Guinea: A Note on Gender, Identity, and Positionality

It was my third week and all was going well. I was feeling comfortable and secure in my housing in record timing.  I’d made some valuable connections, or so I thought. And the handful of folks I had spoken with about my research seemed intrigued with the ideas I presented. When all was going so smooth, I should have known it was time it was time for... a breakdown.

I had mine in the middle of a small, side-of-the-road copy and printing stand. I can still recall the depth of frustration radiating off of me as I desperately tried to print the translated version of my research protocol. I was supposed to have met with a contact from the Ministry of Health that morning and then deliver my documents to someone on the ethical research committee, but in my attempt to help a young man out that morning, I got stuck in traffic and was running very late. Three and a half hours later, as I sat sweating in the outdoor shop's corner, the guy was still trying to print and copy my research materials. When he had the audacity to stop my project and start making copies for a man who came in hours after me, I snapped. And when my Ministry contact raised his voice at me on the phone to tell me I’d messed up, I cracked. Every moment that I had just tried to let slide came to me in that instant, and instead of calmly accepting the different mode of business and different mindset in a different country, I opened my mouth to protest and instead cried. Instead of making my appointments as planned, I came out $60 lighter (I didn’t even have the stomach to keep arguing over the absurd price I was given) and very, very upset.

Needless to say, my grand plans for the summer came to halt this week and I had some really important opportunities to reflect. Sure, I had a chance to visit Ignace Deen Hospital, a legacy of Guinea’s colonial past, where I took a brief tour of the large and well-constructed facility to learn about the specialties they’re able to offer. 

Sure, I learned more about the local research ethics committee, as I sat in on a week-long Introduction to Ethical Research class for medical professionals.

But the most important lesson I learned this week was not about Guinea after Ebola or healthcare infrastructure. As I thought of every interaction that day, from the way I was treated at the copy shop to the manner that I was spoken to on the phone, I kept thinking: What if I was older? From Guinea? White? A man?

I was reminded this week that being a woman here (among other things) is hard. Whether it’s the off-handed comments made on a daily basis, like my driver, for example, often yelling “oh, must be a woman driver” when someone cuts him off in the crazy Conakry traffic, or whether it’s the way in which some professional’s hand lingers on my shoulder for just a little longer than feels appropriate to me, let alone in a predominantly Muslim and religious country, I have become hyperaware of how I am perceived and how this can really impact the work I seek to do. It’s not the first time I’ve reflected on how my own identities – as a foreigner, as a young(er) person, as a Black woman – can play a role. But I’ll tell that being so far away from home and having that reminder, of joining the club of women all over who experience difficulties because of who you were born to be, is hard. And it hurts.  

Over the past few days, I have thought a lot about my own positionality, or, in non research terms, how I am viewed in my current context and the social forces that allow me to occupy that place. I am more aware than ever that I’ll need to learn to navigate that over my next few weeks here in order to make more progress in my exploration. But I also can’t help but think that these revelations not only impact the person I will be here, as I already realize I smile a little less and interact a little less freely. These revelations will also influence a major goal for my summer project: understanding the experiences of young women here. 

I share all of this not because I hope it makes for a good story and certainly not because it’s easy for me to talk about. But in the few conversations I’ve had, where I’ve heard similar stories that resonate, I can’t help but think: maybe we all need to talk about this. Maybe we need to be a little more okay acknowledging the ways in which we’ve been shaped by our environments, and how operating in different environments can be really hard. Maybe we need to talk more about not just about respecting different cultures but about understanding how gender and our identities can, and do, play such an important role.