rethinking Sexualities in Africa. Uppsala: Nordiska Afrikainstitutet, pp. 211–29. Höpflinger, François. 1999. Generationenfrage: Konzepte, theoretische Ansätze und Beobachtungen zu Generationenbeziehungen in späteren Lebensphasen. Lausanne: Réalités Sociales. Langlade, Delphine, and Jean-Pierre Jacob. 2004. Les investissements des ruraux en milieu urbain: L’exemple des lotissements à Boromo et à Siby (Province des deux Balé, Centre-Ouest du Burkina Faso). Etude No. 2. Ouagadougou: RECIT. Le Bris, Emile, et al. 1987. Famille et résidence dans les villes africaines: Dakar, Bamako, Saint-Louis, Lomé. Paris: L’Harmattan. Marie, Alain. 1997a. ‘Avatars de la dette communautaire: crise des solidarités, sorcellerie et procès d’individualisation (itinéraires abidjanais)’, in Alain Marie (ed.), L’Afrique des individus. Paris: Karthala, pp. 249–328. ———. 1997b. ‘Conclusion. Individualisation: entre communauté et société, l’avènement du sujet’, in Alain Marie (ed.), L’Afrique des individus. Paris: Karthala, pp. 407–36. Nydegger, Corinne N. 1983. ‘Family Ties of the Aged in Cross-Cultural Perspective’. The Gerontologist 23: 26–32. Osmont, Annik. 1987. ‘Stratégies familiales, stratégies résidentielles en milieu urbain: un système résidentiel dans l’agglomération dakaroise’, in Emile Le Bris et al. (eds), Famille et résidence dans les villes africaines: Dakar, Bamako, SaintLouis, Lomé. Paris: L’Harmattan, pp. 115–76. Richter, Ingo. 1997. ‘Ist der sogenannte Generationenvertrag ein Vertrag im Rechtssinne? Pacta sunt servanda – rebus sic stantibus’, in Eckart Liebau (ed.), Das Generationenverhältnis: Über das Zusammenleben in Familie und Gesellschaft. Weinheim: Juventa, pp. 77–87. Ringsted, Mette Line. 2008. ‘Collisions in Life-Courses: Teenage Motherhood and Generational Relations in North-East Tanzania’, in Erdmute Alber, Sjaak van der Geest and Susan Reynolds Whyte (eds), Generations in Africa: Connections and Conflicts. Münster: LIT, pp. 357–80. Rogerson, Christian. 1997. ‘Globalization or Informalization? African Urban Economies in the 1990s’, in Carole Rakodi (ed.), The Urban Challenge in Africa: Growth and Management of its Large Cities. Tokyo: United Nations University Press, pp. 337–70. Roth, Claudia. 1994. Und sie sind stolz: Zur Ökonomie der Liebe. Die Geschlechtertrennung bei den Zara in Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel. ———. 1995. ‘Wehe, wenn die Frauen von Bobo sich schminken’: Ein ethnologischer Beitrag. Ethnopsychoanalyse 4, Arbeit, Alltag, Feste. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel, pp. 205–21.

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———. 1996a. La séparation des sexes chez les Zara au Burkina Faso. Paris: L’Harmattan. ———. 1996b. ‘Blutbande als soziales Netz: Die afrikanische Grossfamilie als Wirtschaftsgemeinschaft’. Neue Zürcher Zeitung 103(4): 70. ———. 1997a. ‘Was ist Liebe? Zum Wandel der Ehe in Bobo-Dioulasso. Ein Beispiel’, in Beat Sottas et al. (eds), Werkschau Afrikastudien: Forum Suisse des Africanistes. Hamburg: LIT, pp. 198–208. ———. 1997b. Tee und Träume: Zum Generationenkonflikt der Männer in BoboDioulasso. Ethnopsychoanalyse 5, Jugend und Kulturwandel. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel, pp. 153–66. ———. 2003. ‘Der mütterliche Schutz: Fünf Hypothesen zur sozialen Sicherheit in Burkina Faso’, in Jürg Schneider, Lilo Roost Vischer and Didier Péclard (eds), Werkschau Afrikastudien – Le forum suisse des africanistes 4. Münster: LIT, pp. 113–32. ———. 2005a. ‘Threatening Dependency: Limits of Social Security, Old Age and Gender in Urban Burkina Faso / Dépendance menaçante: limites de la sécurité sociale, vieil âge et genre en milieu urbain burkinabè’, in Willemijn de Jong et al. (eds), Ageing in Insecurity: Case Studies on Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso / Vieillir dans l’insécurité: Sécurité sociale et genre en Inde et au Burkina Faso. Études de cas. Hamburg: LIT, pp. 107–37, 289–322. ———. 2005b. ‘L’appauvrissement invisible des personnes âgées au Burkina Faso’, in Anne Mayor, Claudia Roth and Yvan Droz (eds), Soziale Sicherheit und Entwicklung – Sécurité sociale et développement: Werkschau Afrikastudien – Le forum suisse des africanistes 5. Münster: LIT, pp. 51–68. ———. 2007. ‘“Tu ne peux pas rejeter ton enfant!” Contrat entre les générations, sécurité sociale et vieillesse en milieu urbain burkinabè’. Cahiers d’Études africaines XLVII (1), 185: 93–116. Silverman, Philip. 1987. ‘Comparative Studies’, in Philip Silverman (ed.), The Elderly as Modern Pioneers. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, pp. 312–44. Soulama, Souleymane. 2005. ‘Action collective de type coopératif et protection sociale dans le contexte burkinabè’, in Anne Mayor, Claudia Roth and Yvan Droz (eds), Soziale Sicherheit und Entwicklung – Sécurité sociale et développement: Werkschau Afrikastudien – Le forum suisse des africanistes 5. Münster: LIT, pp. 35–50. Spittler, Gerd. 1990. ‘Lebensalter und Lebenslauf bei den Tuareg’, in Georg Elwert et al. (eds), Im Lauf der Zeit: ethnographische Studien zur gesellschaftlichen Konstruktion von Lebensaltern. Saarbrücken: Breitenbach, pp. 107–23. Vuarin, Robert. 2000. Un système africain de protection sociale au temps de la mondialisation ou ‘Venez m’aider à tuer mon lion. . .’. Paris: L’Harmattan.

❍ c ha p te r 8

The Strength of Badenya Ties Siblings and Social Security in Old Age – the Case of Urban Burkina Faso Claudia Roth

n urban Burkina Faso, siblings play a decisive role in local social security. The implicit intergenerational contract, or ‘law of debt’ (Marie 1997), that vertically connects the older with the younger generation ensures the security of the society’s members in old age. It has hitherto been analysed solely in terms of its vertical generational link:1 what daughters and sons give back to their ageing parents and what fathers and mothers do for their children. Horizontal relations between siblings, that is, relationships among brothers and sisters, whether children or the elderly, are not discussed in the context of the implicit intergenerational contract. Firstborn sons in many patrilineally organised societies in Burkina Faso were the potential successors of their fathers’ generation, that is, of their fathers and classificatory fathers (their fathers’ brothers).2 The Dioula expression ‘lu dé’ncè fôlô lé yé lu kôrôrôsibaga yé’ [the first son of the compound is the one who has to watch over the compound (its members)] encapsulates the idea that the eldest male in the family compound is responsible for the reproduction and well-being of the patrilineage. In pre-colonial times, patrilineal family structures in the Mandé region guaranteed the security of the elderly, who disposed of the labour of their sons (Iliffe 1987). Research on social security and old age in today’s Bobo-Dioulasso (Roth 2005), the second-largest city in Burkina Faso, has revealed that social stratification is leading to a shrinking of the family, with the result that the father and his brothers tend to look after their own individual households. Additionally, it has become common for sons to work outside rather than within the familial economy; they earn their

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living independent of their fathers. Hence, old-age security of low-income families now primarily depends on children and marriage partners. Firstborn sons, however, rather than the children as a group, are seen as responsible for elderly parents and younger siblings: their position as potential successors in the role of family eldest, for which they are prepared in childhood, comes into play under changed circumstances. Drawing on Peter Berger and Thomas Luckmann’s definition,3 I refer to this passeddown role of the firstborn as an institution: the institution of the eldest son. Under the difficult socio-economic conditions in Burkina Faso,4 however, eldest sons in lower-income families are rarely in a position to fulfil this institutional role. Hence, the social ideal cannot be played out. If this institution is eroding, what are the consequences? Who assumes the task of the eldest son? What happens to kinship relations? My recent research on intergenerational relations and social security in Bobo-Dioulasso indicates that mutual assistance among siblings enables them to fulfil their duties vis-à-vis other generations; that is, horizontal ties disburden intergenerational relations.5 As a result of its structure, and its ties and values, the old but unofficial institution of badenya cushions conflicts that might otherwise threaten to undo the community.6 Badenya encompasses children of the same mother but different fathers. It forms a counterpart to fadenya, children of the same father but different mothers. In contrast to fadenya, badenya connotes a rather harmonious relationship, although it also implies hierarchical aspects between siblings, for example, between an older and a younger brother. Although there is a whole body of literature on siblingship in anthropology since the end of the 1970s that especially deals with local societies in South America (e.g. Kensinger 1985), Oceania (e.g. Marshall 1981; Weiner 1992) and Asia (e.g. Kelly 1977; Nuckolls 1993; Peletz 1988), detailed analysis of siblingship in western Africa is rare (e.g. Gruénais 1985), and recent studies are lacking. Emphasising sibling ties, this article deepens the anthropological understandings of regional kinship. On the basis of ethnographic data, I describe the process – triggered by impoverishment – that leads to the crumbling status of the eldest son and to the increased importance of badenya. These developments can be seen as a response to the constant and endless uncertainties of everyday life with which people have to cope, using the appropriate strategies.7

Kinship as a Social Field and its Transformation In elaborating on the transformation of family-based social security and the associated sibling relationships, I refer to the notion of social secu-

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rity as outlined by Franz and Keebet von Benda-Beckmann (2007). With their inclusive approach, they focus on the interlacing of state-run and non-governmental institutions as well as on social relations as providers of social security.8 Hence ideas and practices of individual and collective actors and organisations as well as social relationships that do not primarily serve to procure social security are taken into account (see also de Jong 2005; de Jong et al. 2005; Read and Thelen 2007). Although a seeming contradiction, the transformation of kinship and social security in old age can be understood with the aid of Pierre Bourdieu’s theory of action. Bourdieu is generally perceived as a theoretician who can explain the reproduction of existing conditions and social disparities but not social transformation. His concepts of field, habitus and capital, however, provide an opportunity to explore social transformation. In periods of crisis, when established expectations are systematically disappointed, habitus as incorporated social reality, as embodied schemes of thinking, perceiving and acting, and the social field as exterior social reality tend to diverge, giving rise to change. In this situation, habitus fails as a producer of practice. The failure results in the questioning of social routines and a reflective assessment of opportunities, which generates new practices and, ultimately, social transformation (Bourdieu 1977, 1980). Furthermore, Bourdieu sees social relations as conflictive, as a power contest. His theory of action can thus be regarded as a conflict theory. The concepts of capital, field and habitus are interconnected. Conceived in different forms, capital enables people to exercise power and gain influence in specific fields,9 in our case, the field of kinship, paving the way for action. Where actors are positioned in a social field is defined by the different forms of capital at their disposal. As Bourdieu and Loïc Wacquant note, ‘A species of capital is what is efficacious in a given field, both as a weapon and as a stake of struggle, that which allows its possessors to wield a power, an influence, and thus to exist, in the field under consideration, instead of being considered a negligible quantity . . . At each moment, it is the state of the relations of force between players that defines the structure of the field’ (Bourdieu and Wacquant 1992: 98, 99). Corresponding to the social field as exterior social reality, habitus as incorporated social reality shapes the individual’s margin of action without determining the action itself. An outstanding example of how the concepts of field, habitus and capital are applied in the African context is found in Saskia Brand’s monograph on fertility and demographic change in Bamako. Brand analyses the ‘field of social relations’ and the ‘field of fertility’, and concludes that ‘social capital is the only relevant resource, as other forms of capital can

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only take effect and have meaning through relations, even, and notably, economic capital’ (Brand 2001: 24). My studies of lower-income families in Bobo-Dioulasso bring me to another conclusion: social capital cannot exist without economic capital, and, hence, impoverishment leads to social marginalisation (Roth 2005, 2010; see also Vuarin 2000). In the following discussion, I use the term ‘family’ as an element of kinship, implying intergenerational relations between parents and children and intragenerational relations between siblings. Bourdieu (1996) termed the (Euro-American) family a social field with physical, economic and symbolic power relations but did not analyse it as such. Elsewhere, I have analysed the family as a ‘field of conflict’, in which parents and children engage in a struggle over the implicit intergenerational contract (Roth 2010). Since the rules of obligation, or ‘law of debt’, among the generations are negotiable, the family can be interpreted as a field of conflict, with the implicit intergenerational contract as the primary object of interest. A 37-year-old tailor commented on the obligation of the child vis-à-vis the parents: ‘Your father and your mother gave birth to you. When you were sick, they cared for you. They looked after you until you were grown up. Now, as an adult, it is your turn to care for them and to satisfy their needs’. How do adult children give back what they received from their parents in the past? The social field is equipped with rules related to the competition for power and esteem, one of which is a consensus among the participants of the implicit intergenerational contract. How the latter is fulfilled is decided in practice. Of interest here is that not only the elderly and their children but also the siblings of both the younger and the older generations are involved in the contest over duties relevant to the implicit intergenerational contract (raising children, old-age support). The social field of the family should be understood as a network of relations among the players and their positions and defined by the capital at the players’ disposal. In the context of lower-income families in urban Burkina Faso, the relevant forms of capital are those that allow people to fulfil, enforce or alter the implicit intergenerational contract by changing the rules of the game. Support for aged parents extends, at a minimum, to covering the cost of daily meals and, if required, medical expenses. Taking Bourdieu’s (1986) classification as a basis for the current structure of capital in urban Burkina Faso, the following capital resources can be identified for lower-income families: • Economic capital (convertible into money): revenue of all kinds; property (e.g. a compound or livestock). • Social capital: personal relationships (e.g. kin, neighbourhood, associations) established and preserved through reciprocal exchange

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and convertible into food or money or used to procure social security, for example, in the form of short-term loans. • Embodied cultural capital: socialisation in the form of family education, formal schooling, professional skills, and incorporated knowledge (e.g. of indigenous medicine), allowing people to acquire money or maintain social relations, convertible in part into food or assistance in times of need. • Symbolic capital: social recognition and prestige; as, for example, when a young person becomes a social adult by marrying, a position that is convertible into social and economic capital (Roth 2013a).10 The age and gender resources of males and the elderly under urban conditions require strengthening by other forms of capital, for instance, economic capital, if their impact as a power resource is to unfold.11 To understand the dynamic of kinship, we must consider the historical development that entailed the social division of the domains of society (family, economy, state, religion), which is a consequence of colonialism as well as of penetrating money and market economies (Marie 1997). The social division of these domains changed kin relations: it called into question the specific forms of capital available to the elderly – generated by their social and religious positions, that is, age, gender and prestige – and diminished their comprehensive power to redistribute economic, cultural and social capital. Young people, however, cannot profit from this altered situation. While the elderly are gradually losing their negotiating power, large segments of young people today are unable to exploit their own potential because the urban economy does not offer sufficient paid jobs. Unemployed or on a small income, they cannot acquire economic capital or convert their newly acquired, embodied cultural capital, that is, their school education, into value. These constraints hamper their bargaining power, disturbing sibling hierarchies, and shape the contest for the intergenerational contract as they lose social recognition. This situation furthermore provokes intragenerational contests. On the basis of conversations with the elderly and their adult children in Bobo-Dioulasso, I came to understand the importance of two institutions: firstly, the ‘institution of the eldest son’ and, secondly, the ‘institution of badenya’, or the unity of children of the same mother. I interpret these two institutions in Bourdieu’s sense of socially constructed realities:12 if kinship institutions are understood as social fictions, we can explore the dialectic process by which people transform mutual kin relations, on the one hand, and kinship institutions as social constructs, on the other. Each kinship system provides options for action and allows for the activation of certain relations depending on the circumstances.

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Precarious living conditions are the root cause of the changes described below. This perspective allows us to pursue the question of what happens to kinship relations when the institution of the eldest son can no longer be lived to the full and put into practice by firstborn sons. It also permits us to ask who or what replaces this institution. After some remarks on economic life in Bobo-Dioulasso, I focus on social security in old age as procured by the institution of the eldest son, that is, by the seniors in the sibling age hierarchy: the eldest son as well as the second son and eldest daughter, who may have to replace the eldest. I then explore sibling ties, especially the institution of badenya, focusing on siblings who cooperate to fulfil the intergenerational contract vis-à-vis their parents (intergenerational relations) and on siblings who mutually procure social security (intragenerational relations).

Economic Changes in Bobo-Dioulasso Since its independence, Burkina Faso has suffered several macroeconomic shocks, such as the 50 per cent devaluation of the national currency, the West African CFA franc, in 1994; civil wars in countries that were important for export; interruption of transportation routes; and droughts (World Bank 2006). According to the IMF, those living below the poverty level (less than US$1 per day) reached approximately 45 per cent in 2008 (Höpflinger 2011: 19). Considerable economic growth has been observed in the last five years but without visible trickling-down effects to the poor as a result of rising prices for basic food (Grimm and Günther 2004, 2005; Höpflinger 2011). In 2008, a violent food riot and state persecution began in Bobo-Dioulasso and encompassed Ouagadougou. Further violent unrest occurred in several towns in 2011, triggered by the death of an adolescent at a police station in Koudougou, a town with 130,000 inhabitants in the centre of Burkina Faso. ‘La vie chère’ – expensive life – is how the Burkinabè describe current economic conditions. With more than half a million inhabitants, Bobo-Dioulasso is the second-largest city in Burkina Faso (see Figure 8.1). It is located in the southwest part of the country, which is home to numerous Mandé societies. In the pre-colonial era, Bobo-Dioulasso was both an important commercial centre and a centre of Islamic studies. Its population was socially, culturally and linguistically heterogeneous (including farmers, women beer brewers [dolotière], warriors, traders, craftsmen and Qur’anic scholars, some of whom came from other regions of West Africa). Colonialism brought urbanisation, and, economically, Bobo-Dioulasso became the most important town in the region (Sanou 1996; Werthmann 2013). Today, de-

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Figure 8.1. Bobo-Dioulasso, Boulevard de la Révolution, 2007. In 1947, Bobo-Dioulasso missed becoming the capital of the relaunched Upper Volta colony, but it persisted as an economic hub in the new state (independent from 1960, renamed Burkina Faso 1984). With 554,042 inhabitants (2006 census), it is the country’s second-largest city. After decades of decline and stagnation, it is now again growing. Photo by Manfred Perlik (Centre for Development and Environment, University of Bern, Switzerland).

mographic and economic indicators show that, compared with the capital, Ouagadougou, Bobo-Dioulasso has steadily lost economic significance: in 1960, around the time of independence, 60 per cent of manufacturing and business industries were concentrated in Bobo-Dioulasso; fifty years later, only 20 per cent were still located here (Fauré and Labazée 2002: 36; Höpflinger 2011: 10). Because of economic structural change and because new service industries and administrations preferred the capital of Ouagadougou, regularly paid employment opportunities became rare. While Ouagadougou has developed in the last ten years as an international metropolis (Söderström 2014), Bobo-Dioulasso has experienced much less socio-economic development but seems to have stabilised in its second position as the capital of the ‘Great West’ region of Burkina Faso. With its old neighbourhoods, seen by the Bobolais as ‘villages’, and its many untarred streets, it still retains some aspects of a rural settlement (Werthmann 2013). The partial decoupling of urbanisation and socio-economic development has led to the emergence of a vast infor-

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mal sector often affording very small incomes and to unemployment or underemployment (Fauré and Labazée 2002; Höpflinger 2011; Labazée 2013). Young people throughout the country are affected most by unemployment. In 2007, a third of 15- to 24-year-olds and over 20 per cent of 25- to 29-year-olds in urban centres had no income (Höpflinger 2011: 25).

Social Security in Old Age: The Institution of the Eldest Son The precarious socio-economic situation has a direct impact on intergenerational ties and increases the strain on eldest sons to fulfil the duty of caring for their ageing parents and younger dependent siblings. In societies with a patrilineal and patrilocal structure, where age and gender hierarchies are the defining principles, the family elder is responsible for the reproduction of the extended family. As his father’s successor and future family chief, the eldest son becomes socialised to accept this responsibility and guarantee its fulfilment. The eldest son in Mandé societies, for instance, is ‘immobile’; that is, he has to stay in the family compound, whereas his younger brother is ‘mobile’, serving in the past as a warrior (keletigi) and today as a labour migrant (Jansen 1996). Both are educated to their positions and grow up with specific knowledge of them. The eldest son is instructed how to guide and take responsibility for a kin community. Alain Marie states that, even if individuality were not a virtue per se in African societies, ‘processes of individualisation are at work and as essential as elsewhere, if only to approve and produce the strong individualists required for hierarchical organisation’ (Marie 1997: 62).13 The example that follows shows that, although the eldest son is responsible for the reproduction of the family, he is not obliged to cover all expenditures. He must organise the family members in such a way that the family can survive, that is, that sufficient food, adequate shelter, and the provision of future needs are secured. Today, age and gender as resources must be supplemented by economic capital if the authoritative position of the eldest son is to be suitably filled. The habitus of an eldest son who looks after his dependents demands respect. He moves with his head held high and has no facial expression. He speaks little, since silence is the art of the powerful, and outside the family is seen talking only in the circle of male elders. With a nod and a sentence, he sends younger family members on errands, rewarding them with a few coins. During my research, I talked with adult children from thirty-two households. Only one household had an eldest son in a posi-

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tion to look after his extended family comme il faut (properly). I refer to him here as Salif S.14 In 2008, Salif S. was the eldest son of an established extended family in Sya, the oldest neighbourhood of Bobo-Dioulasso, with typical twostorey adobe houses. His extended kin lived in Sya and the surrounding villages. Salif S. was a 40-year-old tailor in a monogamous marriage. Although he had no children (traditionally, a blemish in African societies), he was well accepted as the family authority, not merely because of his age but also because he was the only economically successful member of the family. He was responsible for a household of approximately eighteen people, including his widowed father; younger single brothers; a married brother, his wife, and their children; a single sister and a separated sister, along with their children; and several cousins.15 Salif S. was responsible for providing the household’s daily food (he contributed part of the daily ‘sauce money’ [nansongo] and owned a field that produced maize and millet, the staple foods; he mobilised the entire family to help with the harvest). He took care of housing (on a parcel of land bought by his father; his father, a mason, and his unemployed younger brother were building a second family compound in another district). He looked after his elderly father, his clothes, his petits besoins (small needs), and, when required, his medication. His siblings might also approach him in times of need. Such was the case of his unemployed brother, who had a wife and three children, and his sister, who returned home with her four children after a failed marriage. Salif S. gave his sister money to take up petty trading again. He also bought a fridge and arranged for another sister, the mother of two children, to sell iced water for him. In return, he took care of her expenses, including clothes for herself and her children, medicine, and ceremony contributions. He had tried to persuade his 20year-old youngest brother to work in his studio as a tailor but without success. Salif S. was in a position to fulfil the obligations of an eldest son because he had his own tailor’s studio and because, through his acquaintance of visiting Europeans, he could export his finished products. He also participated as a leader in local NGO projects. His support for the family, however, had its limits. The youngest brother, my interlocutor, stated that his own greatest anxiety concerned the eventual death of his father: ‘When Dad is no longer around we won’t get on anymore. Our mother is gone, our father is still here, but we don’t get on the way we used to. And when he’s no longer around, it’ll get worse. Salif will say everyone has to watch out for himself. We won’t rely on each other anymore, we’ll just live our lives whatever way we like. It’s only because of Dad that we’re still together’.

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As the eldest son, Salif S. had a strong position in the family and a bundle of capital at his disposal. He converted his training as a tailor (embodied cultural capital) into value by opening the studio that afforded him an income (economic capital); his European ties (social capital) could be transformed into revenue and social recognition (symbolic capital). He gained additional social status as the eldest son of an old Bobo-Dioulasso family and as one who moved in NGO circles and could thus help others in their search for promising (economic) opportunities. Age and gender resources coupled with multiple forms of capital (economic, cultural, social and symbolic) conferred power and influence on Salif S. in the social field of kinship. Although he undoubtedly supported his younger siblings, he made them work for him and decided on their needs. He in fact had the power to make his youngest brother’s fears a reality and to abandon his family responsibilities. His younger brother’s scenario of abandonment, however, neglected to take into account another key issue. Salif S. not only moved in the field of kinship but also in that of local politics, where respect and attention from others were linked to precisely to his position of family head.

The Eroding Institution of the Eldest Son Today, eldest sons in lower-income families frequently struggle with the task they have to fulfil. In their efforts to meet their obligations under harsh economic conditions, they migrate and become ‘mobile’, taking on the former role of the younger brother. In the majority of cases, however, they fail to earn enough to support family members back home. If they remain in Bobo-Dioulasso, they tend to live in the family compound or in town. With little or no income, they are unable to fulfil their family responsibilities and are confined to contributing a small amount whenever possible. This leads to loss of social recognition; they are often treated as ‘losers’ or ‘lame ducks’ in their social milieu. Nonetheless, interviewees who were firstborns emphasised their position as eldest with pride – daughters and sons alike. Elderly parents rarely commented negatively on their children during the interviews. Children’s narrations, however, reveal parents’ resentment towards them and the shame felt by eldest sons. They likewise reveal the conflicts associated with the intergenerational contract, in which aged parents – often with mistrust and sometimes with anger – vehemently claim their right to a return on the investment they made. 25-year-old Bakary T., for instance, an eldest son, was unemployed and living in a room close to the family home. ‘I quit the luba (family compound) because I

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realised that I’m now a grown-up.16 I find it really disturbing to go on sleeping with the old folks.’ He went to the family compound to greet his parents every morning and evening. He ate and washed in the compound but saw this as an embarrassment. ‘Eating at home bothers me. That’s why I usually don’t eat when my mother invites me to, although I might be hungry. I feel obliged to say I’m full. I’m ashamed to eat at home. At my age I shouldn’t be dependent on my parents.’ He added that he should be in a position to take care of his parents and that, at that moment, his father was not in good health. Bakary T. referred to a conflict he had with his father: ‘I had 200 francs that day.17 When I came home, the old man demanded 1,000 francs. I told him I didn’t have them. But he refused to accept this. He didn’t believe me. He started saying that he was old now and that he should be able to rely on us. But in fact we were relying on him. That’s how it started. He began to argue and quarrel. I found this very difficult’. Elderly parents without filial support are threatened with social marginalisation. Poor people often claim to have ‘no relatives’. One elderly man commented, ‘If you are poor, you cannot count on your relatives’. A key finding of research on social security in Bobo-Dioulasso is that kin relationships begin to shrink for those no longer able to maintain reciprocal exchange relations because of lack of resources. More prosperous kin frequently opt to geographically distance themselves to avoid being beset by destitute kin – a consequence of social stratification, which in turn affects the kinship system (Roth 2005; see also Vuarin 1993, 2000). The extended family (luba) is then gradually reduced to nuclear families united around the gua (hearth). There is a trend among the poorest towards small households of one and three persons; (Höpflinger 2011; Vuarin 2000). Being poor is perceived as shameful. As Sten Hagberg states, ‘The poor person is lonely and without family. Adding to the lack of capacity to work the poor person is perceived as someone unable to perform socially admired actions’ (Hagberg 2001: 59). Living precariously makes daily life a struggle and the next meal uncertain. The second wife of a man in poor health explained how she produced a sauce for eight people on 200 francs. The ingredients consisted of mashed baobab leaves (nanmugufin) (50 francs), some dried fish from Abidjan (50 francs), two Maggi cubes (50 francs), dried onions (10 francs), salt (10 francs) and pepper (25 francs). The sauce was then served with millet mush. No one’s appetite was sated after such a meal. Instead of buying firewood for cooking, the first wife in the same household gathered it every day in the surroundings of Bobo-Dioulasso. Living under precarious conditions also implies that contributions to and attendance at ceremonies are likewise uncertain and that social networks are limited.

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A firstborn son without economic capital loses authority and influence, which prevents him from asserting himself in the family field of struggle in the role of eldest son. Without economic support, age and gender lose their significance as power resources. Social field and habitus diverge, social transformation gains momentum, and change, in turn, affects sibling relationships. If the eldest son is absent or unable to fulfil his duties, the second son or eldest daughter assumes his role. Those who are senior in the sibling age hierarchy and thus close to the oldest brother are similarly socialised and aware of the duties and responsibilities of that role. Fanta S. was the eldest daughter of Salimata S. and the single mother of two children.18 Substituting for her unemployed eldest brother, Fanta S. took care of the family, trading in the villages and providing work for her younger sisters. After a short illness in 2005, both she and her children died. Her younger sister, Oumi S., recounted, ‘It was she who looked after the whole family. She traded in the villages and also had a field. She sold things like shea nuts and millet. She gave people the seeds of the sauce ingredients so they could garden. When the crop was ripe, they [the villagers who worked for her] gave her some of it. We all had to sell these things for her, but then she got ill and died. And when she died, it was all over! Oumi S. explained how Fanta organised the members of the family: ‘We girls helped her to sell, since she was never around herself. She took the purchase price and the profit from whatever we sold. She used it to buy us clothes and to pay our children’s school fees. She looked after the whole family’. Fanta’s mother, Salimata S., related, ‘She was the one who supported me . . . When she sold something, she gave me food. When she came and found me sitting in a certain way, she used to say, “Tene, what’s up with you? – mun l’o b’i ra?” She was the one who took charge of me!’ The position of Fanta S. is comparable to that of Salif. She assumed the responsibilities of an eldest son and managed family life. Accordingly, she wielded power and influence within and accrued prestige outside the family (symbolic capital). She organised her village trade in such a way that her younger sisters could work for her, but business secrets (embodied cultural capital) and client contacts (social capital) were hers alone. She stockpiled her knowledge and social relations, accumulating power and influence: the sisters who depended on her were obliged to hand over the proceeds from their sales (economic capital). In return, Fanta S. took care of the entire family in terms of food, clothing and other basic needs and looked after her ailing mother. When Fanta S. died in 2008, support for the family collapsed, since embodied cultural capital and social capital accumulated over a long period cannot be transferred rapidly,

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for example, in the case of death. There was nothing left, or as Oumi S. phrased it, ‘It was all over!’ The institution of the eldest son in a patrilineally organised society represents the perspective and interests of the father; it is, thus, designed to reproduce kinship and to fulfil the responsibilities of the intergenerational contract.

Sibling Relations: Badenya The previous ethnographic examples show that sibling relations are shaped by the age and gender hierarchy, with age rather than gender as the determinant. According to Bourdieu, the closest genealogical relationship is that between two brothers. It is ‘also the site of the greatest tension and incessant work is required to maintain solidarity’ (Bourdieu 1990: 170). Jan Jansen and Clemens Zobel (1996), who also consider fraternal relationships, show that older brothers in Mandé societies have more rights to paternal heritage but also bear responsibility for the reproduction of the extended family. An older brother is associated with stability and, as his father’s successor, represents continuity. A younger brother, by contrast, is mobile, as mentioned earlier, and represents moderate change resulting from activities outside the compound, for instance, in the fields or as a warrior or migrant. Both positions find social approval, although that of the younger brother is seen as preferable. According to Jansen and Zobel, the prominence of the younger brother indicates that age hierarchy is merely one of several status dimensions in the Mandé world. In contrast to fraternal rivalry, the brother–sister relationship in many West African societies is described as one of trust and equality, unlike marriage relations, which are formally unequal and reserved (see Baerends 1998; Fortes 1969; La Fontaine 1992; Sacks 1982). There are several reasons for the closeness between brother and sister. A departing sister maintains her patrilineal rights to property and plays a crucial role in the internal politics of the family (Baerends 1998; Koné 2002). In addition, a brother plays a key role with regard to his sister’s children.19 As bèènkè, the brother of the mother, he is the extension of his sister and similarly generous, counterbalancing the authority of the father over his children. A brother in Bobo or Zara society, for example, arranges a marriage between his son and his sister’s eldest daughter, thereby securing the latter’s return to his own family.20 Finally, a brother is a sister’s protector against a violent husband. The family embodies her shelter in case of need and a brother, her social security. As a specific family institution, badenya is frequently mentioned in the literature in association with the

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relationship between a woman and her brother, bèènkè (see Vuarin 2000, among others). Bruno Doti Sanou (1989) describes the relationship between sisters as attached and close. This short characterisation of sibling ties shows that age and gender are important structuring attributions and that, at the same time, they are flexible. Janet Carsten uses the term ‘relatedness’ “to indicate indigenous ways of acting and conceptualising relations between people” (Carsten 1995: 224). She suggests studying kinship by asking how people ‘define and construct their notions of relatedness and what values and meanings they give them’ (ibid.: 236). I take these questions as my orientation in developing concepts and practices around badenya. With the exception of work done by Jansen and Zobel (1996), Kassim Koné (2002) and Robert Vuarin (2000), little research has been carried out on this topic of late. The seminal publication on badenya and fadenya by Charles S. Bird and Martha B. Kendall, and the most comprehensive up to now, dates back to 1980. Bird and Kendall argue that in Mandé society, fadenya and badenya represent divergent and cooperative forces. The dialectic tension between the individual and the group, they assert, should be understood as the intersection of two axes: the axis of individuality, referred to as fadenya, ‘father-childness’, and the axis of group affiliation, referred to as badenya, ‘mother-childness’. . . . fadenya is thus associated with centrifugal forces of social disequilibrium: envy, jealousy, competition, self-promotion – anything tending to spin the actor out of his established social force field. Badenya, ‘mother-childness’, is associated with centripetal forces of society: submission to authority, stability, cooperation, those qualities which pull the individual back into the social mass (Bird and Kendall 1980: 14, 15). According to Jansen and Zobel (1996), however, this dichotomy is merely one face of a two-sided picture. Contributions to their book The Younger Brother in Mande refer to a second major dichotomy that represents power, authority and conflict, that is, between the older and younger brother of the same mother. Used as a metaphor for tension, the relationship between the two is hierarchical. Jansen and Zobel argue that claims to legitimacy are based on the hierarchical manifestation of fadenya rather than on its destroying forces. Of particular interest in my context is that conflicts may be expressed in terms of older and younger brothers under the tacit assumption of badenya ties between them. Fadenya and badenya are characterised by contrasting attributes. This dichotomous model helps us to understand how tension and conflict, as well as solidarity and confidence, are socially conveyed. On the basis of the literature and my own research (Roth 2004), I summarise the values and meanings associated with fadenya and badenya relatedness in Table 8.1.

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Table 8.1. Values and Meanings Associated with Fadenya and Badenya Fadenya

Badenya

respect relations

affective relations

authoritarian behaviour/rigour

tolerance/indulgence

individual

group

self-promotion

cooperation/solidarity

difference

similarity/equity

rivalry, jealousy

generosity

mistrust

trust

high-conflict relationships

low-conflict relationships

compromises secrets

keeps secrets

strangeness/distance

confidence/closeness

instability

stability

insecurity

social security/protection

The popular adage ‘the unity of a mother’s children smokes but does not burn’ [badenya be sìsi, nka a ti mene] is a way of saying that even difficulties cannot destroy this unity. As another adage has it, ‘Your father is your first faden (father child)’ [i fa y’i faden folo de ye] (see Bird and Kendall 1980: 14). To the values and meanings of badenya mentioned above should be added the appreciation of the mother as its core. According to a third familiar adage, ‘Everything you have is your mother / Everything is in the hands of your mother [bee b’i ba bolo] (Jansen and Zobel 1996: 2, 3). Badenya must be seen in the context of the widespread polygyny that is culturally anchored in Mandé culture in general and in Bobo-Dioulasso in particular:21 the patrilineally organised extended family (luba) consists of separate badenya units – of numerous wives and co-wives with their respective children. I argue against Bird and Kendall’s (1980) interpretation of fadenya and badenya as an oppositional dichotomy, since each child is simultaneously a faden (a father child) and a baden (a mother child). Thus, fadenya and badenya reflect complementary perspectives rather than two contrary ways of being. They are relative to one another and must be contextualised. Tension might exist, for instance, between children of the same father but different mothers. Yet these children could form a united front against their classificatory siblings – that is, the children of their father’s brother. In other words ‘fadenya can be overruled by fadenya on a higher level, transforming lower-level fadenya into badenya’ (Jansen 1996: 10).

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An analogy can be drawn between fadenya and badenya relations, on the one hand, and the well-known respect and joking relations of West Africa, on the other. The former are characterised as hierarchical, authoritarian and distant, the latter as egalitarian, indulgent and relaxed. These two types of relations coexist and complement each other. Joking relations compensate for the more rigid respect relations and constitute a socially approved strategy for coping with conflicts inherent in the latter and for defusing tensions (Canut and Smith 2006; Hammond 1964). Likewise, Alma Gottlieb’s (1992) analysis of Beng (Ivory Coast) matri- and patriclans shows some similarity between these groupings and badenya and fadenya: the matriclan is associated with ‘identity/sameness’ and the patriclan with ‘difference’. Gottlieb shows how they overlap in a complex way, sometimes opposed, sometimes complementary, each sharing characteristics of the other.22 How is badenya constructed? People imagine the mother–child relationship as both biological and social. Mothers repeatedly remind their children that they not only carried them for nine months but also wiped away their dirt, cried for them, and suffered because of them for many years (see also Cliggett 2005). The breast, and its shared breast milk, is a symbol of relatedness and of belonging to badenya, for which sinjiya, or ‘breastmilkhood’, is a synonym (Koné 2002: 22). Asked about the significance of her badenw, or siblings of the same mother, one young woman declared: Those are the ones who sucked at the same breast as I did, who originate from the same woman as I did, who were educated in the same manner as I was, who ate from the same dish as I did, who had to endure the same family problems as I did. And who are here, who struggle with the same problems as I do – all of that, that’s my family, those are my badenw. They are very important and it will last a lifetime. It can’t change because I can’t harm them and they can’t harm me. That’s the way it is because the love that affiliates us is so strong and that’s because the same mother gave birth to us . . . Even if we have a dispute, we always forgive each other!

Badenya ties are constructed in everyday practices. The ample familial concessions (luba) in the old neighbourhoods of Bobo-Dioulasso are frequently home to several brothers – some polygynously married – their married sons and their wives, their single daughters, their grandchildren, and a number of parents. Each married woman in the compound has her own gua, where she cooks meals that unite her children (badenya). The men in the luba over the age of about fifteen share meals, the daily affirmation of a patrilineal descent group (bonda or si), while women eat separately with their children, that is, daughters and young sons. At

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the beginning of the 1990s, I had the opportunity to witness these practices through participant-observation (Roth 1996). Each woman in the luba contributes a dish to the men’s meal, blurring the boundaries between the different badenya units, since the men partake of all the dishes served. When the meal is over, it is not unusual for a mother to send her son his favourite dish as a reminder of their personal relationship. Bourdieu asserts that ‘kin relationships are something that people make, and with which they do something’ (1990: 167). Children become familiar with badenya step by step. It is talked about, demonstrated, tested, played and put into practice. Women who have no children or whose children are not with them likewise create baden. They take in a foster child or create a baden relationship with another adult, exchanging words, banter and gifts. Children establish baden with a paternal cousin, for example, if they grew up together and enjoy mutual trust. According to Bourdieu, genealogies – in my case, patrilineages – are the official representations of social structures and serve to legitimise the dominant order.23 Their counterpart is the ‘practical kinship’ of actors who, in the form of permanent care work, support a preferred network of practical relations appropriate to their own interests. The kinship on display is as distinct from practical kinship as the official is from the unofficial (Bourdieu 1990: 167, 169). As I demonstrate below, badenya can be designated practical kinship. Koné also points to the unofficial nature of badenya. He sees it as a ‘hidden transcript, the critique of patrilineal authority offstage’ (2002: 22), and writes, ‘The public performance of the patriarchal ideology is challenged by the private matrifocal behavior’ (2002: 28).24 One interlocutor recounts that until the 1950s and 1960s, the various badenya units in the luba were invisible or hidden. It was common for a child to be unaware of his or her biological mother up to the age of seven or eight. In the course of these two decades, the importance of badenya gradually increased with the emergence of social stratification in BoboDioulasso. If the sons in the family held different professional posts and consequently had different incomes and social positions, the extended family (luba) broke up into several nuclear families, united around the gua of the sons’ respective wives. When a husband in a polygynous nuclear family presented his wives with gifts and donations of varying value, the ensuing jealousy and rivalry sometimes caused a rift in the co-wife unity. Hence, badenya, in this historical process of social stratification, was rendered visible and gained significance. The process continues – now under the dramatic conditions of impoverishment – and is linked to shrinking kin relations. In times of crisis, relatedness, in Carsten’s (1995) sense, is created by activating badenya ties and their associated values

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of solidarity, protection, affection and trust, all of which represent a form of social security. Badenya ties are ‘strong ties’, considering the ‘combination of the amount of time [spent together], the emotional intensity, the intimacy (mutual confiding), and the reciprocal services’ (Granovetter 1973: 1361). Mark Granovetter shows in his work, however, that the strength of social relations lies in a wide network of ‘weak ties’. Weak ties are less intense but reach more people; they ‘are more likely to link members of different small groups’, which are, in turn, important for diffusion and social mobility (ibid.: 1376). Reversing Granovetter’s findings, it can be said that the strong ties of badenya constitute a certain weakness. This weakness is reinforced by the growing significance of badenya in the current precarious situation of the poor in Burkina Faso. At the same time, people’s resources and energy in precarious circumstances lack the necessary solidity to maintain ‘weak ties’ with kin and neighbours – the social network – via regular visits and exchange. Finally, ‘strong ties, breeding local cohesion, lead to overall fragmentation’ (ibid.: 1378), in my case, to the danger of social marginalisation. The role of sibling ties in badenya, reinforced under current socio-economic conditions in Burkina Faso, can now be seen as paradoxical: on the one hand, sibling ties provide the necessary solidarity for the poor to survive and, on the other hand, they consolidate and deepen existing exclusion.

The Rising Role of Badenya: Intergenerational and Intragenerational Relations Since the successor or eldest son is frequently unable to cope with his responsibilities entirely on his own, he is obliged to share the task with his siblings. Hence, the erosion of this institution leads to cooperation among younger siblings, that is, to the activation of badenya. The two institutions are part of a single logic: the more hierarchical institution of the eldest son includes cooperation between siblings, and the more cooperative institution of the badenya includes hierarchies. Local logic sees the revitalisation of badenya as adaptation to social change. In this section, I focus on cooperation between children as a means of honouring the implicit intergenerational contract, albeit exclusively in the service of oldage security. Relationships between siblings do not, therefore, need to be socially or emotionally close. By fulfilling the intergenerational contract, siblings gain reputation, power and influence within the family. They thus cultivate what I refer to as vertical badenya relations within the horizontal component of cooperation.

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Who cooperates with whom? Who are the siblings in question? In most cases, they are the children of the same mother, or those who are badenw, rather than those of the same father, or fadenw. Cooperation between a substitute and his or her younger siblings is characterised by the proximity of conflict and harmony. In the majority of cases, the substitute for the eldest son, that is, the second son or eldest daughter, inherits the role of the eldest son without having the necessary means to perform the task satisfactorily. Many men lack the economic means to marry, leaving a gap in their social status: they are unable to fulfil their role as social adults (Roth 2013a). The substitute’s general lack of the various forms of capital, of whatever form, activates badenya as a solution to honouring the intergenerational contract. In vertical relationships with aged parents, however, rivalry among siblings may arise: economic capital can pose a threat to the two principal power resources in rural society, age and gender. Hence, sibling relationships oscillate between competition and cooperation, not unlike the outcome of Brand’s (2001) analysis of the dynamics of social interaction in Mandé culture. On the one hand, the hierarchical principle of age, gender, kin, social category, or – as in my context – the disposition of different forms of capital is present in every relationship. Hierarchically structured relationships, on the other hand, are understood as complementary; that is, the two parties involved are dependent on each other. The particular hierarchy valid at any given moment is determined by the context and by the disposition of capital in its various forms. The third determining principle of flexibility and reversibility renders all hierarchical relationships ambivalent. It is never quite clear who is really dominant (Brand 2001: 19–21). Even when badenw cooperate, capital-dependent hierarchies are always present, as the following example demonstrates. Mohamed O. was still single at the age of thirty-seven because of his lack of capital.25 He substituted for his older brother, the eldest son, who migrated ten years ago to Ivory Coast. His older brother’s meagre income as a farm labourer there did not allow him to fulfil his obligations as the eldest son, and so that status devolved informally to Mohamed O., as the second eldest son. He and his younger brother by nine years looked after their elderly mother, who was in poor health. ‘We help each other to support our mother. Where I am, I can’t say that I give a certain sum to my mother. If I have 25, 50, 500 or 1,000 francs, I give her some of it. So on the day I have nothing and my younger brother has something, he gives her money that day.’ Mohamed O. spoke of cooperation because he depended on his younger brother. At the same time, he stressed the age hierarchy: ‘The elder remains the elder, the younger remains the younger’.

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Their mother explained why the younger son would never be in a position to look after her on his own: ‘The younger one can’t do anything, he is a child. He can’t do what the older one can. If we’ve nothing to eat, the older one can wander from one place to another, and borrow something to buy food. The younger one doesn’t know anyone, he can’t do that’. In reality, however, this younger brother, reputed not to have the necessary contacts to obtain a loan at a time of need, was well able to look after himself. He managed to procure a sewing machine and thus additional income. A year later, he found someone to help finance his wedding, and his wife was expecting their first child. His brother’s success prompted Mohamed O. to immediately contemplate a wedding of his own, even without knowing where to find the necessary means. As the eldest male in the compound and as a matter of principle, Mohamed O. was averse to the idea of asking for help. He vigorously defended his role as substitute for the eldest son. This position, however, was threatened by the efforts of his younger brother, who, in a sense, eclipsed him with his marriage and the arrival of his first child. The younger brother succeeded in gaining full social status, paving the way for acceptance as an adult member of society. He enhanced his social reputation within and outside the family sphere, an achievement that, in turn, might generate new opportunities and the attendant economic and social capital. His manner of handling his own economic affairs rendered the utility of his elder brother’s age resource dubious. The generous gifts of a younger married sister, who lived in Ouagadougou, posed a further threat to Mohamed O.’s age and gender resources. She took care of the expensive medication her mother needs, while Mohamed O. and his younger brother covered her low-cost medical requirements. The story of Mohamed O. illustrates how the inability of substitutes to shoulder their position alone can stimulate badenya relations. Although badenya undoubtedly supports cooperation, in practice it does not exclude conflict. Several factors are responsible for sibling conflict and alienation. Apart from spatial distance and large gaps in age, the different economic circumstances and, thus, different actions of individual siblings can challenge positions of age and gender. Habitus and the social field diverge, and Bourdieu’s ‘reflected assessment of opportunities’ comes into play, generating new practices. In badenya, the actions of elder brothers tend to be characterised by ‘strategies of conservation’, while those of the younger are driven by a desire for more independence and a change in conditions, by ‘strategies of subversion – of heresy’ (Bourdieu 1981: 115). Younger brothers and sisters, for example, do not always heed the advice of their elder siblings. They marry in an untimely manner, they refuse to migrate or, like Salif S.’s sibling, to become a tailor: ‘If I stay

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with Salif, people will always see me as “the younger brother”’, he said. ‘If I want to speak my mind, they’ll say I’m a child and have no right to express my opinion to the elderly.’ Younger brothers and sisters are wont to question the authority of their elder siblings. Below, I focus more extensively on sibling relationships and thus on intragenerational badenya relations. These relations include potential support for a brother or sister in his or her task of honouring the intergenerational contract. We are thus looking at horizontal relations with a vertical component. Badenya ties can be seen to evolve from lived closeness, exchange of gifts and services, mutual support, and a common history. Examples of intragenerational support between siblings are gifts in times of need, money, loans and food but also advice, visits, chats and simply the pleasure of being together. The vital importance of siblings is also evidenced in the fact that two-thirds of the young people in my sample see a baden, a sibling of the same mother, as someone they can confide in. They would not consider confiding a secret to a friend, a neighbour, a colleague, or even other kin.26 Examples of horizontal sibling relations with a vertical dimension are those in which siblings support a brother or sister in fulfilling his or her duty towards another generation, helping that person save face in the process. A 37-year-old tailor who took in his sister’s children to live with him when her husband was unemployed is one such case. His nephew later became his assistant and enjoyed what was tantamount to an apprenticeship. Older brothers frequently assist younger sisters to launch a petty trade that will enable them to feed their children. As a sign of support in the context of looking after their elderly parents, an older sister might procure a job for her younger brother as a watchman. Two sisters who help their younger brother to migrate to Ouagadougou by financing his trip with the proceeds from their petty trade would be yet another example of badenya. Their aspiration is that he will one day be in a position to replace them and take care of their elderly parents. If the substitute and his or her badenya fail to function because there are no older siblings in the household to guarantee daily meals, responsibility reverts to the parents as the family elders (see Antoine 2007). I designate this new arrangement an ‘inverted intergenerational contract’ (Roth 2005, 2007, 2008, 2012): the commonly practised agreement that adult children support their old parents is postponed. The suspended generalised reciprocity is an interim solution that often becomes permanent. Thus, a new agreement comes into effect: old parents support their adult children, inverting the usually practised ideal conventions. Younger siblings at the lower end of the sibling hierarchy seem unwilling to as-

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sume the role of the eldest son. At least, none of my interviewees showed an interest in doing so. They possibly feel unprepared for the role because of the inherent rank order of the sibling hierarchy (habitus). The older generation, likewise, perform practical and emotional forms of cooperation within the frame of badenya. Their siblings, or badenw, play an important part in their everyday lives. Those who live in villages nearby bring some of their millet, corn or bean harvest to their sibling(s). When siblings living in other neighbourhoods visit each other, they bring a pot of cooked food with them or a financial gift. This helps the host sibling to fulfil the inverted intergenerational contract and to save face as a family elder. Such was the case for Salimata S., the mother of Fanta S. A large amount of the food and money that reached her twelve-member household came from Salimata S. herself or, more precisely, through her from her badenya. Five younger brothers and an older sister, together with their sons, all cultivators in the Bobo-Dioulasso area, provided her with staple food. Her daughter, Oumi S., narrated, ‘The children of my mother’s elder sister are farmers. When we help them with the harvest, they give us maize. We take it, make maize flour from it and store it’. Salimata S. also had a close relationship with one of her nephews, her sister’s son, who supported her regularly with money. Clearly, badenya ties can procure social security in old age. In her insightful study on social security in old age in rural Zambia, Cliggett (2005) also shows that the elderly must actively seek support in culturally accepted ways or risk ending up with nothing (see also Roth 2013b).

Conclusion Most kinship debates in the context of West Africa have centred on the relationship between a mother’s brother (bèènkè) and his nephews, while research interest in sibling sets of the same mother has remained scant,27 even though sibling relationships are important for the management of everyday life. Such relations, and particularly badenya ties, can relieve the pressure on intergenerational relations, thereby contributing to social change that still makes sense from a local-logic perspective. Under deteriorating economic conditions, the institution of badenya replaces – at least in part – that of the eldest son, although cooperative badenya is also active under the aegis of this institution. Despite their ideology of equality, however, badenya relations within the sibling set are differentiated according to the hierarchical disposition of various types of capital. Dislocation of care obligations from the eldest son to badenya generates new practices, such as cooperation between the eldest son’s substi-

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tute and his younger siblings, and food provision by elderly parents to their unemployed adult children via their respective badenya siblings (inverted intergenerational contract). These practices cannot work without badenya and its associated norms. Particularly in one’s old age, siblings are crucial to social security. In the current historical process of impoverishment, badenya has gained in significance and, for the same reason, is under greater pressure: with fewer means at their disposal, its members are forced to cope with more demands than ever before. Even in dire circumstances, however, badenya members cooperate closely in an attempt to avoid social marginalisation. When socio-economic conditions lead to the fostering of badenya as strong ties and simultaneously hamper the preservation of weak ties, kinship networks shrink, rendering badenya an isolated clique encumbered by its responsibilities. The danger of social marginalisation looms large, revealing the weakness of strong ties. The institution of badenya is clearly overburdened and its future uncertain. A final word on applying Bourdieu’s concepts to the social field of kinship. Rehbein, who revisited Bourdieu’s concept of the social field in the context of the Laotian village community,28 poses the question of whether ‘interpersonal relations which are not reducible to struggles’ (Rehbein 2003: 94) can be analysed at all with Bourdieu’s concepts.29 In my opinion, the answer is yes. This is particularly evident in the West African context. Hierarchies are flexible and reversible, depending on the context and the composition of different forms of capital, which always shape their efficacy. Where hierarchies exist, power and influence are at stake. As badenya ties illustrate, however, they do not preclude cooperation and affection. Acknowledgements. This article is based on the research project ‘Intergenerational Relations under Strain: Europe and Africa in Comparison’, funded by the Swiss National Science Foundation and hosted by the University of Lucerne, Switzerland. Furthermore I refer to my research experience of more than twenty years in Bobo-Dioulasso (since 1989). I would like to thank everyone in Burkina Faso who contributed to my research over the years in one way or another, above all, the Sanou family in Koko and my research assistants Blahima Konaté and Issiaka Sanou in Bobo-Dioulasso. I am grateful to Willemijn de Jong and Eva Keller (University of Zurich), Esther Leemann (University of Lucerne), Manfred Perlik (University of Bern, University of Grenoble, and EURAC Bolzano), Noemi Steuer (University of Basel), and Tatjana Thelen (University of Vienna) for their stimulating comments. I also wish to thank the two anonymous reviewers for their valuable criticism.

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NOTES Original title and place of publication: Roth, Claudia. 2014. ‘The Strength of Badenya Ties: Siblings and Social Security in Old Age – The Case of Urban Burkina Faso’. American Ethnologist 41(3): 547–62. 1. See, among others, Cattell 1997 and van der Geest 2002. Anna Bally (2009) also notes that vertical rather than horizontal (or as she calls them ‘lateral’) relations have been a focus of attention in social anthropology. In my own research on old-age social security, I have not previously paid attention to the relevance of sibling relations (see Roth 2005, 2008). 2. This succession is described for several societies of the Mandé, such as the Marka, Bobo and Zara (see, e.g., Jansen and Zobel 1996; Le Moal 1980; Roth 1996; Sanou 1989) and also for the Mossi (LeVine 1965; Skinner 1960). 3. According to Berger and Luckmann, ‘Institutionalisation takes place once habitualised actions are typified by types of actors. Each standardisation carried out in this way is an institution’ (Berger and Luckmann 2009: 58, translation from German by the author). Institutions, within this expansive definition, take both official and unofficial forms, and they comprehend long-standing experiences to anticipate conflicts and develop practices to cope with them. For example, in traditional Mossi families, the relation between the father and the eldest son was strongly affected by the son’s desire for autonomy, which he gained only on the death of the father. The father thus had to contend with the threat that the son might kill him to get full power, so, to avoid open conflict, the eldest son has to leave the parental home (Gruénais 1985). 4. On recent socio-economic conditions, see, for example, Fauré and Labazée 2002, Grimm and Günther 2005, Höpflinger 2011, Labazée 2013, Werthmann 2013, and World Bank 2006. 5. In the context of the research project ‘Intergenerational Relations under Strain: Europe and Africa in Comparison’, between 2007 and 2010, I conducted 120 interviews with 70 people belonging to 32 households in BoboDioulasso. To appreciate the situation in each household from two perspectives, I spoke with an elderly person and with a grown-up child. In the course of three years of research, I spoke two or, occasionally, three times with people of the younger generation. I limited my choice of interviewees to actors from lower-income families, such as farmers, craftsmen, petty traders, washerwomen, porters and watchmen. Since multiple social problems accumulate in the living conditions they contend with, the risk of family support systems collapsing is high. Additionally, I refer to results from the research project ‘Local Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso’, conducted in 2000–2004 (de Jong et al. 2005). 6. Badenya literally means ‘mother–childness’ (see Bird and Kendall 1980). For greater clarity, I use the phrase ‘the unity of children of the same mother’.

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7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13. 14.

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The version of Dioula that became the lingua franca in Bobo-Dioulasso and its environs spread throughout the region during the 1920s and 1930s as the language of the colonial interpreters. (The city harboured one of the French colonial army’s key military bases in West Africa.) It is closely related to the Bamana of Bamako and Segu and very different from the dialect spoken as a native tongue by the traders and religious families associated with the Kong diaspora (Mahir Şaul, personal communication, March 2010). The coping strategies of men and women in sub-Saharan Africa have been a topic of interest for many years (e.g. Berry 1985, 1993; Endely 1998; Guyer 1988, 1995; Morris and Şaul 2005; Şaul 1989). Given the ongoing deterioration of living conditions in many of the region’s countries, the literature on how people cope with uncertainties in difficult times has seen a revival since 2000; see, for example, Haram and Yamba 2009; Johnson-Hanks 2005; and Macamo 2008. With their functional approach, Benda-Beckmann and Benda-Beckmann (2007) detach themselves from the institutional and political approaches that limit the term ‘social security’ to public institutions. Robert Vuarin (2000) developed a similarly inclusive approach in the context of Bamako. Bourdieu (1986) refined his concept to identify several forms of capital that are ultimately convertible into economic capital. Later, as a non-economic interpretation of capital, the term ‘social capital’ became widespread in various disciplines (for its current dominant understanding, see esp. Coleman 1988; Granovetter 1973; Putnam 1993). Here again, however, only Bourdieu (1986) distinguishes between the two functions of social capital: as a source to tap existing resources (e.g. to get information) and as a means or an asset to mobilise new resources (e.g. to gain new negotiating power through the backing of a huge social network). There are nonetheless similarities between Bourdieu and Coleman 1988. Noemi Steuer (2012) shows how HIV-infected persons in Bamako go to great lengths to maintain their personal appearance to avoid social marginalisation. This highlights the importance of social recognition – or symbolic capital – for social belonging. In developing this idea, I draw from Boike Rehbein (2003), who defines age, gender and reputation as significant resources (synonymous with capital) in the social field of a Laotian village community. ‘It can be said without contradiction both that social realities are social fictions with no other basis than social construction, and that they really exist, inasmuch as they are collectively recognized’ (Bourdieu 1996: 20). Translation from French by the author. The story of Salif S. as an eldest son is based on interviews with his father, his younger sister, and his youngest brother (with the latter, I conducted three interviews over the course of research). All names are pseudonyms. Cousins are classificatory brothers and sisters.

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16. Luba, literally the ‘big compound’, designates both the extended family and the family compound. Although family members who move out of the compound because of lack of space may live in other neighbourhoods or urban centres, they still refer to the luba. In the case of lower-income families, the luba may be the house where aged parents live (see Jansen and Zobel 1996; Le Bris et al. 1987; Osmont 1987; Roth 1996; Vuarin 2000). 17. In April 2014, 1 USD = 476 XOF (francs CFA). 18. The story of Fanta S. is based on interviews with her mother and her younger sister, Oumi S. (with the latter, two interviews over the course of research). 19. One of the most frequently discussed topics historically in anthropology was the relationship between a mother’s brother and a sister’s son (see, e.g., Goody 1959; Radcliffe-Brown 1924). Maurice Bloch and Dan Sperber (2004) expose the controversy that culminated in the critique of its universalistic approaches. With the aim of maintaining social anthropology as a generalising science, they develop an epidemiological approach to representations, taking the example of customs that refer to the relationship between the mother’s brother and the sister’s son. 20. Patrilateral cross-cousin marriage (see Roth 1996; Sanou 1989). 21. According to Burkina Faso’s 2007 Demographic and Health Survey, 14 per cent of men and women in urban settings and 55.7 per cent of women over twelve years of age nationwide live in polygynous unions (Institut National de la Statistique et de la Démographie 2007). 22. I am grateful to the reviewer who called my attention to these relations and perceptions as analogous to fadenya and badenya. Their structure and flexible management could be compared in a separate study by addressing the issue of how these relations change in difficult times. 23. Genealogies, as official representations of kinship, have been a core of anthropological studies since W.H.R. Rivers (1910) developed the genealogical method about 1900 during his research in the Torres Straits, and they play an important role in classical anthropological monographs of African societies, for example, in The Nuer (Evans-Pritchard 1940) and The Web of Kinship among the Tallensi (Fortes 1949). The strong reliance on genealogies in kinship studies has been increasingly criticised, in particular, because they privilege biological relations conceived in a Euro-American way and do not convey any information about the cultural significance of the kinship relations they depict (e.g. Schneider 1984). Moreover, with the spread of practice theories and their actor-oriented approaches, everyday forms of relatedness have been emphasised (e.g. Carsten 2000). Recently, the assumptions behind the genealogical model have been thoroughly scrutinised (Bamford and Leach 2009; Bouquet 1996). 24. Jansen and Zobel (1996: 2) also refer to ‘hidden badenya’ relationships. 25. The story of Mohamed O., who substitutes for the eldest, migrant son, is based on interviews with his mother and with him (with the latter, three interviews over the course of the research).

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26. Yet another factor should be taken into consideration here. Many births means many siblings and many aunts and uncles (Höpflinger 2011), increasing the possibility of finding a confidante among one’s badenw. 27. Again, see Jansen and Zobel 1996, Koné 2002, and Vuarin 2000. 28. Rehbein (2003) develops the notion that Bourdieu’s ‘social space’ must be conceptualised as a ‘social field’ in a society that can only be understood as the result of its relations with other societies and with nature. Bourdieu also states that a key characteristic of the field is its blurred boundaries. 29. Translation from German by the author.

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Mande: Kinship and Politics in West Africa. Leiden: Research School CNWS, pp. 8–34. Jansen, Jan, and Clemens Zobel. 1996. ‘Kinship as Political Discourse: The Representation of Harmony and Change in Mande’, in Jan Jansen and Clemens Zobel (eds), The Younger Brother in Mande: Kinship and Politics in West Africa. Leiden: Research School CNWS, pp. 1–7. Johnson-Hanks, Jennifer. 2005. ‘When the Future Decides: Uncertainty and Intentional Action in Contemporary Cameroon’. Current Anthropology 46(3): 363–77. Jong, Willemijn de. 2005. ‘Towards an Anthropology of Social Security’, in Anne Mayor, Claudia Roth and Yvan Droz (eds), Werkschau Afrikastudien 5 – Le forum suisse des africanistes 5. Münster: Lit, pp. 15–34. Jong, Willemijn de, et al. 2005. Ageing in Insecurity: Case Studies on Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso / Vieillir dans l’insécurité: Sécurité social et genre en Inde et au Burkina Faso. Etudes de cas. Münster: Lit. Kelly, Raymond C. 1977. Etoro Social Structure: A Study in Structural Contradiction. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Kensinger, Kenneth M. (ed.). 1985. ‘The Sibling Relationship in Lowland South America’. Working Papers on South American Indians, 7. Bennington, VT: Bennington College. Koné, Kassim. 2002. ‘When Male Becomes Female and Female Becomes Male in Mande’. Mande Studies 4: 21–29. Labazée, Pascal. 2013. ‘Emploi, revenus, statuts sociaux et réseaux de sociabilité dans les villes secondaires du Burkina Faso, du Mali et de la Côte d’Ivoire’, in Katja Werthmann and Mamadou Lamine Sanogo (eds), La ville de BoboDioulasso au Burkina Faso: Urbanité et appartenances en Afrique de l’Ouest. Paris: Karthala, pp. 163–84. La Fontaine, Jean. 1992. ‘The Persons of Women’, in Shirley Ardener (ed.), Persons and Powers of Women in Diverse Cultures. Oxford: Berg, pp. 89–104. Le Bris, Emile, et al. 1987. Famille et résidence dans les villes africaines: Dakar, Bamako, Saint-Louis, Lome. Paris: L’Harmattan. Le Moal, Guy. 1980. Les Bobo: Nature et fonction des masques. Paris: ORSTOM. LeVine, Robert. 1965. ‘Intergenerational Tensions and Extended Family Structures in Africa’, in Ethel Shanas and Gordon F. Streib (eds), Social Structure and the Family. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, pp. 188–204. Macamo, Elisio. 2008. ‘The Taming of Fate: Approaching Risk from a Social Action Perspective – Case Studies from Southern Mozambique’. Habilitation thesis. Beyreuth: Faculty of Cultural Studies, University of Beyreuth. Marie, Alain. 1997. ‘Du sujet communautaire au sujet individuel: Une lecture anthropologique de la réalité africaine contemporaine’, in Alain Marie (ed.), L’Afrique des individus. Paris: Karthala, pp. 53–110. Marshall, Mac (ed.). 1981. Siblingship in Oceania: Studies in the Meaning of Kin Relations. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.

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Morris, Gayle A., and Mahir Şaul. 2005. ‘Women Cross-Border Traders in West Africa’, in Sylvain H. Boko, Mina Baliamoune-Lutz and Sitawa R. Kimuna (eds), Women in African Development: The Challenge of Globalization and Liberalization in the 21st Century. Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press, pp. 53–82. Nuckolls, Charles (ed.). 1993. Siblings in South Asia: Brothers and Sisters in Cultural Context. New York: Guilford Press. Osmont, Annik. 1987. ‘Stratégies familiales, stratégies résidentielles en milieu urbain: Un système résidentiel dans l’agglomération dakaroise’, in Emile Le Bris et al., Famille et résidence dans les villes africaines: Dakar, Bamako, SaintLouis, Lome. Paris: L’Harmattan, pp. 115–75. Peletz, Michael G. 1988. A Share of the Harvest: Kinship, Property, and Social History among the Malays of Rembau. Berkeley: University of California Press. Putnam, Robert D. 1993. ‘The Prosperous Community: Social Capital and Public Life’. American Prospect 13: 35–42. Radcliffe-Brown, Alfred. 1924. ‘The Mother’s Brother in South Africa’. South African Journal of Science 21: 542–55. Read, Rosie, and Tatjana Thelen. 2007. ‘Introduction: Social Security and Care after Socialism: Reconfigurations of Public and Private’. Focaal 50: 3–18. Rehbein, Boike. 2003. ‘“Sozialer Raum und Felder”: Mit Bourdieu in Laos’, in Boike Rehbein, Gernot Saalmann and Hermann Schwengel (eds), Pierre Bourdieus Theorie des Sozialen: Probleme und Perspektiven. Constance: Universitäts-Verlag Konstanz, pp. 77–96. Rivers, W.H.R. 1910. ‘The Genealogical Method of Anthropological Inquiry’. Sociological Review 3: 1–12. Roth, Claudia. 1996. La séparation des sexes chez les Zara au Burkina Faso. Paris: L’Harmattan. ———. 2004 ‘Der mütterliche Schutz: Fünf Hypothesen zur sozialen Sicherheit in Burkina Faso [Maternal Protection: Five Hypotheses for Social Security in Burkina Faso]’, in Jürg Schneider, Lilo Roost Vischer and Didier Péclard (eds), Werkschau Afrikastudien 4. Le forum suisse des africanistes, 4. Münster: Lit Verlag, pp. 113–32. ———. 2005. ‘Threatening Dependency: Limits of Social Security, Old Age and Gender in Urban Burkina Faso / Dépendance menaçante: Limites de la sécurité sociale, vieil âge et genre en milieu urbain burkinabè’, in Willemijn de Jong et al., Ageing in Insecurity: Case Studies on Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso / Vieillir dans l’insécurité: Sécurité sociale et genre en Inde et au Burkina Faso. Études de cas. Münster: Lit Verlag, pp. 107–37, 289–322. ———. 2007. ‘“Tu ne peux pas rejeter ton enfant!” Contrat entre les générations, sécurité sociale et vieillesse en milieu urbain burkinabè’. Cahiers d’Études Africaines XLVII (1), 185: 93–116. ———. 2008. ‘“Shameful!” The Inverted Intergenerational Contract in BoboDioulasso, Burkina Faso’, in Erdmute Alber, Sjaak van der Geest and Susan

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Reynolds Whyte (eds), Generations in Africa: Connections and Conflicts. Münster: Lit Verlag, pp. 47–69. ———. 2010. ‘Les relations intergéne´rationnelles sous pression au Burkina Faso’. Autrepart 53: 95–110. ———. 2012. ‘“The Nivaquine Children” – The Intergenerational Transfer of Knowledge about Old Age and Gender in Urban Burkina Faso’, in Brigitte Röder, Willemijn de Jong and Kurt W. Alt (eds), Alter(n) anders denken: Kulturelle und biologische Perspektiven. Cologne: Böhlau Verlag, pp. 279–96. ———. 2013a. ‘Le mariage comme porte d’entrée: La lutte pour l’appartenance selon les générations et le genre à Bobo-Dioulasso’, in Katja Werthmann and Lamine Sanogo (eds), Urbanité et appartenances en Afrique de l’Ouest: Bobo-Dioulasso dans son contexte régional. Paris: Karthala, pp. 237–58. ———. 2013b. ‘Les personnes âgées malades et l’indigence en milieu urbain burkinabè – l’exemple de Bobo-Dioulasso’, in Valérie Ridde and Jean-Pierre Jacob (eds), Les indigents et la santé en Afrique de l’Ouest. Louvain-la-Neuve: Editions Academia, pp. 85–103. Sacks, Karen. 1982. Sisters and Wives: The Past and Future of Sexual Equality. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press. Sanou, Bruno Doti. 1989. L’émancipation des femmes Madare: L’impact du projet administratif et missionnaire sur une société africaine 1900–1960. Louvain: Université Catholique de Louvain. ———. 1996. Commune de Bobo-Dioulasso: Les racines du futur. Bobo-Dioulasso: Edition du CAD. Şaul, Mahir. 1989. ‘Separateness and Relation: Autonomous Income and Negotiation among Rural Bobo Women’, in Richard Wilk (ed.), The Household Economy: Reconsidering the Domestic Mode of Production. Boulder, CO: Westview Press, pp. 171–93. Schneider, David M. 1984. A Critique of the Study of Kinship. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Skinner, Elliott. 1960. ‘Intergenerational Conflict among the Mossi: Father and Son’, in Paul Bohannan and John Middleton (eds), Marriage, Family and Residence. New York: Natural History Press, pp. 237–45. Söderström, Ola. 2014. Cities in Relations: Trajectories of Urban Development in Hanoi and Ouagadougou. Chichester, UK: Wiley-Blackwell. Steuer, Noemi. 2012. Krankheit und Ehre – Über HIV und soziale Anerkennung in Mali. Bielefeld: Transkript. Vuarin, Robert. 1993. ‘Quelles solidarités sociales peut-on mobiliser pour faire face au coût de la maladie?’, in Joseph Bunet Jailly (ed.), Se soigner au Mali. Paris: Karthala-ORSTOM, pp. 299–316. ———. 2000. Un système africain de protection sociale au temps de la mondialisation ou ‘Venez m’aider à tuer mon lion. . .’ Paris: L’Harmattan. Weiner, Annette B. 1992. Inalienable Possessions: The Paradox of Keeping-WhileGiving. Berkeley: University of California Press.

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Werthmann, Katja. 2013. ‘Introduction: Identités urbaines à Bobo-Dioulasso’, in Katja Werthmann and Mamadou Lamine Sanogo (eds), La ville de Bobo-Dioulasso au Burkina Faso: Urbanité et appartenances en Afrique de l’Ouest. Paris: Karthala, pp. 7–41. World Bank. 2006. ‘Creating Better Jobs for Poverty Reduction in Burkina Faso’. Report No. 38335, October. Washington, DC : World Bank, Human Development Unit II (AFTH2), Africa Region.

part i v

❍❍❍ Youth Dreams and Hardships

❍ c ha p te r 9

Tea and Dreams Men’s Generational Conflict in Bobo-Dioulasso Claudia Roth

am a full-blooded capitalist’, a young man jokes in a round of tea drinkers; ‘I know how to live: dressed in white down to the shoes – I will not walk another step in my life – with a black tie, I will be smoking Davidoff and eating caviar. . .’ And he adopts the right pose, folds his legs and elegantly balances on the rickety iron frame of his chair that lost its upholstery long ago. In a refined French accent, he turns to his audience: ‘To have witnessed the revolution was a fine thing, Sankara1 was a good guy, but I am all for capitalism because it works’. The young men laugh. Most of them are unemployed and enjoy thinking about striking it rich. They are seated in front of one of the large compounds in the middle of Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso’s second-largest city. Are young Bobolais lazy? They do indeed have the bad reputation of having their families feed them thrice daily and spending the day drinking tea and chatting instead of showing initiative and trying to find work. In the many years of my fieldwork in Bobo-Dioulasso I have heard such accusations of young Bobolais’ laziness numerous times; they have now even been mentioned in a recent study on youth unemployment in three cities in Burkina Faso (Giebo et al. 1996: 63, 68). How are we to approach this prejudice? The image of lazy Bobolais is informed, amongst other things, by the contempt expressed by family elders in Bobo-Dioulasso towards their unemployed sons due to their lack of contributing to the support of the extended family. In my opinion, this image obscures a generational conflict. This conflict is not expressed in the same ways to employed and unemployed youth, yet at the heart of it there lies a similarity: youth is confronted with the power of the elders,

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which has been transformed in contemporary urban settings but nevertheless remains dominant. The transformed constellation of power between old and young men characterises generational conflict; and the fact of unemployment – or the threat thereof – plays a large role in this conflict. According to Erdheim (1988), the adolescent phase offers opportunities for having new experiences outside of the environment of family relations. However, the adolescence of Bobo-Dioulasso’s youth, which I shall now proceed to discuss, is marked by the fact that young men cannot step away from their family. In difficult economic times the extended family provides a secure safety net that few are willing to reject. Thus, young men must find their path to independence by way of direct confrontation with elders’ authority and the concomitant demands by the family. Since 1989, on each of my fieldwork visits I have lived in the compound of an extended family of the Zara in Bobo-Dioulasso. Three brothers who married polygamously live there with their wives, children and grandchildren – in all roughly thirty adults and the same number again of children. The extended family consists of multiple layers of women and men, the old and the young, who work in both the formal and informal sectors of the economy. Due to these diversified economic activities and relationship networks, this extended family is able to weather crises and make the most of opportunities that arise. Through my research I have become acquainted with the milieu of the middle class. It is possible that it is precisely this ability that allows a middle-class way of life to persist. Class ascription includes the entire extended family that reproduces itself economically and socially as a whole; it does not refer to individual family members, whose income can vary considerably. Hence, one man may be unemployed whilst his brother builds a house made of cement; one woman may not know how to pay for her children’s lunch whilst her sister-in-law can give the daughter enough money to pay for lunch. One characteristic element of the middle class is that children – both boys and girls – go to school, although they may not complete their schooling. Families are upwardly oriented, and everybody dreams of a better future. These dreams are fuelled by life in the city and the availability there of luxury goods, television serials, and schooling, as well as in particular the successful men and women from the family and circle of friends who have made it in the labour market. Following the reinterpretation of kinship structures,2 specifically under the changed conditions of urban life, elders attempt to preserve their power. Extended families retain their traditional importance in new ways, with the elders ensuring the material and social reproduction of the family.

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On Changes in the Hierarchy of Age When I began my research in Bobo-Dioulasso nine years ago I noted the division of the genders (Roth 1994, 1996a), as well as the pronounced age hierarchy there. Basically, every elder is to be treated with respect, even when this refers to a brother who is but two months older. This respect of elders determines everyday forms of practice: for example, the younger heeds the advice of the elder and does not disagree with him; he remains silent when not being addressed; he neither embarrasses him nor offends him; and he runs errands without comment, no matter how arduous they may be. Behind this ordered practice slumbers conflict. The relationship of power between old and young men that had formerly structured precolonial society alongside gender hierarchy has been transformed by the penetration of the money and market economy, yet it has not been dissolved. The power of elders remains a socially determining force in the centrally situated neighbourhoods of Bobo-Dioulasso, where long-established Zara, Bobo and Dioula families live: elders wield influence in the political domain and consult on political decisions. They own land and, through their wide social networks, they have access to further lots that can be transferred to their sons. Furthermore, they own the largest compounds and thus provide social security3 – and the means for survival in the form of food, accommodation and medical aid – for their unemployed sons and their young daughters who have had their first child outside of wedlock. At times, they can provide their sons with work through their network. In addition to this, they also transmit to their descendants an awareness of being embedded in an extended family with a long historical tradition and a functioning social network that embraces the entire city and extends to surrounding villages. Sons live in the compound of their fathers with their wives and children until they have sufficient money to build a house on their own lot. This can take a long time and, under certain circumstances, sons live with elders until they reach forty years of age. Daughters move to their husband’s family upon marriage. Connections are not severed when the young move out; there is a vibrant exchange of people – and hence of information, goods and money – between the compounds throughout the entire city. Not even sons who relocate to another city are released from their family obligations. In pre-colonial society, the power of elders was based on their control over resources. They managed the means of production and collective goods, and they distributed the right to use them. In contemporary urban society, their power persists in their ability to guarantee the economic

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and social reproduction of the extended family through the compound’s infrastructure, their network of social relations, and their land policy in general; yet in this they depend on financial support from the young. Young people can gain access to resources independently in urban labour markets; employers are essentially non-family individuals connected to the state, industry or trade. Salaries earned independently of the elders challenge the power of elders. In this way, young people gain some room for manoeuvre, yet they cannot become independent because in times of unemployment they are forced to rely on their extended families – as represented by elders and their power. This is the reason why young people cannot divest themselves of elders’ requirements, even when they earn a salary. Young people who are employed are confronted with numerous expectations. Money is a scarce resource at all times: a father lacks the cash to pay for the electricity bill; a mother needs to visit her relatives in Abidjan; a sister-in-law has ‘fallen’ in her trading activities (that is, she has lost her capital); a father refuses to continue to pay for a brother’s schooling; a sister is taken ill and cannot buy the medication she needs; or a younger brother feels that 100 CFA4 cannot be too much to pay for a visit to the cinema. And all of this is in addition to one’s own desire to own a motorbike, a television set, a watch and, last but not least, one’s own home. Young people who work are not expected to fulfil all expectations. Rather, their skill lies in making the right decisions and signalling through their actions that they are neither abandoning the community by being selfish – ‘behaving like a white man’, as they say here – nor contesting the authority of their elders. Unemployed sons whose livelihoods are supported by the family do not directly threaten elders’ claims to power; indirectly, however, they do endanger elders’ endeavours to reproduce the extended family as a whole. They feel their environment’s contempt due to the fact that they live off the extended family and cannot be relied on to contribute to its reproduction. They are directly exposed to the authority of elders because they are financially dependent upon them. They spend their daily lives largely within family structures and within the local neighbourhood of their childhood. They lack the financial means to maintain relations that go beyond the family. In recent years the dependence of unemployed young people on their families has increased. Shortly after Ouagadougou became the capital city in 1948, investment in Bobo-Dioulasso – formerly an important trade and industrial hub – began to dry up; industries, administration and organisations came to be concentrated in the new capital. Hundreds of jobs in Bobo-Dioulasso disappeared with the structural adjustment programmes of the World Bank and International Monetary Fund in the

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1990s. Male unemployment has been increasing regardless of whether men have been to school or have training or diplomas (Giebo et al. 1996: 7). The value of diplomas has decreased because corresponding jobs have disappeared. It follows that relations have become yet more vital in order to obtain employment (ibid.: 65f.). When I began my research in the early 1990s, young men were adamant in their belief that their wives should not seek employment outside of the home, whereas these days men state that one cannot marry a woman who does not work and thereby support her husband in providing for the family. The study mentioned above claims that the situation for adolescents is far more difficult today than it had ever been for their parents, and that they are forced to invent their own future: ‘The invention of forms of survival is also the silent invention of a new future life’ (Giebo et al. 1996: 173; my translation). Under which circumstances does such invention take place? The Bobolais I have met are forced to confront the ambivalence of their fathers because they are in a situation of contradiction: as mentioned above, elders are dependent on young people’s financial support in providing for the extended family, yet they are also disconcerted by the income of young people, despite it being so welcome and even necessary. As a symbol of their independent existence, the good services of sons threaten to undermine the power of fathers. On the other hand, elders regard unemployed youth as failures because they endanger the reproduction of the extended family. It is specifically those who are unemployed who are subjected to the unbridled power of elders, because the unemployed are destitute dependents incapable of resistance.

Being Unemployed in a World of Fathers The basic rule that respect is to be shown to elders is not applicable to those who are unemployed: the opinion of a younger brother who earns money is given more weight. Advice is not sought from the unemployed; and they can easily be ignored at snack-time by receiving small portions (or none at all) of the tasty morsels available – as clear a signal as possible in a society that often takes signs more seriously than words. Especially older women and men struggle to understand why their sons cannot find employment after years of school. ‘Nobody believes that I’m thirty years old,’ Madou says, ‘because I live like a child: no wife, no money, and I’m dependent on my father’. Young unemployed men suffer greatly in their status of being a child, but they do not see any alternatives. As Madou says, ‘I sleep a lot because

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otherwise I think too much and get a headache. You tell yourself daily ça ira!, force yourself!; ça ira! it will work! Even when you don’t know how, but you do know it will get worse otherwise’. While schoolchildren ask their fathers for money, unemployed young men consciously do not do so in order to retain their dignity. They make do (se débrouiller) and eke out enough cash to buy trousers, a shirt or the postage needed for applications; they ask their mother or an aunt or a friend for money instead. ‘Mais c’est la honte,’ Madou says, ‘I am ashamed and try to avoid this and make do with as little money as possible. For example, I haven’t bought any clothes in two years.’ Cigarettes are bought singly and shared for smoking. The daily tea-drinking rounds are paid for by brothers and friends who earn money. When an elder brother comes to visit from the capital city and tells his younger brother to finally go and get work instead of hanging around at home, there will inevitably be a fight. ‘That is demeaning,’ the younger brother will say, ‘I am not lazy! None of us are lazy. There is simply no work in Bobo.’ The unemployed dream of future independence from their fathers, and place their hopes either in the state (see also Giebo et al. 1996: 172) or an older brother who is employed, or maybe even some other connection, in order to find work. Unemployed individuals are sometimes disappointed in their employed brothers – they accredit them with the power to free them from their misery by giving them start-up capital or connections, and they suspect them of not investing enough effort in them. Mamadou is not really making ends meet for his family or himself with his occasional carpentry work. He feels let down: ‘Now I have four brothers earning money. If each one of them were to give me 20,000 CFA – that’s not very much for them, is it? – I could set up a good workshop and make lots of money. But they simply don’t understand this!’ Unemployed sons are also sources of free labour for their fathers, and sons cannot refuse to cooperate. One elderly man who trades in soap gets his sons out of bed at six o’clock in the morning to help him on an hourly or daily basis, and to deliver his carloads of boxes to customers. ‘At least they’re doing something proper’, he says in a satisfied tone. Sometimes unemployed individuals are able to find temporary work or day labour. For example, two young men were able to obtain work setting up chairs and tables at an enterprise’s New Year’s festivities through the mediation of their brother; they also washed the dishes afterwards, joking later about the fact that ‘at home we wouldn’t have touched a single spoon’. During the city’s annual cultural week, they organised themselves as a group and took charge of sweeping the streets. Madou, who is a teacher and has not had a job since receiving his diploma, bowed to his

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father’s pressure and struck a deal with another teacher: in order to keep in practice he replaces her in the classroom every other week – free of charge. ‘I would do anything to earn money. Anything at all’, most young people say fervently. One day I strike up a conversation with a young Liberian man at a sales counter in front of the compound. He is busy filing and polishing the fingernails and toenails of the women sitting at the stall; a hand costs 50 CFA, both feet are 100 CFA. He goes from compound to compound with his little wooden box of nail varnish of all hues, and tells me that he is the only person in the entire city who does such work; he makes good money – very good, actually – and soon he plans to open a beauty parlour. Later on, I ask one of the young men why he does not start selling cigarettes in the streets – or polish nails, for that matter – if he claims that he would do anything at all in order to earn money. ‘That is not possible’, he tells me categorically. ‘Because I live here everybody knows me, and Bobo is a small place. First of all, everybody would buy from me on credit and I would go broke in no time at all. Secondly, nobody would take me seriously. Thirdly, I’m from a family that guarantees me a place to sleep and food. I can’t do the same work as people who are foreign here and don’t have a home. Fourthly, I am an intellectual. For the last five years now – since democracy began, and the World Bank programmes and the many redundancies – everybody has known that there is no employment available anymore. I would immediately run a mill, or a boutique, anything like that. But I cannot work in the streets!’

The Latent Power Struggle Young unemployed men are in a position of paralysis: they suffer from dependence on their elders and their concomitant status of being like children. And they orientate themselves in their options for the future through the standard of life of precisely this family, as shown by the statement above. Although insecurity from being unable to find appropriate employment grows, it is in precisely this situation, when a vision for the future is lacking, that the family provides not only material security but also a sense of inclusion. Unemployed individuals strive to not increase their dependence. The following two examples revolve around two young men who intend to get married. Matrimony and a first child are the two important steps that make adults of adolescents (Roost Vischer 1997: 84). A thirty-year-old unemployed man is contemplating marriage to his girlfriend. ‘My father

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agreed to provide for my wife. I decided against the marriage anyway because I don’t know how long I will remain unemployed for. My father changes his mind too often. As soon as he didn’t have any money on him, I would be told: “I even have to take care of you and your wife!”.’ For the same reasons, a twenty-seven-year-old man decided against marriage, despite the fact that he already had a child. ‘I must find employment first. When my father began to insist on this marriage I began to fear that a noose was tightening around my neck. My wife and child in the compound, myself without money but with family responsibilities – I would be in a tight spot and completely at the mercy of the elders.’ From an economic point of view, it appears to make no sense for fathers to argue for their sons’ matrimony and the subsequent introduction of additional individuals to the home who have to be fed and provided for. In terms of power, however, such fathers’ attitudes can very well be understood: married sons and their children are part of the extended family’s future – and of the continued power of the elders. Young men also attempt to resist by developing something that makes them more autonomous. One example of this is the association founded by young men of the neighbourhood about three years ago. At their meetings, they discuss passages from the Qur’an and debate correct understandings of Islam. I was surprised by the seriousness with which young men – who scant years earlier had plausibly explained to me why they could not adhere to Islamic strictures, despite believing in God – now explained to me that drinking beer and having premarital sexual intercourse were sinful acts. It is in particular unemployed men who are active in this association. I believe that here we are witnessing young people’s ambivalence: because of their dependence on elders they are attempting to establish a counterpoint to them by discussing a correct Islam that is less infused with African tradition than the Islam of their elders. However, like this they remain in a structure of dependency because they do not do things in a different way from their fathers but rather in a ‘more correct’ way. The experience of being unemployed – or the possibility of losing one’s job – also influences the practice of young men who are actually employed. Issa, a thirty-six-year-old man, is an example of this. Today he is taking revenge for the demeaning position he was in for many years as an unemployed man. Now that he is finally employed again he demonstrates to his father and the whole family that he need not rely on anybody other than himself. Like this he is an exception to the rule, yet his story shows that father and son both know that it is the financial independence of young people that threatens and endangers the power and influence of the elders.

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Issa is the eldest of twenty-three siblings and hence the successor of his father – that is, it is his duty to share in his father’s responsibilities of paternal care for younger children. The eldest brother (le grand frère) grows up in the knowledge of such responsibility, and it is a duty that cannot be fulfilled without employment and money. Issa was unemployed for six years after completing his education. Occasionally he was able to earn some pocket money with temporary work, and sometimes he would receive a little extra cash from one friend or another. During this period, he not only suffered from not finding employment opportunities but, even more importantly, from the lack of respect his family showed him as an unemployed man. He felt alienated at home – tolerated yet not seen as a valued member of the family. It was made clear to him that he was not fulfilling his role adequately, and that he was a failure. However, four years ago he found a good job with career opportunities through his network. Initially his position at home seemed to become more relaxed, and everybody was relieved that he had managed to become employed. Now he would be able to fulfil his role as eldest brother. He emphasises that he had remained silent for the previous six years and had even endured his brothers’ lack of respect. Now he began to take revenge. ‘They treat me like God ever since I started working,’ he says scornfully, and adds: ‘Now they all respect me. They have to!’ He gives orders to his younger brothers in a harsh voice and sometimes awakens them at night for their assistance or to run errands. And he does not give gifts in return. In fact, he does not support anybody at home and contributes nothing to expenses because ‘nobody ever helped me either. Why should I do so now? Now I am free! I can say and do whatever I like! I owe nobody an explanation!’ He suspects that his father is afraid of him because he never tells him about his life or his work and he does not pray; everybody at home knows that he is not a pious man. It is true that Issa’s father is unsettled by this practice because Issa violates all the obligations of respect and reciprocity without clearly breaking with his family. In this way Issa is manoeuvring himself into the same tight spot he had been in whilst unemployed: he is tolerated at home yet not appreciated. Financially, Issa could afford to move out, yet he refuses to do so. One suspects that his clear demonstration of independence arises from a continued emotional dependence on his father. Furthermore, moving out would threaten to isolate him socially because he is not connected with family members due to his refusal to participate in giving gifts. It remains to be seen whether Issa decides to break with the family or manages to find a way to gain his family’s benevolent respect. Issa’s brother Gaoussou behaves in an entirely different way. Ever since he became employed – and not through connections, he points out

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– he has fulfilled his duties and contributes to family expenses by paying his father’s water bill, lending a hand in emergencies, and paying for one brother’s schooling and another brother’s medication. He feeds his sister (whose husband is unemployed) and her five children when she is unable to find money for food elsewhere. Gaoussou and his wife and child lived off his family for two years while he was unemployed. Just like others, he suffered from his status as a child in this situation. Ever since he began to earn money he has experienced his father’s ambivalent attitude, and he describes this quite precisely: ‘Since I became financially independent my father has become suspicious. The situation is a paradox: on the one hand, he is happy that I am now able to participate in paying bills and no longer ask him for money. On the other hand, this is precisely the reason why he has become suspicious, because he can no longer exert control over me. Financial dependence is also a method of control. He is dubious about my ability to organise my own life in an independent way. I first experienced his suspicion during my studies when I decided to buy myself a motorbike with the scholarship money I had received. He was not happy about this because it was the first sign of approaching independence’. Gaoussou is concerned about his father’s distrust, so deliberately keeps him informed of all his activities and, for example, asks for his permission to travel, thereby signalling that he will not ignore his father’s authority. Gaoussou is well aware of his father’s ambivalence and does all he can to defuse this situation; yet he is also dependent on him – for example, when he has an argument with his wife that he cannot resolve satisfactorily, he asks his father to summon her and set her right. It appears as though the ambivalence of fathers is mirrored in the ambivalence of sons: how independent should, or can, a young man be? Young men who live in another city are happy about the distance to the compound. They, too, have obligations yet they experience freedom by not being exposed to family demands on a daily basis. A friend from Ouagadougou reflects on Gaoussou’s position: ‘He is very courageous to live in the extended family as a teacher. There is an authority there that is higher than him, and he is not free to make his own decisions. I could not live like that’. One of Gaoussou’s older brothers emphasises the experiences he had independently of the family when he was abroad. He is full of enthusiasm about being able to become independent in the capital city, and says: ‘In Moscow I learned to cope on my own and to deal with all sorts of people. I had trading activities in Poland and Berlin in order to supplement my scholarship. If I had never left Bobo then I would certainly not be where I am now, which is well on the path to independence’.

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The search for one’s own way in life is a complicated process for all employed sons; it is a balancing act between one’s own requirements and those of the family. Fathers exhibit contempt for sons who are unemployed; but in the case of sons who work and earn their own money, fathers rely on magical powers to retain the upper hand in the latent power struggle that ensues. A young Bobolais from a long-established family, who now lives in Ouagadougou, tells me how his family elder attempted to magically oblige him. The elder had made a sacrificial offering for the entire family and had mentioned his name in the process, thereby tying him explicitly to the ancestors and obliging him to comply. ‘This occurred during my absence. I heard about it and demanded from the elder that he retract my name. I told him: “Me and the ancestors, we get along just fine. I am studying them”. He then reversed the act.’ This young man was able to resist, but many remain unable to oppose the ominous magical powers of elders (see Roth 1994: 107ff). Open resistance by the young is answered just as directly by elders in the form of tangible punishment. In a council of elders, decisions are made that can affect individuals – and sometimes a decision to teach the entire younger generation a lesson can be made, as the following example will illustrate. A young man told me about conflict in his family. Mamadou – the narrator’s brother – returned to the extended family with his wife and child. As a self-employed labourer, he does not earn enough money, and the three of them are provided for by the compound. Mamadou gets angry repeatedly because the elder often arrives late at the common lunch shared by the men of the compound. The younger people must wait with empty stomachs for him to put aside his Qur’an and move towards the dining area, wash his hands in the basin brought by one of them, and finally take a first bite. One day, Mamadou loses his temper and there is a fight between him and the elder. The elder slips and falls over. In no time at all the news has spread that Mamadou had beaten the elder – one of the most heinous crimes possible. Thereupon twenty elders of the family from various villages and other neighbourhoods come to the compound and demand that all the young people – including those as young as fourteen – be punished by lashing. Negotiations begin and an agreement is struck: one head of sheep, a chicken and 15,000 CFA are to be provided for the necessary sacrifice, and the young are to issue a formal apology. The young men are to march in single file through the courtyard and come to the room in which the elders are gathered. There, on their knees and with bowed heads and hands behind their backs, they make obeisance in front of each and every one of the elders and plead for forgiveness.

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Each elder in turn touches the hands of the young man in front of him to signal the acceptance of the apology. Upon their departure, the elders warn them that should there be a repetition of the incidence, they would kill Mamadou. The conflict with the generation of the fathers differs for employed and unemployed young men, but all young men know what it means to be unemployed. It is this knowledge that informs their practice and their search for their own way in life.

Dreams during Teatime The image of the lazy Bobolais who enjoys his life in the bosom of his family and spends his days carefree and with friends does not do justice to the position in which unemployed young men find themselves. As opposed to their brothers who earn money and thereby generate breathing space – a slice of independence – in regard to their father’s control, the unemployed are in a state of paralysis: the lack of work opportunities in Bobo-Dioulasso does not draw them outside, and the elders with their ambivalent attitudes do not push them outside, where they would be able to make their own way in life and measure their ideals of the future with the realities of the present. Thus, the young sit together and drink tea and dream of the good life, of power and riches – in fact, they dream of their own independence. ‘Well I want to go into politics!’ ‘You will become corrupt.’ ‘Rubbish, you can be honest in politics as well. But it is a fact that you will not get anywhere in life without connections. Without them you will never be a grand quelqu’un.’ ‘It’s easy to earn money when you have good connections. You’re a good connection, too’, one man tells me. ‘You could buy second-hand computers, CDs and video cameras in Europe and send them to Mamadou. He would make lots of money like that.’ Nobody in this group is impressed by my tales of Africans in Europe who lose money with such trading activities. ‘Oh, they just didn’t understand the market and didn’t have the right connections at customs. That would never happen to us!’ And now the young men outdo each other with stories of young men getting rich suddenly: one man traded in cars from Lomé, another man had television sets, and yet another was a genius in fixing all kinds of computers. The mood becomes euphoric. One of them brews green tea with mint leaves and sugar in a small pot over a coal stove, and serves it up with foam in small glasses – the first infusion is bitter, the third one is sweet.

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NOTES Original title and place of publication: Roth, Claudia. 1997. Tee und Träume: Zum Generationenkonflikt der Männer in Bobo-Dioulasso. Ethnopsychoanalyse 5, Jugend und Kulturwandel. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel, pp. 153–66. 1. Thomas Sankara was a revolutionary hero of the 1980s; from 1983 until his assassination in 1987 he was Burkina Faso’s head of state. 2. Le Bris et al. (1987) term the urban form of traditional extended families in West Africa famille élargie (several elementary families, for example, married brothers plus more distantly related relatives) – in contrast to famille étendue (a segment of the lineage that shares ancestors). 3. Such ‘social security’ would not function without women’s labour; see Roost Vischer 1997: 190–228; Roth 1996b. 4. CFA is the common currency of Francophone West Africa; 1,000 CFA = 10 FF = roughly 3 DM.

REFERENCES Erdheim, Mario. 1988. ‘Adoleszenz zwischen Familie und Kultur’, in M. Erdheim, Psychoanalyse und Unbewußtheit in der Kultur. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, pp. 191–214. Guiebo, Joseph, et al. 1996. ‘Initiatives locales et systèmes locaux urbains: problèmes de mise au travail des jeunes dans trois villes du Burkina Faso (Ouagadougou, Bobo-Dioulasso, Ouahigouya)’. Groupe de Recherche sur les Initiatives Locales (G.R.IL) / Ministère français de la coopération et du développement. Programme Jeunes-Ville-Emploi. Ouagadougou: GRIUSUPO. Le Bris, Emile, et al. 1987. Famille et résidence dans les villes africaines: Dakar, Bamako, Saint Louis, Lomé. Paris: L’Harmattan. Roost Vischer, Lilo. 1997. Mütter zwischen Herd und Markt: Das Verhältnis von Mutterschaft, sozialer Elternschaft und Frauenarbeit bei den Moose (‘Mossi’) in Ouagadougou/Burkina Faso. Basler Beiträge zur Ethnologie 38. Basel: Wepf. Roth, Claudia. 1994. Und sie sind stolz: Zur Ökonomie der Liebe. Die Geschlechtertrennung bei den Zara in Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel. ———. 1995. ‘Wehe, wenn die Frauen von Bobo sich schminken’: Ein ethnologischer Beitrag. Ethnopsychoanalyse 4, Arbeit, Alltag, Feste. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel, pp. 205–21. ———. 1996a. La séparation des sexes chez les Zara au Burkina Faso. Paris: L’Harmattan. ———. 1996b. ‘Blutbande als soziales Netz: Die afrikanische Grossfamilie als Wirtschaftsgemeinschaft’. Neue Zürcher Zeitung 103(4): 70.

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Between Dreams of Grandeur and Pragmatism Young People in Urban Burkina Faso Claudia Roth

When I was young, I thought I was going to be really rich, a guy who everyone talks about – like George Bush. Even today, I haven’t lost hope, because I’m not dead yet . . . I always pray to Allah to give me good luck because everything is in God’s hands: a man can be 60 years old and get rich . . . By 2010, I plan to be sleeping in my own villa, to have my own car, and to be working on my own project.

Yacouba O., who will soon be 40 years old, is married, has four children, and lives with his family in a single room at his mother’s house. Unemployed since marriage, he is fed by his mother and his wife. In the course of our research on strained intergenerational relations in BoboDioulasso,1 we have observed that some young people develop fanciful ideas about their future, quite divorced from their actual situation as unemployed and without significant income, while other young people imagine for themselves a conventional future – regardless of their sex. For example, Ibrahim D., the 25-year-old son of a poor marabout, tells us: ‘In ten years’ time, I want to have a wife and children. I’ll sleep at my own place, I’ll have my own compound and a good job, a job that lets me take care of my family without anyone’s help. That is my wish’. These two interviews are part of a longitudinal study, during which we followed fifteen households over the course of three years (see also Roth 2005, 2007, 2008, 2011). This article refers to an interview conducted with one of the elderly parents as well as a number of conversations with their adult children (between 20 and 39 years of age):2 seventeen young

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men and women living under the conditions of an inverted generational contract (see ibid.), meaning that they are housed and fed by their parents.3 In towns, 20–30 per cent of young people under the age of 30 lack properly paid work, and in Bobo-Dioulasso unemployed youth can be found in almost every household (Höpflinger 2011: 18–20, 25). Many of these live in the situation of an inverted generational contract. During the second and third interviews, we asked the young people what had changed in their lives over the previous year, how they explained this evolution, and what projects they had undertaken. And at the end of the conversation, we asked them again, just as in the first interview, how they imagined their future in five years and what they feared. This is what led us to the second observation: for some young people, the situation had not at all changed, as if time had stood still, while others were in the process of liberating themselves from dependence on their parents – from the inverted intergenerational contract – and were starting to shape their own future. How can these different conceptions of the future be explained: dreams of grandeur for some, realism for others? And to what extent are imagination and the ability to act connected? To answer these questions, I refer to a part of Pierre Bourdieu’s analysis of the passage from agrarian Kabyle society to industrial Algerian society in the 1960s (Bourdieu 1977a, 1977b, 2008), a social transformation that generated just as much insecurity in that period as the impoverishment of a large part of the Burkinabè population does today. Furthermore, I base my analysis on current studies dedicated to ways of dealing with such insecurity in an African context (among others, Haller 2002, Johnson-Hanks 2005, Macamo 2008). These researchers examine how people take action when confronted with extremely precarious and insecure living conditions, and what they do in order to continue taking action. In order to better understand the possibilities for action among young people in Bobo-Dioulasso, I place Bourdieu’s theory of action into relation with these complementary approaches to the management of insecurity. The different kinds of capital to which young people have access are particularly essential to the formation of a context of action. Material conditions and social status effectively determine the ways in which young people can contend with the future. Interviews with young people reveal that social relations – social capital – and the social recognition they imply, play a central role in their ability to act. First of all, I introduce the theoretical framework and socio-economic context of urban Burkina Faso. Following this I present the ways in which young people have socially integrated themselves and I analyse specific cases of blocked youth and young people who are able to ‘make do’. The

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article concludes with a discussion of the conditions which either hinder or facilitate action in situations of daily uncertainty.

Theories of Action and the Management of Insecurity It was while studying Algerian society of the 1960s, which was then on the path to industrialisation, that Bourdieu discovered the meaning of dreams of grandeur. He asked sub-proletarians and industrial workers what kind of income they thought would be necessary in order to live well. The individuals with the lowest incomes tended to describe the most disproportionate aspirations. Their responses could be hierarchised ‘from the daydream to the project rooted in present conduct’ (Bourdieu 1977b: 68); the more their personal possibilities improved, the more realistic and appropriate were their aspirations. The distance between desire and reality decreases as the income level rises. Those who feel trapped in the present lose the connection to their future (Bourdieu 1977b: 67– 70). The material conditions of existence and social status determine a person’s ability to reflect, take some distance, and make realistic plans. ‘This realistic aiming at the future is only accessible to those who have the means to confront the present and to look for ways of beginning to implement their hopes, instead of giving way to resigned surrender or to the magical impatience of those who are too crushed by the present to be able to look to anything other than a Utopian future – an immediate, magical negation of the present’ (ibid.: 81). This phenomenon of the ‘immediate, magical negation of the present’ can also be observed among the young people of Bobo-Dioulasso. The relationship between the present and the future is linked to the distinction that Bourdieu makes between occupation and profession. An occupation is any activity that can be considered as ‘the fact of trying to work’ (Bourdieu 2008: 227). An example of this is petty commerce, which requires only a small amount of start-up capital, but no retail space or professional formation – in other words, ‘all these people who sell little for almost nothing’ (ibid.). I include in this notion of occupation the multiple occasional jobs done by the young people of Bobo-Dioulasso that generate no real income. These occupations serve in the first place as a justification with regard to the community, ‘and so the duties of solidarity are only felt to be binding towards those whose attitude shows that they are the victims of an objective situation and not of their incapacity or laziness’ (Bourdieu 1977a: 57; see also Vuarin 2000).4 These occupations allow for the conservation of social recognition and ‘to safeguard selfrespect’ (Bourdieu 1977a: 56). On the other hand, a profession in the mod-

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ern sector is characterised by its predictability, fixed employment and regular income. Performing a profession allows for the mastery of the present and preparation for the future. Many of the young people I interviewed dream of a monthly salary and a retirement pension. For example, a young woman who went to primary school for a few years aspires to a sebebaara (paper work) – a secretarial position with monthly pay – rather than a bolobaara (manual work). ‘It is only on the basis of a structured and controlled present field that a future at once distant and foreseeable can be aimed at and posited in a rational project’ (Bourdieu 2008: 230). Nevertheless, interviews with young people reveal that, under certain circumstances, precarious occupations can also be reinterpreted and can thus constitute a turning point in life, which can then lead to taking the future into one’s own hands. What makes human action possible even under conditions of extreme insecurity? This is a question of knowing how to transform insecurity into risk. According to Haller (2001, 2002), information is the central link that allows for the conscious decision to take a risk and turn it into something that is foreseeable. Furthermore, citing the example of fishermen and cattle raisers in Zambia, he shows that if the information is insufficient to take this step, men then appeal to magic. Delegating insecurity to the magician is a rational choice that allows the preservation of one’s own ability to act. Taking the example of Cameroon, Johnson-Hanks (2005) explains how people marked by the experience of a permanent socio-economic crisis develop the habitus of ‘grasping at whatever is available in the present’ (ibid.: 366). Conceptualisations of the future do not include a set of intentional actions but instead acceptance of the situations encountered by the individual. Johnson-Hanks calls this attitude ‘a judicious opportunism’ (ibid.: 370). She remarks, however, that this does not require establishing the idea of Africa as poor and unstable, as opposed to a wealthy and relatively stable West. ‘Social action everywhere combines intentional strategy and judicious opportunism; only the relative proportions change with time and context’ (ibid.: 364). Macamo’s work (2008) in Mozambique on how natural disasters and civil war are dealt with shows that ‘[humans] act in order to be able to act’ (ibid.: 250), and that in this process of remaining able ‘to act again and again and again’ (ibid.: 253), the context of action is created, which makes the future foreseeable and consequentially less dangerous. Danger is, by definition, impossible to calculate and therefore impossible to control. However, the conscious decision to confront danger transforms it into risk, and this confrontation takes place by approaching one’s environment in a meaningful way. Men are only able to master their destiny

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once they have translated the dangers into risks and have gained access to the contexts of action by means of interpretations based on their experiences, their vision of the world, and their conceptions of the future (ibid.: 130). Franz and Keebet von Benda-Beckmann ([1994] 2007) make a similar argument on the subject of the sense of security, which ‘is based on a combination of past experiences, on promises encapsulated in existing mechanisms, on entitlements and the continuing availability of resources, and on some estimation about future developments’ (ibid.: 17). Creating a future for oneself does not simply mean being able to convert dangers into risks, but also finding a place in social networks, torn between personal desires and solidarity with others (see, amongst others, Marie 1997; Vuarin 1993, 2000; and Leimdorfer and Marie 2003). An essential element, then, is ensuring social recognition (Neckel 2003). Positioning yourself in a local community as someone of social value and deserving recognition means that you respect the ‘intimate connection between being, giving and belonging’ (Chabal 2009: 73), and that you share your individual success with others.

The Socio-economic Context of Urban Burkina Faso Even if Burkina Faso has recorded a substantial rate of macro-economic growth since 2000,5 it remains one of the poorest countries in the world. According to the International Monetary Fund, its poverty rate, calculated by the proportion of the Burkinabè population living on less than one dollar (USD) per day, reached 45 per cent in 2008 (Höpflinger 2011: 19). The period since 2007 has been even more difficult for the population, as sharp increases in the cost of basic foodstuffs (up to 65 per cent) jeopardise the most disadvantaged social classes in the cities (ibid.: 2). With a population of nearly half a million, Bobo-Dioulasso is the secondlargest city in Burkina Faso. However, economic and demographic indicators show its constant decline, compared to the capital, Ouagadougou. For example, since the return to independence in 1960, industrial enterprises have withdrawn from Bobo-Dioulasso while the centralisation of the administration in the capital city has greatly increased. In BoboDioulasso there are hardly any sites of industrial production, nor are there any employees working under contracts (ibid.: 10). In urban areas, unemployment primarily affects the young: in 2007, nearly one-third of 15- to 24-year-olds and more than 20 per cent of 25- to 29-year-olds were without any notable income (ibid.: 18–20, 25). What is often wrongly described as youth unemployment is, in reality, the absence of compensation for young people: many of these young

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people actually do work, but they often receive nothing in exchange but paltry wages – or even no money at all, in the common case of apprenticeships, which can last for years. However, a minimum amount of material means is necessary to evolve in society, to be able to cultivate social relations with friends, neighbours and family (social capital), and to gain a certain amount of social recognition (symbolic capital). Inversely, this capital can be converted into food, material support or aid, when needed. The symbolic capital of young people who live under an inverted intergenerational contract is socially contested: without financial means, they cannot marry; but if they remain single, they cannot become adults in the eyes of society; and if they get married yet still have no money, they are respected just as little, as illustrated by the case of Yacouba O. described above. All of the families that we interviewed belong to disadvantaged groups. These groups can be further differentiated into the poor, those living in precarity, and the socially marginalised (Roth 2007). The poor have daily meals, can pay for contributions at ceremonies, and pay for short-term medical care, if need be. But their income is not sufficient to cover larger expenses or to have savings in the form of real estate, cattle or money. In other words, as soon as their labour power starts to diminish, they run the risk of falling down the social ladder. People who live in precarity do not have guaranteed meals every day, they have difficulty accumulating the cash to participate in ceremonies, and modern medical care is inaccessible to them. As for the marginalised, they no longer have reciprocal relationships (which are still in place for those in precarity), and their survival depends upon their ability to make do as beggars (unilateral and anonymous relationships, see Vuarin 2000). Three-quarters of the fifteen households interviewed are familiar with the recurrent problem of obtaining food; from time to time, days go by without a pot on the fire (daga te sigi) – days ‘when everyone just gets by’. This means that each family member sets out on their own to find a meal at the home of a friend or acquaintance, or settles for a coffee with sugar for 50 FCFA,6 or even just a glass of water to appease their hunger. One-third of these young men and women experience, just like their parents, days of true scarcity. For example, Arouna C., 25 years old, explains that sometimes there is not much to eat in his home: ‘Since we can stand going hungry, we leave the food for the children . . . My biggest problem is food and a wife, because when you reach a certain age, everyone tells you that you have to get married’. The seventeen sons and daughters we interviewed live in an environment where it is not unusual for adult children with no income to live and eat at their parents’ house (see also Antoine 2007). However, this does

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not mean that the people concerned and those around them are used to the situation, as our conversations clearly show. In the following paragraphs, I will begin by describing the social recognition of young people, which is linked to the world of consumption, and its reverse: social isolation. This information will allow for a better understanding of the daily struggle experienced by these young men and women without money. I will then present the case of two young people who are blocked by their difficulties, and of two others who were able to overcome them. Finally, I will analyse what makes their situations different.

The Social Importance of Consumer Goods Social Recognition The urban world of consumption is tantalising. Young people from disadvantaged classes must give up many things. A young man lists these things: starting with clothing, shoes, even a new mattress – he cannot afford any of them. And last year, what a shock to realise that an arm injury could pose such a serious financial problem, not to mention a real illness. For these young men and women, the inability to keep up with the level of consumption of others their age weighs heavily upon them. The young men mention jeans, mobile phones, a motorbike. The young women speak of clothing, hairstyles and mobile phones. Furthermore, it is not so much the fact of having to give up material objects that is painful, but rather the shame of being ridiculed as a guy without a phone, or a girl who is poorly dressed. For everyone, men and women alike, it is very important to be decked out – well-dressed – since a good outfit does more than hide poverty: clothing and hairstyles are signs. A well-dressed person signals to those around him that he lives off no one and has no pretentions. It creates an image of someone who can take care of himself, and of others as well. For a woman, being well-dressed shows that she has someone who takes good care of her. Arouna S., 25 years old, explains: ‘I like buying pretty clothes so that people know that where I am, I can do something. If people see that you bought pretty clothes to wear, they know that you can do the same for others. But if you don’t have the money to do that for yourself, that means that you can’t do it for anyone else either’. It is important to maintain an appearance of respectability, to show that one can fulfil one’s obligations and participate in the reciprocal cycle of gifts. It is a question of performing a certain appearance in order to maintain social connections and retain social recognition (see also Steuer 2012).7

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The home is also a part of this personal appearance. Yacouba O., a father nearing his forties, comments on his house: You can’t come into my house and say that it’s an adult’s house. I would like to get my house set up, but I can’t. . . . I don’t have a buffet, I don’t even have good armchairs, I don’t have a motorbike. At my house, the patio is not well made, and my bedroom floor isn’t cemented. It’s kind of disgusting in my house [he says laughing, embarrassed], and I don’t even have electricity.

The concept of maloya (shame), according to Vuarin, designates a complex combination of emotions ‘that mixes shame . . . , modesty, and respect of one’s superiors, but that inevitably sanctions the inability to honour the duties appropriate to one’s status, or more specifically, sanctions the fact that this failing be known to the public. It is a “relational feeling”: nothing is worse than seeing others “ruin your name”, and for a noble, sa ka fisa ni malo ye: “death is preferable to shame”’ (Vuarin 2000: 144).8 Shame and disgrace can be avoided by maintaining secrecy. ‘What is decisive for shame as a mechanism of social sanction is . . . that it is a question of public performances. . . . It is in the presence of multiple people – “in front of people”, to be exact – that a personal condemnation is transformed into a social tribunal’ (Steuer 2012: 187–88).9 Nasara O., aged 23, describes this degrading, humiliating situation of being shamed: Especially us young women, when we go to ceremonies, we like to criticise. When you see that a girl isn’t dressed well, you say: ‘Look at that girl, she’s wearing awful clothes, those clothes are ugly!’ . . . If you are in a group and everyone is dressed well but you are poorly dressed, you feel discouraged. You really feel ashamed (maloya lo). . . . So, it’s better to have several outfits, and if you go to ceremonies, you have to vary them. If you wear the same outfit, people will say that you don’t have any money.

Thus, it is not simply a matter of consumption itself, but of the social recognition it implies – and not only within a peer group, but also in the community in which one develops. Money, as a sign of power and prestige, which takes the material form of consumer goods, has relegated other hierarchies – such as age, or the hierarchy of the sexes – to secondary importance. Behaviour is another aspect of this performance of appearance: for example, leaving the family home in the morning and returning in the evening in order to conceal one’s unemployment. Samir I., 28 years old, speaks of this: ‘If I didn’t tell people about it myself, no one could tell that I depended on my mother. Even the neighbours didn’t know that I wasn’t working. I never stayed at home. Every morning, I went out’.

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The grin (meetings of young men around a cup of tea) is the place where young people can forget their problems for a moment and relax. Yet even there, consumer goods are used to show that one belongs to the group and that one is a respectable, trustworthy person. For young men, the practice of doing small favours also allows them to pay for consumer goods that bring social recognition amongst young people. As for young women, they obtain the money they need to belong to the group by means of small-scale trade or of gifts that they receive from the men who are courting them, or from the fathers of their children. For this reason, young people can contribute to family meals from time to time, with 100 FCFA at the most.

Social Isolation Those who are too poor to keep up with the level of consumption of their peers and gain the community’s social recognition begin to isolate themselves and withdraw from social life because poverty makes them feel ashamed. Souleymane S., 25 years old, is one of these young people who are blocked by their situation; I describe his case below. He tells of sharing his childhood with the other youth of the neighbourhood. They were all equals then because their fathers worked for the railway company RAN.10 But when his former playmates went off to school, his family could not send him because his father had been laid off. Souleymane S. says of his former playmates: ‘Some of them graduated with their diplomas this year, others are police officers, and others are still students’. According to him, they all have a position, or are about to have one, and they do not respect him, that much is clear: ‘If they all do something and you can’t do it, they’re not interested in you anymore. . . . If you can give me something and I can’t give you anything, will you feel like I’m a man? . . . I’m looking for work, what else am I going to do? If you see that people respect you, it’s because you are doing something’. His troubles are endless: he has already been living for years – three? five? seven? – without any real income. He lives a solitary life in his parents’ compound. He feels abandoned, left to his own devices with no support whatsoever. Even during the interview, he seemed deeply depressed. I spend much of my time alone. . . . Because often, I’m not happy. I sit alone because if you sit down and you see that things are not going right and you see that ever since you were born up to the age you are now, [you have been living] without having a decent job to do – it’s shocking. You see yourself: no! That doesn’t even make you feel like doing something. . . . If you don’t talk to anyone, no one can disrespect you. So, I don’t talk to anyone. . . . If you’re with your friends

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and you aren’t the same as each other, you feel ashamed. You don’t have nice clothes like they do, or you haven’t had a mobile phone for years. People who are even younger than me have phones. All that makes me ashamed.

Maïmounata S., 31 years old, a mother of three children from two different fathers and without any real income, lives with her 80-year-old father. She also has withdrawn from social life: ‘I don’t chat with people, I don’t go out anymore – I gave up all that. Even if someone says there is dancing somewhere, I don’t go anymore. What I am worried about right now is having something to eat every day. I don’t even like talking to people anymore. I prefer to stay at home, even if I have nothing’. Everyone who isolates themselves avoids a potential audience that could ridicule them or bring about their disgrace. Their families protect them by maintaining secrecy, holding their tongue. Their parents also want to save face, so they avoid bringing up family problems outside. But inside, family life sometimes turns into a veritable hell – a purgatory. Yacouba O., 39 years old, the father mentioned at the beginning, expresses this: ‘Today, if you don’t work, you are the worst man in the family (môgô kolon); everyone is inconsiderate towards you, they diminish you. Your wife doesn’t take you into consideration anymore. Even your mother feels that you are not her child anymore’. When things at home deteriorate, he hides and spends entire days at the compound of one of his friends – with one friend or another, he can get enough to eat. In conclusion, let us recall that it is not consumption in itself that is fundamental but instead the social recognition linked to consumption. Having access to consumer goods provides social recognition as a powerful and competent person. Being excluded from it is the sign of a lack of social connections that would otherwise allow integration into the cycle of reciprocal gifts, and to relations of social security.

Blocked Youth Just like young men, young women imagine an extraordinary future for themselves: dreams of grandeur are not particular to one gender. The differences that exist are to be found in the kinds of dreams, and in the priorities that young people set for themselves: for women, marriage first, followed by money; for men, work first, followed by courtship, marriage and children. These differences are also reflected in professional ambitions, and the kind of commerce – a highly popular activity for both sexes – or the extent of commercial capital desired. Due to the division of labour and roles between the sexes, young women have the possibility

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of offering up their housework in exchange for room and board, unlike young men, who have no compensation. The young women interviewed are quite conscious of this exchange. One of them explains: ‘I do all of the housework that a woman normally has to do. I do the laundry, wash the dishes. I cook for her [the mother]. I do everything for her. When I earn money, I can give her some’. These young women are in many cases mothers (filles-mères),11 and often take care of the home. Despite being unmarried they are closer to the ideal of the ‘honourable woman’ (‘the woman is the home’ – muso ye gua ye, the maternal role) than unpaid young men are to the ideal of the ‘head of the family’ or ‘honourable man’ (see also Iliffe 2005, Miescher 2005). In order to illustrate this, I will now describe the case of Souleymane S. – a striking case of ‘magical negation of the present’ – and the case of Korotimi S.

The Case of Souleymane S., 25 years old Souleymane S. lives with his parents, two younger brothers who are tailor’s apprentices, as well as a cousin of his father and his family. They live in a small compound of buildings made of clay, with no electricity or running water, in the RAN neighbourhood, which is soon to be demolished. Around fifteen years ago, his father lost his job as a worker at RAN. After going through a period of unemployment, his father now works as a night watchman, for which he earns 30,000 FCFA, and in the mornings he cuts grass for sheep fodder. Souleymane’s mother sells small millet cakes that she makes herself on a daily basis. In addition, she keeps house for five to seven people, which requires a large amount of work. The number of mouths to feed varies according to whether or not Souleymane S.’s two older brothers, who are both unemployed and live elsewhere, share their meals. Souleymane S. went to Qur’anic school until the age of 10. When his father was laid off, he started working as a porter, first on his own back and then later on with a donkey and cart – which were stolen from him, as his father emphasises angrily during the interview. Since then, he has been earning pocket money by making bricks. Souleymane S. tells us that he has stopped looking for work; waiting outside the doors of factories at dawn day after day does not get him anywhere. What he needs is contacts with well-connected people who could get him a job. Otherwise, he will not get by. This is how he describes his hopes for the future: I want to go into commerce, that’s what I really want to do. I want to travel, to go and buy shoes, ointments, wicks, and then come back to resell them. . . . If you can see that I have worries, it’s because I don’t

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have anyone who can give me the sum that I want. In any case, if I do business, I would like to rent a store for around 15,000 F per month. And since it’s the beginning, I need to start out with 500,000 F.

Souleymane S. tells us that he has already seen his friends do it, and that he knows how to go about it. And when he travels, he will be able to have his two younger twin brothers, who are currently tailor’s apprentices, look after his shop. He does not realise that in order to be successful in commerce, you have to learn the profession. In five years’ time, I want to have a sabab12 that allows me to get out of this awful situation. Five years, even that’s too long to wait for this change. I am praying to Allah for this change. All I have in mind is business. I also wanted to join the military, but I had no one to help me (dèmèbaga). . . . I’m not afraid of anything! Money is what I want! But as for the future, I’m afraid because I don’t know what my future will be like. I’m afraid of remaining in poverty!

Souleymane S. expresses what Bourdieu (1977b: 68) calls the dream of those who are ‘condemned to project impossible possibles’. He also describes his feeling of anxiety for not being able to get away from this current, oppressive situation. When we meet Souleymane S. for the second time, he tells us about a job that he held briefly: digging trenches for cables, in the hard ground, by hand. He quit. It was too tiring. Also, it made him eat a lot, so all of his salary went on food. And what is more, it made his back hurt. He only earned 25,000 FCFA per month. Just as in our first interview, he seems depressed by his dreadful situation, yet he adds: ‘Really, I can’t work for 25,000 F per month. I can’t do that’. He lists everything that the salary should be able to cover: his own needs, care of his elderly parents, the problems of his siblings or other family members. In addition, he should buy himself a plot of land, build a house and get married. If you take the 25,000 F, you can spend it all in one day and then wait for next month. A sack of corn already costs 15,000 F. If you take out 15,000 F, how much is left? How much does a pair of jeans cost? 3,000 F. . . . If you have to buy just one pair of jeans for 3,500 F, and a sack of corn for 15,000 F, all you have left is 6,500 F. If you buy a shirt for 1,500 F and someone in your family asks for money, how will you manage? . . . People will say you are working, but at the same time, if there’s a problem, you can’t even deal with it!

We recall that his father earns 30,000 FCFA per month as a night watchman, so we ask him what difference it makes whether it be him or his father earning 30,000 FCFA: ‘My father and I are different, we don’t have

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the same ideas. He is old, but I’m young. We don’t see things the same way. As for him, he has no more ambition in this world down here, so it’s not the same thing as it is for me. Even if he only makes 500 F, that can be enough for him’. For Souleymane S., the gap between dream and reality is such that, for him, working to make 25,000 FCFA per month makes no sense. He cannot see beyond the present moment, nor can he determine the starting point for his own actions. But his words also illustrate the differences of habitus from one generation to the next. Young people not only have their whole lives ahead of them, but also other ideas about what constitutes a good life, and other desires for consumption than their parents’ generation. All in all, the ways of obtaining social recognition have changed (see above). Over the course of the three-year period of our interviews, there was no tangible change in Souleymane S.’s situation. Resigned, he gave up his search for work in factories. He makes bricks without being able to advance this work to turn it into a small business. His father, annoyed, tells us that his son spends much of the morning asleep. Souleymane S. seems to have no grasp of his current situation. He approaches it through ‘magical negation’, imagining that half a million FCFA would completely change his life.

The Case of Korotimi S., 38 years old Korotimi S.’s ex-husband divorced her thirteen years ago because the couple were childless. Since then, Korotimi S. has returned to live with her 62-year-old mother, who has been separated from her husband for years. Today, Korotimi S. has three children, by two different fathers. She lives in the oldest neighbourhood of the city, in an old, single-level compound, and takes care of the house while her mother travels around villages with her trade. With her modest income, the mother not only feeds her daughter and grandchildren, but also buys millet for the families of her three older sons, all of whom are unemployed and unable to feed their own families by themselves. Korotimi S.’s dreams for the future are not as grandiose as those of Souleymane S., but they do project the same kind of ‘impossible possibles’: ‘What I want to do is commerce, but I can’t manage to do that because I don’t have any money. . . . For example, I could sell loincloths. If I could have 25,000 F or 50,000 F, I could start with that’. We ask her what she would need in order to change her situation. ‘For where I am, if I could have a good sababou13 by the grace of Allah, I would be happy. I really hope to have a sababou nyuman (a good will). I’m counting on you!’

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Korotimi S.’s situation has not changed in three years. The young woman remains dependent on her mother, without any money of her own. Among the young people we spoke with, these fantasies of grandeur are found more often amongst men than women, which can be partly explained by the larger gap between men’s unaccomplished roles as heads of family and their actual situations. These young men and women with disproportionate dreams have a few traits in common: they dream of having 50,000 FCFA or 500,000 FCFA, even three million FCFA, while at the same time they are not always sure of how to ensure their daily meals. In other words, the future that they imagine is not anchored in their present situation but negated in a magical mode. These young people do not see themselves as the agents of the change to which they aspire: the change will not come from them or their spheres of influence but from a sababou – a good will. This means that they are unable to accurately consider either their situation or their personal resources. The young people with fantasies of grandeur are also the same individuals who were unable to change or initiate anything essential in their lives over the course of the three years of our longitudinal study. Powerless to act, they are clinging to the status quo – this is why I describe them as ‘blocked’. Nevertheless, this blockage is surely not a static state. A trigger element could allow them to overcome it suddenly and create an unexpected dynamic. A follow-up to this study could elucidate in what way this might happen. As for the group with more pragmatic ideas about the future – the group that projects ‘possible possibles’ – this is also the group that is in a position to act. This comparison leads us to reflect on what it is that allows them to undertake action more easily.

Young People in Action The most notable difference between these two groups is the existence or absence of social relations to which they can refer in their everyday lives – aside from their elderly parents, who offer them food and a roof over their head. These are social relations of all kinds, in fact: bonds of kinship, or neighbourly bonds with a family that is well established in one place, bonds of badenya (unity of children from the same mother)14 – but also individual bonds, such as acquaintances, or a traditional boss.15 I will explain in detail the examples of a young woman and a young man, while also investigating the ways in which they transform hazards into risks – that is, into something foreseeable and identifiable that allows them to master the present, step by step. This process is accompanied by the production of meanings and interpretations. ‘Translating hazards into

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risks appears to be intimately linked to the ability of individuals to produce interpretations of disaster that enable action’ (Macamo 2008: 130).

The Case of Djami S., 28 years old Djami S., a single mother of a 9-year-old girl ( fille-mère), comes from a family of Zara, a group that has been in Bobo-Dioulasso for a long time. She lives in the city’s oldest neighbourhood. She is part of an inverted intergenerational contract that currently spans four generations, from her grandmother to her daughter. While Djami S. barely earns enough to live on with her petty commerce, her father, a 47-year-old owner of a driving school, has also struggled against unemployment for years. Often he cannot buy food for his first co-wife – Djami S.’s mother – and their children. At these times, he eats with his second co-wife. Djami S. explains: ‘If there’s no money, we don’t cook; we go to eat with my grandmother. At her house, they cook every day. On days when we haven’t cooked anything here, grandmother brings us food. . . . Grandmother even asks us every day if we have made food or not’. Djami S.’s daily meals and those of her family are thus guaranteed, primarily thanks to the badenya of her mother (unity of children from the same mother). Indeed, her grandmother, a generous 77-year-old woman, lives just steps away from them with her son, Djami S.’s maternal uncle, who is a subsistence farmer. With the corn he grows, he can feed the fifteen members of his family for approximately seven months a year. His wife is a shopkeeper, and takes care of the corn and the ingredients for sauces the rest of the year. In addition, they have somewhat close relatives living in the same neighbourhood. Djami S. participates in ceremonies regularly. There are sufficient resources to maintain social relations in this way. Like her mother, grandmother, sister, aunts and cousins, Djami S. earns a living by selling ingredients for sauces. But her income is not enough to live on. In the first and second years of our interviews, she tells us that she hopes her child’s father will marry her. She is worried that he is not giving any indications in that direction. At the same time, she is trying to develop her business, and borrows 25,000 FCFA from an aunt on her mother’s side of the family. In the third year, she explains to us what brought about a turning point in her life. Over the course of the past year she had learned that her kambele16 had impregnated two other women in recent years: ‘He betrayed me . . . I left him so I could be alone’. Since then, she dedicates herself fully to her business; marriage has become secondary: ‘What’s important to me now is having a lot of money for commerce and, after that, having a good husband. Nowadays, money does everything’. In the meantime, thanks to a loan from the wife of her

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maternal uncle and to a tontine (savings group), she was able to raise her commercial capital to 75,000 FCFA. She took her time to think and plan; since then, she has been depositing a larger sum of money in the tontine and reinvesting the remainder of her profit: ‘I rely on money to be able to do what I want. You have to do business and pray to Allah for it to work, so that you can have money. If you don’t have someone to give you some money, you can only rely on the market and your business’. So she focuses on her business and has succeeded in achieving a marked return on her invested capital. And the best and most unexpected part of the story: a kambele that she did not know, who had seen her for some time on the road to the market, has begun to court her, she tells us, beaming. For nine years, Djami S. was under the emotional influence of her kambele, the father of her child, who preferred to leave things as they were rather than make a clear decision for or against their relationship. She felt a lurking possibility that she could remain a fille-mère for her entire life – which is to say ‘a child’, in society’s eyes. The shock of discovering that for this young man, she was only one partner among others with whom he had had a child led her to reconsider the place she had given him in her life. The information that led her to discover the existence of the two other filles-mères helped her, in the sense of Haller (2001, 2002), to put an end to this endless insecurity and to consciously take on a new risk – that of developing her own business. She re-evaluated the different areas of her life, and defined new priorities by choosing to fully dedicate herself from then on to commerce. Furthermore, this new interpretation of her situation did not come out of nowhere: Djami S. had grown up in a family of Zara where women have always been proud traders. Her grandmother, mother and aunts thus served as role models for her and she had recourse to knowledge passed on during her socialisation: the experience of commerce as a profession that is learned (embodied cultural capital). The material context also fundamentally contributed to her ability to act. This is certainly a context of poverty, but this has never been so precarious as to call into question her social relations and, as a result, her social recognition by the community.

The Case of Samir I., 28 years old Samir I. is the counter-example to Djami S.: he and his family have no long-term social relations in the city, having moved to Bobo-Dioulasso from Abidjan in 1999, and their kin live in a distant village. For years, Samir I. got by as best he could with minor occupations – for example, a small job in a kiosk, where he earned no money at all but which allowed him to feed a hungry and penniless friend on a daily basis. This friend

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now returns the favour by helping him financially when he is in need. Two years ago, Samir I. began an apprenticeship as a tile-layer with a traditional boss. For a long time, he earned next to nothing. Samir I.’s 72-year-old mother feeds six people: her sick husband, Samir I., a fille-mère daughter and two grandchildren. The monthly rent for their two-room, clay house with no running water or electricity is 6,000 FCFA, despite its leaky roof. The mother earns 10,000 FCFA per month as an auxiliary to brew the local millet beer (dolo). Her eldest daughter, who lives outside the family home and works as a maid, gives her mother her entire monthly salary of 10,000 FCFA. Samir I.’s life completely changed when his girlfriend got pregnant: Honestly, having a woman and child at home really changed my life. I can’t sit around anymore thinking about frivolous things. You’re constantly thinking about your child’s [and your girlfriend’s] future, how to be able to feed them, help them. . . that changed my life. It gives you faith and courage. Even if I’m doing a small job, it gives me the courage to do it. . . . Before, when I had no woman and no child, I was not conscious. It never occurred to me to fight to get by. And now, when I think about it, I tell myself that it’s because of her that I manage to fight. I really like being with a woman!

He would like to have a solid work contract that gives him the security of knowing how much monthly income he can count on earning. His projection into the future corresponds to what Bourdieu characterises as a profession. At the same time, he lists all that he plans to do himself to reach his goal: ‘What is important to me now is signing a clear contract with my boss. If we can agree on a salary, I will know how much I earn per month and what I can do to help my old lady’. But the first thing he wants is to really learn his trade: ‘I make an effort to learn my trade. I always follow my boss’s instructions. I want to be like my boss one day, if not even better; I want to know the trade better than him’. And he adds, quite sure of himself: ‘If I take it seriously, like I’m doing, I will master the trade. . . . That is how I am planning for my future. Thanks to God, it will work out’. After the birth of his son, they began to feel cramped, with eight people in the two small rooms of his parents’ house. So, Samir I. looked for a two-room house in another neighbourhood, for 5,000 FCFA in rent and 1,000 FCFA for electricity. Two months after his son’s birth, he moved there with his girlfriend and child. And now, it is a matter of being able to provide them with money for meals, at least 500 FCFA. ‘Since I moved with my girlfriend, I told my boss that I have a woman now! So I can’t leave in the morning without giving them a bit of money so they can eat. For that, he often gives me 5,000 F, 10,000 F for cooking (nansongo).’ Samir I. starts to go to his boss for help: when he was still a ‘son’ with

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no money, he ate at his mother’s house and went to her when he needed something. Now, as a ‘head of family’, he refers his responsibilities to his boss in order to meet their needs: ‘My boss understands me well now, as opposed to when I lived here [at his mother’s house], and he didn’t take me seriously. He used to think that since I was with my family, I didn’t have any burdens to bear. He didn’t make any effort to resolve my problems’. The boss feels morally obligated to care for the social security and well-being of his apprentices: in case of illness, they can ask for his help, and he participates financially in ceremonies like weddings, births and funerals. He also feels responsible for them in everyday life. One year later, we notice that Samir I. has succeeded in branching out on his own: he tells us, not without pride, that he makes a good living laying tiles in villas – his orders bring in around 50,000 FCFA per month. Now, he helps his elderly parents financially, and, along with his siblings who stayed in Abidjan, he is overseeing the construction of a house on a plot of land they recently acquired. His mother was able to stop working for pay. And another year later, he is toying with the idea of opening a hardware store, which his girlfriend could manage. Despite all this, Samir I. still does not have the finances to get married. But no matter – just as his parents’ neighbours did not know that he was unemployed, his new neighbours do not know that he is living out of wedlock with his child’s mother: ‘If I don’t tell anyone that I haven’t married my girlfriend, no one will know. But the people who know me well know that we aren’t married’. Among the young people of his generation, Samir I. and his girlfriend are not the only ones to create a context of action by living in ‘invisible cohabitation’. This situation guarantees them social recognition as a couple, but also as adults, and it gives them the time to save money for the wedding ceremony – which can take years (Roth 2013). Samir I. was able to seize the opportunity of his fatherhood – ‘grasping at whatever is available in the present’ (Johnson-Hanks 2005) – while many other young men in the same situation have fled. It gave him a sense of purpose – assuming responsibility for his girlfriend and their child – which allowed him to become an adult in the eyes of society. He was thus able to create the context of action of a ‘small family’, step by step, beginning with renting a room, then by reminding his boss instead of his mother of his material obligations, and, finally, by branching out on his own. Despite his precarious material situation, Samir I. managed to initiate individual relationships, like with his old penniless friend who later gave him financial help in return, and with his boss. Between dreams of grandeur and pragmatism, there are many nuances. As a general tendency, young men and women who remain capable of ac-

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tion despite their difficulties set themselves apart in two ways. Not only do they see themselves as the actors critical to their own existence and have their own ideas about what they can achieve, but they also know how to take advantage of all kinds of relationships – relationships that are in a position to attenuate the material constraints of precarity.

Conclusion The interviews clearly show that many young people in Bobo-Dioulasso are incapable of evaluating their situations realistically. Their disproportionate dreams are symptomatic of their feelings of impotence in the face of the present: either they do not see their own ability to change their personal situation, or they believe that the solution lies beyond their margin of action. They do not perceive themselves as actors. Indeed, the professional and material situation of these young people has remained poor over the course of three years. These dreams of grandeur are understandable in a context of extreme material precarity, which leads young people into a vicious cycle of social isolation. Yet the interviews also show that other young people confronted with the same situation remain able to act, or become able to do so. In both cases, the longitudinal study allowed us to analyse young people’s actions retrospectively and to identify the necessary, or at least favourable, conditions for them to create contexts of action that allow them to act again and again, and to thus create for themselves, through a meaningful attitude towards their environment, a present that will in turn lead to a foreseeable, conceivable future (Macamo 2008). All blocked youth live in extreme poverty, but not all who live in extreme poverty are incapable of action. This is why we must nuance Bourdieu’s reflections in the context of Bobo-Dioulasso. According to Bourdieu (1977b), different conceptions of the future are due to social differences between the proletariat and the sub-proletariat – and, accordingly, the differences in their income levels, qualifications and security. However, the study carried out in Bobo-Dioulasso shows that these two groups belong to the same social class. This difference thus depends not only on work or income level, but also on the ‘sense of security’ (F. and K. von Benda-Beckmann [1994] 2007). This sense of security does not rely on the security provided by the practice of a trade, as in Bourdieu’s example, but instead it relies in large part on social relations: on one’s own relations and/or on the relations of one’s parents and entourage, in which one has the possibility of participating. Basing their argument directly on the notion of social security used by K. and F. von

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Benda-Beckmann, Read and Thelen (2007) highlight the emotional dimension of social security relations. They emphasise that in most cases it is not so much material resources that give men a sense of security, but the existence of a network of social relations that they can call upon in case of need. It would be a mistake, however, to underestimate the role of economic elements (economic capital), as Saskia Brand (2001) concludes in her otherwise excellent study. She affirms that social capital is the only essential resource, in the sense that all other forms of capital – including economic capital – only become meaningful and effective when mediated by relations: ‘The single most important rule is that one is to whom one is connected: a person can only be identified by means of her or his relations’ (ibid.: 24). The examples of the young people of Bobo-Dioulasso show that social relations actually constitute an extremely important background to the ability to act. Nevertheless, as studies of the disadvantaged segments of Bobo-Dioulasso’s population indicate, a minimum amount of economic resources are still necessary in order to be able to maintain social relations of this kind. This minimum is the indispensable condition for participation in reciprocal exchange, the basis of all relations of social security. The relations on which one can rely in case of need are always based on a pre-existing, or even temporary, economic capital, as illustrated by the examples of ‘youth in action’. When faced with situations of hardship, social capital – a converted form of economic capital – is a decisive factor in young people’s ability to act. Social bonds, which guarantee social support and are therefore material resources as well, are the necessary condition for the ability to evaluate one’s present situation: to take a step back, see beyond the immediate situation, and find where to initiate possible and applicable changes. This degree of security and a minimum amount of economic resources are necessary to escape from chance and fatality, and to shape one’s own existence.

NOTES Original title and place of publication: Roth, Claudia. 2014. ‘Entre rêves de grandeur et pragmatisme: les jeunes en milieu urbain au Burkina Faso’. Journal des Africanistes 84(1): 80–105. 1. This research is part of the project ‘Strained Intergenerational Relations: An Intercultural Comparison (Europe–Africa)’, financed by the Swiss National Foundation for Scientific Research and housed by the University of Lucerne (Roth 2010, 2011). This was a longitudinal study during which we followed

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fifteen households for three years (2007–10). For this article, I refer to the interview that I carried out with one of the elderly parents, as well as to several conversations with adult children: seventeen young men and women living in an inverted intergenerational contract, meaning that they are housed and fed by their parents (cf. Roth 2005, 2007, 2008, 2011). All names have been modified. Quotations of Francophone authors refer to the original text but have been translated, unless otherwise mentioned (the editors). Abbink (2005: 5, 6) poses the question of how to define youth: ‘What about people in their 30s or early 40s? . . . In Africa there are many such people who have had to delay their entry into adulthood: they feel excluded and powerless, and struggle to survive. But despite this there has to be a limit to calling someone a “youngster”: 40-year-olds, for instance, are no longer youths but pass into another category, perhaps that of street people, beggars or vagrants’. My limit for considering a person as belonging to the category of ‘youth’ is 40 years of age. We interviewed eight sons and nine daughters. Only one son was married (with four children), and another was the father of a 2-month-old baby boy. Of the nine daughters, five were single, while four were separated and had returned to live with their family. Two of the nine were childless, and the others had one, two, three or four children. Three men and one woman had spent time in a Qur’anic school, three women had received no schooling, and the others had spent between four and six years in primary school, two of whom had gone on to secondary school, followed in part by an apprenticeship. Vuarin (1993, 1994, 2000) has analysed the social protection system in Bamako and developed an approach that is as broad as that of K. and F. von Benda-Beckmann ([1994] 2007). But whereas Vuarin uses the term ‘social security’ in the traditional sense of a welfare state and its corresponding social coverage and speaks otherwise of ‘social protection’, K. and F. von BendaBeckmann deliberately use the term ‘social security’ as a general notion encompassing all possible forms of social protection in a given society. Between 2000 and 2006, the average annual growth rate of the gross domestic product reached 5.7 per cent according to the World Bank (2008) (Höpflinger 2011: 1–2), and 5.8 per cent in 2010 (CIA World Factbook, http:// www.indexmundi.com/de/burkina_faso/bruttoinlandsprodukt_(bip)_reale_ wachstumsrate.html). 1 € = 655.95 FCFA. Citing the example of HIV-positive inhabitants of Bamako who are afraid of being stigmatised despite receiving antiretroviral therapy, Steuer’s study (2012) shows that appearance plays a central role in the preservation of social belonging. People perform their appearance in order to protect their own social network and guarantee the recognition of others. Translated from French. Translation from French to English is based on the author’s original translation from German to French.

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10. The former public railway company RAN (Régie des chemins de fer AbidjanNiger [Railway company of Abidjan-Niger]) connects Burkina Faso to Ivory Coast. The line is now run by a private company, SITARAIL. 11. Unmarried mothers, often young, are called fille-mères, which means ‘childmothers’. Seven of the nine young women have between one and four children, often by different men. 12. Sabab or sababou refers to ‘the opportunity’, thanks to either a person or a thing or even a ‘good will’. ‘[It is] also widely recognized that once a person reaches adulthood, success depends upon a stroke of luck resulting from divine intervention, which generally appears through the mediation of a human being. The concept is known locally as sababou (from the Arabic sabab, pl. asbab), which means reason, opportunity, cause – this also refers to livelihood, interpersonal relationships, or anything else by means of which one attains a goal or a sought object. It is also used in specific contexts to say “Thanks to someone / thanks to the help of someone”’ (Debevec 2013: 8, translated from French). 13. See previous footnote. 14. See Chapter 8, in this volume (the editors). 15. A traditional boss feels a moral obligation to look after the social security and well-being of his apprentices. Today, however, many bosses exploit their apprentices, taking advantage of their labour, while only paying them 100 to 200 FCFA per day, which is not even enough to eat. Or, they act like the boss of the welder’s apprentice Arouna C., who employs no fewer than fifteen apprentices. For each order that comes in, the apprentices must give back a certain sum, and can only keep for themselves any additional sum they were able to bargain. 16. Kambele: a young man, a lover, an unmarried father.

REFERENCES Abbink, Jon. 2005. ‘Being Young in Africa: The Politics of Despair and Renewal’, in Jon Abbink and Ineke van Kessel (eds), Vanguard or Vandals: Youth, Politics and Conflict in Africa. Leiden and Boston: Brill, pp. 1–34. Antoine, Philippe. 2007. ‘La place et l’activité des personnes âgées dans sept capitales ouest africaines’, in P. Antoine (ed.), Les relations intergénérationnelles en Afrique. Nogent-sur-Marne: CEPED, pp. 31–62. Benda-Beckmann, Franz von, and Keebet von Benda-Beckmann. (1994) 2007. ‘Coping with Insecurity’, in Franz von Benda-Beckmann and Keebet von Benda-Beckmann (eds), Social Security between Past and Future: Ambonese Networks of Care and Support. Münster: LIT, pp. 25–58. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1977a. ‘Nécessités contradictoires et conduites ambiguës’, in P. Bourdieu, Algérie 60: Structures économiques et structures temporelles. Paris: Les Editions de Minuit, pp. 45–65.

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———. 1977b. ‘Espérances subjectives et chances objectives’, in P. Bourdieu, Algérie 60: Structures économiques et structures temporelles. Paris: Les Editions de Minuit, pp. 67–81. ———. 2008. ‘Ouvriers et paysans en désarroi’, in P. Bourdieu, Esquisses algériennes. Textes éd. et présentés par Tassadit Yacine. Paris: Seuil, pp. 153–261. Brand, Saskia. 2001. Mediating Means and Fate: A Socio-Political Analysis of Fertility and Demographic Change in Bamako, Mali. Leiden, Boston and Cologne: Brill. Bruijn, Mirjam de, and Han van Dijk. 1994. ‘A Pastoral Society in Crisis after the Droughts: Who Cares for Social Security?’, in Sabina Dittrich and Jens Petersen-Thumser (eds), Social Security in Africa. Berlin: German Foundation for International Development (DSE), pp. 199–231. ———. 1995. Arid Ways: Cultural Understandings of Insecurity in Fulbe Society, Central Mali. Amsterdam: Thela Publishers. Chabal, Patrick. 2009. Africa: The Politics of Suffering and Smiling. London and New York: Zed Books. Debevec, Lisa. 2013. ‘En attendant notre sababou: discussion sur le travail, la vie et l’Islam avec les jeunes hommes de Bobo-Dioulasso’, in Katja Werthmann and Lamine Sanogo (eds), Urbanité et appartenances en Afrique de l’Ouest: Bobo-Dioulasso dans son contexte régional. Paris: Karthala, pp. 211–36 . Haller, Tobias. 2001. Leere Speicher, erodierte Felder und das Bier der Frauen. Berlin: Reimer. ———. 2002. ‘Spiel gegen Risiken in der Natur’, in Christian Giordano and Andrea Boscoboinik (eds), Constructing Risk, Threat, Catastrophe: Anthropological Perspectives. Freiburg: University Press Freiburg, pp. 53–68. ———. 2014. ‘Making Business in the Open: Coping with Economic and Institutional Risk and Insecurity in the Kafue Flats, Zambia’. Journal des Africanistes 84(1): 60–79. Höpflinger, François. 2011. ‘Kontextfaktoren in Burkina Faso’, in Claudia Roth et al, Belastete Generationenbeziehungen im interkulturellen Vergleich (Europa– Afrika): Schlussbericht. Bern: Schweizerischer Nationalfonds, Chapter IV. Iliffe, John. 2005. Honour in African History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Johnson-Hanks, Jennifer. 2005. ‘When the Future Decides: Uncertainty and Intentional Action in Contemporary Cameroon’. Current Anthropology 46(3): 363–77. Leimdorfer, François, and Alain Marie (eds). 2003. L’Afrique des citadins: Sociétés civiles en chantier (Abidjan, Dakar). Paris: Karthala. Macamo, Elisio. 2008. ‘The Taming of Fate: Approaching Risk from a Social Action Perspective – Case Studies from Southern Mozambique’. Habilitation thesis, Faculty of Cultural Studies, University of Bayreuth. Marie, Alain. 1997. ‘Individualisation: entre communauté et société, l’avènement du sujet’, in Marie Alain (ed.), L’Afrique des individus. Paris: Karthala, pp. 407–36.

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Miescher, Stephan F. 2005. Making Men in Ghana. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Neckel, Sighard. 2003. ‘Kampf um Zugehörigkeit: Die Macht der Klassifikation’. Leviathan 31(2): 159–67. Read, Rosie, and Tatjana Thelen. 2007. ‘Introduction: Social Security and Care after Socialism: Reconfigurations of Public and Private’. Focaal 50: 3–18. Roth, Claudia. 2005. ‘Threatening Dependency: Limits of Social Security, Old Age and Gender in Urban Burkina Faso’ / ‘Dépendance menaçante: limites de la sécurité sociale, vieil âge et genre en milieu urbain .burkinabè’, in Willemijn de Jong et al., Ageing in Insecurity: Case Studies on Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso / Vieillir dans l’insécurité: Sécurité sociale et genre en Inde et au Burkina Faso. Études de cas. Hamburg: LIT, pp. 107–37, 289–322. ———. 2007. ‘“Tu ne peux pas rejeter ton enfant!” Contrat entre les générations, sécurité sociale et vieillesse en milieu urbain burkinabè’. Cahiers d’Études africaines XLVII (1), 185: 93–116. ———. 2008. ‘“Shameful!” The Inverted Intergenerational Contract in BoboDioulasso, Burkina Faso’, in Erdmute Alber, Sjaak van der Geest and Susan Reynolds Whyte (eds), Generations in Africa: Connections and Conflicts. Münster: LIT, pp. 47–69. ———. 2010. ‘Les relations intergénérationnelles sous pression au Burkina Faso’. Autrepart 53: 95–110. ———. 2011. ‘Belastete Generationenbeziehungen aus der Sicht der Beteiligten – Ergebnisse der Befragung in Burkina Faso’, in Claudia Roth et al., Belastete Generationenbeziehungen im interkulturellen Vergleich (Europa–Afrika): Schlussbericht. Bern: Schweizerischer Nationalfonds, Chapter V. ———. 2013. ‘Le mariage comme porte d’entrée: La lutte pour l’appartenance selon les générations et le genre à Bobo-Dioulasso’, in Katja Werthmann and Lamine Sanogo (eds), Urbanité et appartenances en Afrique de l’Ouest: Bobo-Dioulasso dans son contexte régional. Paris: Karthala, pp. 237–58. Steuer, Noemi. 2012. Krankheit und Ehre: Über HIV und soziale Anerkennung in Mali. Bielefeld: Transcript. Vuarin, Robert. 1993. ‘Quelles solidarités sociales peut-on mobiliser pour faire face au coût de la maladie?’, in Joseph Brunet-Jailly, Se soigner au Mali. Paris: Karthala and ORSTOM, pp. 299–316. ———. 1994. ‘L’argent et l’entregent’. Cahiers des Sciences Humaines 30(1–2): 255–73. ———. 2000. Un système africain de protection sociale au temps de la mondialisation ou ‘Venez m’aider à tuer mon lion. . .’. Paris: L’Harmattan.

❍ P UBLICATI ON S O F CLAUDIA ROT H

[A] [B] [C] [D] [E] [F] [G] [H]

Peer-reviewed journals Other scientific journals and miscellanies Studies and reports Conference proceedings Newspapers and journals Internet publications Monographs Chapters in books

2014 [44] Roth, C. 2014. ‘The Strength of Badenya Ties: Siblings and Social Security in Old Age – The Case of Urban Burkina Faso’. American Ethnologist 41(3): 547–62 [A] [43] Roth, C. 2014. ‘Entre rêves de grandeur et pragmatisme: les jeunes en milieu urbain au Burkina Faso’. Journal des Africanistes 84(1): 80–105 [A] 2013 [42] Roth, C. 2013. ‘Les personnes âgées malades et l’indigence en milieu urbain burkinabè – l’exemple de Bobo-Dioulasso’, in V. Ridde and J.-P. Jacob (eds), Les indigents et la santé en Afrique de l’Ouest. Louvain-la-Neuve: Editions Academia-L’Harmattan, pp. 85–104. [H] [41] Roth, C. 2013. ‘Le mariage comme porte d’entrée: la lutte pour l’appartenance selon les générations et le genre à Bobo-Dioulasso’, in K. Werthmann and L. Sanogo (eds), Urbanité et appartenances en Afrique de l’Ouest: BoboDioulasso dans son contexte régional. Paris: Karthala, pp. 237–58. [D] 2012 [40] Roth, C. 2012. ‘“The Nivaquine Children”: The Intergenerational Transfer of Knowledge about Old Age and Gender in Urban Burkina Faso’, in B. Röder, W. de Jong and K. Alt (eds), Alter(n) anders denken: Kulturelle und biologische Perspektiven. Cologne, Weimar and Vienna: Böhlau, pp. 279–96. [D]

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2011 [39] Roth, C., D. Karrer, F. Höpflinger and J. Helbling. 2011. Belastete Generationenbeziehungen im interkulturellen Vergleich (Europa–Afrika). Final Report. Bern: Schweizerischer Nationalfonds. [C] With the following contributions: • Roth, C., et al. Einleitung. 5 pages. • Roth, C., et al. Wichtigste Ergebnisse in Kürze. 2 pages. • Roth, C. Belastete Generationenbeziehungen aus der Sicht der Beteiligten – Ergebnisse der Befragung in Burkina Faso. 102 pages. • Karrer, D., and C. Roth. Belastete Generationenbeziehungen – Vergleich zwischen der Schweiz und Burkina Faso. 17 pages. 2010 [38] Roth, C. 2010. Les relations intergénérationnelles sous pression au Burkina Faso. Autrepart 53: 95–110. [A] 2009 [37] Roth, C., and W. de Jong. 2009. ‘Altern in Unsicherheit’. Welt-Sichten, Magazin für globale Entwicklung und ökumenische Zusammenarbeit 4: 12–16. [E] 2008 [36] Roth, C. 2008. ‘Burkina Faso: Umgekehrter Generationenvertrag’. Die Politik: Monatszeitschrift des politischen Zentrums 9: 11. [E] [35] Roth, C. 2008. Teure Ehre. Partnerschaft. Dossier Westafrika 194: 24–26. [E] [34] Roth, C. 2008. ‘“Shameful!” The Inverted Inter-generational Contract in Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso’, in E. Alber et al. (eds), Generations in Africa: Connections and Conflicts. Münster: Lit, pp. 47–69. [H] 2007 [33] Roth, C., et al. (eds). 2007. Werkschau Afrikastudien 6 – le forum suisse des africanistes 6. Münster: Lit Verlag. [D] [32] Roth, C. 2007. ‘Die neue Altersarmut in Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso’. Annex, das Magazin der Reformierten Presse 39: 20–22. [E] [31] Roth, C., and F. Badini-Kinda. 2007. ‘Social Security of Elderly Women and Men in Burkina Faso’, in L.E. Lucas (ed.), Unpacking Globalization: Markets, Gender, and Work. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, pp. 145–54. [D] [30] Roth, C. 2007. ‘Soziale Sicherheit und Geschlecht: Ehekrisen als ein Spiegel der Wirtschaftskrise’, in Th. Bearth et al. (eds), Afrika im Wandel. Zurich: vdf Hochschulverlag, pp. 155–66. [H] [29] Roth, C. 2007. ‘“Tu ne peux pas rejeter ton enfant!” Contrat entre les générations, sécurité sociale et vieillesse en milieu urbain burkinabè’. Cahiers d’Études africaines XLVII (1), 185: 93–116 [A]

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2005 [28] Roth, C., and F. Badini-Kinda. 2005. ‘Social Security of Elderly Women and Men in Burkina Faso’, in L.E. Lucas (ed.), Unpacking Globalisation: Markets, Gender, and Work. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, pp. 201–13. [D] [27] Roth, C. 2005. ‘L’appauvrissement invisible des personnes âgées au Burkina Faso’, in A. Mayor, C. Roth and Y. Droz (eds), Sécurité sociale et développement: Le forum suisse des africanistes 5 – Soziale Sicherheit und Entwicklung. Werkschau Afrikastudien 5. Münster: Lit, pp. 51–68. [D] [26] Roth, C. 2005. ‘Die eigenen Augen, der fremde Blick’, in Ch. Beck et al. (eds), Fremde Freunde: Gewährsleute der Ethnologie. Edition Trickster. Wuppertal: Peter Hammer Verlag, pp. 184–200. [H] [25] Roth, C. 2005. ‘Tee und Träume: Zum Generationenkonflikt junger Männer in Bobo-Dioulasso’. With photographs by Susi Lindig. http://www.journal-eth nologie.de/Deutsch/Schwerpunktthemen/Schwerpunktthemen_2005/Eth nologische_Kinder-_und_Jugendforschung/Tee_und_Traeume/index.phtml, No. 3/05. (accessed 23 June 2016) [F] [24] Roth, C., and W. de Jong. 2005. ‘Conclusions: Ageing in Insecurity – Differences and Similarities’ / ‘Conclusion: Vieillir dans l’insécurité – différences et similarités’, in W. de Jong et al., Ageing in Insecurity: Case Studies on Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso / Vieillir dans l’insécurité: Sécurité sociale et genre en Inde et au Burkina Faso. Études de cas. Münster: Lit, pp. 167–81, 353–69. [H] [23] Roth, C. 2005. ‘Threatening Dependency: Limits of Social Security, Old Age and Gender in Urban Burkina Faso’ / ‘Dépendance menaçante: limites de la sécurité sociale, vieil âge et genre en milieu urbain burkinabè’, in W. de Jong et al., Ageing in Insecurity: Case Studies on Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso / Vieillir dans l’insécurité: Sécurité sociale et genre en Inde et au Burkina Faso. Études de cas. Münster: Lit, pp. 107–37, 289–322. [H] [22] Roth, C. 2005. ‘Burkina Faso: A Donor Darling? Context of the Case Studies’ / ‘Le Burkina Faso: pays favori des donateurs? Contexte des études de cas’, in W. de Jong et al., Ageing in Insecurity: Case Studies on Social Security and Gender in India and Burkina Faso / Vieillir dans l’insécurité: Sécurité sociale et genre en Inde et au Burkina Faso. Études de cas. Münster: Lit, pp. 103–6, 285–88. [H] 2004 [21] Roth, C., F. Badini-Kinda, W. de Jong and S. Bhagyanath (eds). 2004. ‘Compte rendu. Conférence Débats Sud-Nord: Relations de sécurité sociale et genre’ / ‘Proceedings. Conference South–North Debates: Social Security Relations and Gender’. Ouagadougou and Zurich. 125 pages. [D] [20] Roth, C. 2004. ‘Der mütterliche Schutz: Fünf Hypothesen zur sozialen Sicherheit in Burkina Faso’, in J. Schneider et al. (eds), Werkschau Afrikastudien 4 – Le forum suisse des africanistes 4. Münster: Lit, pp. 113–32. [D]

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2003 [19] Roth, C. 2003. ‘Die Seifenfrauen in Bobo-Dioulasso – eine Fotoausstellung’, in H. Hürlimann (ed.), Burkina Faso, eine Herausforderung in der globalen Zeit. Isny im Allgäu: Schuldruck + Verlag, pp. 67–78. [H] [18] Roth, C. 2003. ‘Soziale Sicherheitsarrangements und ihre Grenzen: Forschung im Viertel Koko, Bobo-Dioulasso, zu lokaler sozialer Sicherheit, Alter und Geschlecht (2001–2003). Final Report’. Bern: Schweizerischer Nationalfonds. [C] 2000 [17] Roth, C., and Ch. Ifejika Speranza. 2000. ‘African-Swiss Women’s Social Networks’, in J. Knörr and B. Meier (eds), Women and Migration: Anthropological Perspectives. Frankfurt and New York: Campus, St. Martin’s Press, pp. 212–32. [H] [16] Roth, C. 2000. ‘Der unerfüllte Heiratswunsch: Erzählungen einer jungen Frau in Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso’, in W. de Jong, I. Möwe and C. Roth (eds), Bilder und Realitäten der Geschlechter. Fallstudien zur Sozialanthropologie. Zürich: Argonaut, pp. 155–76. [H] 1999 [15] Roth, C. 1999. ‘“Was suchen die zwei weissen Frauen hier?” Bei den Seifenfrauen in Bobo-Dioulasso. Ein Forschungsbericht’, in L. Roost Vischer et al. (eds), Brücken und Grenzen – Passages et frontières: Le forum suisse des africanistes. Münster: Lit, pp. 49–65. [D] [14] Roth, C., and S. Lindig. 1999. ‘Arbeit im Abfall: Die Seifenfrauen von BoboDioulasso’. Basler Magazin 32 (21 August): 1–5. [E] 1998 [13] Roth, C. 1998. ‘Seit der Kindheit im Geschäft: “Ich empfinde bei keiner Arbeit Scham”’, in R. Apsel and V. Brandes (eds), Afrika-Kalender 1999. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel: 58–61. [E] [12] Roth, C. 1998. ‘Kulturschock, Macht und Erkenntnis: Zur Auseinandersetzung mit Grenzen in der ethnologischen Forschungssituation’, in S. Schröter (ed.), Körper und Identitäten: Ethnologische Ansätze zur Konstruktion von Geschlecht. Hamburg: Lit, pp. 169–85. [H] [11] Roth, C., and S. Lindig. 1998. ‘Travail dans une décharge: les femmes de la savonnerie de Bobo-Dioulasso’ / ‘Arbeit im Abfall: die Seifenfrauen in Bobo-Dioulasso’. Photographic Exhibition and Exhibition Catalogue. URL: http://www.susilindig.ch/ (accessed 23 June 2016) [G] [10] Ifejika Speranza, Ch., and C. Roth. 1998. ‘Ankommen in Zürich: Schwarze Schweizerinnen berichten’, in S. Prodolliet (ed.), Blickwechsel: Die multikulturelle Schweiz an der Schwelle zum 21. Jahrhundert. Luzern: Caritas, S. 273–86. [H]

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[9] Roth, C. 1998. ‘Tee und Träume: Zum Generationenkonflikt der Männer in Bobo-Dioulasso’. Ethnopsychoanalyse Bd. 5, Jugend und Kulturwandel. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel, pp. 153–66. [B] 1997 [8] Roth, C. 1997. ‘“Was ist Liebe?” Zum Wandel der Ehe in Bobo-Dioulasso, ein Beispiel’, in B. Sottas et al. (eds), Werkschau Afrikastudien: Le forum suisse des africanistes. Hamburg: Lit, pp. 198–208. [D] 1996 [7] Roth, C. 1996. ‘Liebe Christine!’, in Sixpack Film (eds), Filmart Takes Position. ALIEN/NATION. Vienna: 44–46. [E] [6] Roth, C. 1996. ‘Beruf: Händlerin’, in R. Apsel and V. Brandes (eds), AfrikaKalender 1997. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel, pp. 98–101. [E] [5] Roth, C. 1996. ‘Blutbande als soziales Netz: Die afrikanische Grossfamilie als Wirtschaftsgemeinschaft’. Neue Zürcher Zeitung 4 May: 70. [E] [4] Roth, C. 1996. La séparation des sexes chez les Zara au Burkina Faso. Paris: L’Harmattan. (French translation of: Roth, C. 1994) [G] 1995 [3] Roth, C. 1995. ‘Zürich, Manessestrasse 73: Schwarze Schweizerinnen über Glück und Geiz, Fremdsein und Freundschaft, Ehe und Einsamkeit in der Schweiz. Ein Protokoll’, in Du – Die Zeitschrift der Kultur: Arche Afrika: Ausbruch ins Eigene 12(1) (Dec. 95/Jan. 96): 98–103. [E] [2] Roth, C. 1995. ‘Wehe, wenn die Frauen von Bobo sich schmücken’: Ein ethnologischer Beitrag. Ethnopsychoanalyse Bd. 4, Arbeit, Alltag, Feste. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel, pp. 205–21. [B] 1994 [1] Roth, C. 1994. Und sie sind stolz: Zur Ökonomie der Liebe. Die Geschlechtertrennung bei den Zara in Bobo-Dioulasso, Burkina Faso. Frankfurt am Main: Brandes & Apsel. [G]

P INDEX

A Abidjan, 23, 44, 78, 79, 127, 156, 181, 183 adultery, 52, 57 adulthood, social, 64, 102, 105–6, 108, 111, 121, 135–36, 159, 171, 173, 183, 186n2 ageing, 9, 88, 117, 124 AIDS, 7, 83, 101, 109, 110, 111, 141n10 ambivalence, 4, 42, 99, 101–3, 135, 157, 160, 162 autonomy, dreams of, 9, 39, 52, 60n6, 86, 91, 113n8, 160. See also future, the

children, rearing of, 2, 26, 41, 57, 66, 70, 80, 85, 89, 101–6, 120, 132, 182 classes, economic, 70, 86, 92n2, 98–99, 101, 105, 112n4, 154, 172, 184 colonialism, 64, 68–69, 121, 122 consumer goods, 6, 40–41, 108, 110, 154, 172–75 Cote d’Ivoire. See Ivory Coast co-wives, 47, 80, 131, 133, 180. See also households crisis, economic, 7, 63, 68–70, 100, 110, 122, 169 culture shock, 9, 15–18, 21, 28–29

B badenya, 9, 117–22, 129–39, 179, 180. See also fadenya bèènkè, 129–30, 138 Benda-Beckmann, Franz and Keebet von, 5, 63, 119, 141n8, 170, 186n4 Bobo (people), 21, 35, 77, 78, 96, 129 Bourdieu, Pierre on action, 119, 167 on kinship, 129, 133, 136, 139 on magical negation, 6, 168 on social field, 119–20, 126, 136, 139, 143n28, 169

D Dafni, 35 debt, relationship of, 65, 88, 98, 100–1, 111, 113n7, 117, 120 Dioula, 7, 8, 20, 22, 77–78, 141n6 disrespect. See respect divorce, 35, 69 domains, gendered division of, 2–3, 5, 9, 24–26, 39–41, 52, 67, 121. See also hierarchy: of gender

C capital, forms of, 6, 119–21, 126, 128, 135, 138–39, 141n9, 167, 171, 185

E elderly, support of, 6, 79, 87, 91–92, 97–100, 102, 108–9, 120, 127–28, 137. See also social security ethno-psychoanalysis, 6, 18. See also methodology, research

196

INDEX

exchange, material, 5, 24, 47, 53, 65, 79, 81, 97, 120, 155. See also reciprocity

honour, code of, 66, 68–70, 176 hospitality, 17 households, 1, 4, 28, 44, 45, 53

F fadenya, 118, 130–32, 135. See also badenya family extended, 16, 63, 70, 79, 84, 98, 125, 154–57, 160, 165n2 (see also luba) nuclear, 9, 127, 133 See also kinship groups fille-mère, 37, 101, 106, 176, 181 foreignness, 15, 17–19, 21–22, 24, 26–28, 108, 159 furugundo, 68–69 future, the aspirations for, 6, 107, 154, 158, 166–67, 175–77 notions about, 157, 159–60, 168–70, 179, 182, 184

I Iliffe, John, 66, 83–84 impoverishment. See poverty independence, material from elders, 40–41, 53, 57, 58, 67, 118, 136, 154–58, 160–62 female economic, 3, 41, 46, 52, 109 search for, 38, 98, 100, 105, 111, 164 insecurity, coping with social, 64, 167–69. See also risk, management of institutions, social, 63, 69, 97–98, 110, 118, 121–22, 124–29, 134, 138, 140n3 inverted intergenerational contract. See social contract Ivory Coast, 8, 52, 87, 135

G gifts, 23, 64, 69, 86, 100, 136, 137, 161 exchange of, 17, 41, 133, 172, 175 (see also reciprocity) from suitors, 36–39, 51, 53, 58, 59, 174 grigris, 44, 45, 46, 49n4 grin. See tea-drinking H habitus, 4, 6, 119, 124, 128, 136, 169, 178 hierarchy, 15, 29, 64, 124, 129, 134–35, 138–39, 173 of age, 19, 27, 40, 52–53, 65, 67–68, 98, 109, 118, 129–34, 135–38, 155 (see also social contract) of gender, 19, 41, 53, 58, 65, 98, 109 (see also labour, division of) See also power

J jealousy, 28, 59, 130, 131, 133 joking relationships, 21, 132 K kambele, 36, 180–81 kinship groups, 57, 64–67, 81, 126, 154 relations within, 3, 19, 40, 53, 98, 118–22, 130, 133, 138–39, 179 roles in, 17, 19, 23 See also family Koko, neighbourhood of, 2, 82, 96–97 L labour, division of, 39, 52, 65, 70, 88, 103, 175–76. See also domains, gendered division of laziness, accusations of, 107, 153, 158, 164, 168

INDEX

lineage, 53, 57, 84–86, 98, 117, 133, 165n2 Lobi, 35, 54, 60n5 love, romantic, 9, 59 manifestation of, 36, 51, 53, 58, 65, 109 See also sunguruya luba, 126, 127, 131–33, 142n16. See also family: extended M magic, use of, 49n4, 100, 163, 169 Mandé (societies), 65, 85, 92n5, 117, 124, 129–31 marriage, 9, 38, 42, 47–48, 52–54, 68, 103, 108, 129, 155, 175 materialism, accusations of, 37–38 mèche, 37–38, 43, 109 mediators, 57, 67, 81, 103, 185 methodology, research, 5–7, 18, 27, 29, 142n23 migration, 8, 95, 102, 126, 135, 136 millet, 40, 83, 125, 128, 176 modernity, notions of, 38, 43–45, 51 movement, male control over, 26, 27, 35, 39, 47, 51–52, 57–58, 162 O obedience, 35, 39, 48, 53, 58 Ouagadougou, 8, 16, 83, 96, 123, 156, 170 P pagnes, 37, 65 peasant society, 64, 98 Peul, 21, 35, 96 poverty, 3, 7, 42, 63–64, 68–70, 82–91, 111, 120, 122, 172, 174, 177, 184 power of Europeans, 22–24, 29 of the old, 40–41, 53, 58, 64–68, 84, 91, 98, 100, 106, 111, 120–21, 153–57, 160, 163 (see also elderly, support of)

197

patriarchal, 3, 5, 35, 37, 39, 45, 67 between siblings, 121, 124–26, 128–30, 134–35, 158 (see also badenya) of the unemployed, 84–85, 88, 156, 159–60, 175 of women, 2, 5, 28, 35, 39–41, 67, 128 practice, theory of, 5, 119, 133, 142n23 precarity, economic, 9, 40, 82, 83, 88, 111, 122, 127, 134, 171, 184 pregnancy outside wedlock, 37, 54, 109, 182 property, ownership of, 40, 47, 65, 84, 96, 100, 105, 120, 129 prostitution, 69, 108–9, 111, 113n8 proverbs, 22, 52, 84, 131 R reciprocity, 5, 17, 58, 63–64, 70, 86, 92, 93n8, 95, 106, 137, 171, 185. See also gifts religion, observance of, 27, 45–46, 59, 67, 87, 96, 121, 160 respect, 29, 79, 108, 124, 126, 132, 161, 168, 171–74 conjugal, 9, 47, 52–58, 65, 68–69 between generations, 20, 26–27, 69, 84–86, 92, 100–2, 155, 157, 161 for mothers, 44, 66, 113n8 risk, management of, 4, 169–70, 179. See also insecurity, coping with social S sabab, 177–79, 187n12 Sankara, Thomas, 8, 153, 165n1 Sanou clan, 16, 19–20, 78, 81 segregation, gender. See domains, gendered division of sex, pre-marital, 6, 37, 53, 160

198

INDEX

shame, sense of, 20, 88, 105, 107, 126–27, 158, 172–75 soap, production of, 26, 43, 69, 82, 158 social contract intergenerational, 4, 86, 95–112, 117, 120–22, 126, 129, 134–35, 137–39, 167, 171 inverted intergenerational, 4, 9, 95–96, 99, 101–12, 137–39, 167, 171, 180 See also hierarchy: of age social isolation, 161, 172, 174–75, 184 social mobility, 91, 95–96, 110–11, 124, 126, 129, 134 social prestige, 41, 121, 128, 173 social security, 4, 5, 40, 63–64, 77, 79–80, 88, 98, 100, 117, 121, 131, 155, 185 in matrimony, 64–65, 67–70, 103 in old age, 9, 64, 83–86, 88, 97, 103–4, 117–19, 122, 124, 138–39 social status, 44, 126, 129, 135–36, 167, 168, 173 solidarity, 66, 82, 112, 129–31, 134, 168, 170 myths of, 3, 39, 92 subsistence, 8, 84, 180 sungurunya, 109, 113n16 sunguruya, 9, 35–38, 47–49 Sya, neighbourhood of, 35, 125 T tea-drinking, 90, 107, 153, 158, 164, 174 tontine, system of, 80, 181 traders, female, 28, 41–43, 69, 78, 128, 137, 174, 181. See also work: women’s

transformation, economic, 41, 67, 70, 155 U unemployment, 3, 64, 78–79, 156, 159–60, 173 and matrimony, 48, 69–70, 109, 180 youth, 53, 79, 83, 96, 101–2, 105–8, 121, 124, 153–54, 157–59, 163–64, 170 See also work urbanisation in Africa, 4, 99, 108, 111, 122, 123 W welfare, policies of, 7, 63, 186n4. See also social security work, 6, 53, 65, 69, 78, 82, 87–88, 104, 107–8, 158–59, 168–69, 174–75 in the informal sector, 8, 70, 154 migrant, 8–9, 67, 69 proscription of, 41–46, 48, 57, 157 (see also power: patriarchal) women’s, 26, 36, 40–41, 69–70, 80–81, 105, 176 See also unemployment Y youth, support of, 3, 6, 53, 57, 99, 101, 107, 111, 137. See also social security Z Zara (people), 2, 8, 16, 21, 24, 27–28, 35, 52–53, 58, 78, 129, 155, 181