Senegal Reflections 2: A white person in a Black place

“What was it like?” was the “biggest” question I’ve been asked about our family’s recent trip to Senegal, and one that was forefront in my mind. It has a lot to unpack, all of which I believe come down to varying degrees of both curiosity and fear, both related to White Privilege: anonymity, discrimination, economic disparity, and potential resentment from foreign domination.

(To be fair, we met just dozens and directly encountered perhaps hundreds of people, all of which were in the large urban capital city region, so our experiences were quite limited). In fact, we encountered nothing that was any real problem, and challenges were not directly related to race or ethnicity.

My feeling different first began in the airport departure lounge and continued on board the aircraft where I was one of perhaps 3 White amongst 250 Black people. It helped that we were not traveling in a season that attracts many Europeans. Coincidentally (?), we melanin-deficient strangers were all seated in adjacent rows on the European airline. Air Senegal's safety briefing was the first time I'd seen human avatars with skin tones that were based on real skin tones other than mine.

On the beach - not a passive area for sunbathing, but active social and activity areas in the daytime, and family and young persons’ party and gathering place at night – I was perhaps the only White face amongst over a thousand Black faces. I was treated as just another person in a large crowd.

In the main public street markets we visited - which serve as many-blocks-long outdoor department and food stores – I was not a mark or a point of interest. If anything, I was no more than a passerby or someone in the way. I was simply one person in a big city. Only at the more tourist-centered market and ticket lines did I feel truly different, as my visibly non-African origins spoke of money and attracted attention.

When it came to finding a public toilet in the market area, a young man with an impaired leg was eager to guide me up four flights of very steep stairs to the rooftop facilities. He refused a tip for his help - we were simply people. This experience was similar in the many food and drink stands where we had our snacks and meals, although tips were not expected but were welcomed when offered.

My husband and son were struck by being surrounded by people who looked like them and their birth family, which is not their usual experience. Several times they were told they must be African, which created a real sense of belonging for them. (Please see Chris’s LinkedIn article on his experiences).

My perceptions of being different was not strictly based on race or ethnicity, but from the clear intersectionality of these and language, culture, religion, or food; the use of colour and pattern in buildings, art, clothing, and hair; and of course money. The average Senegalese person earns perhaps US $10 per day. Finding West African currency (CFA) in Europe was even more challenging than finding working ATMs or sufficiently small denominations of cash in Senegal. Many use smart phones and virtual banks for payment even in the street markets. Language was our biggest challenge, for none of us spoke more than one or two words of Wolof, but we managed to find people who could understand our gestures combined with my sparse and painful French, and the occasionally fluent English-speaker. Google Translate and writing frequently failed us as we were often communicating with people who had not learned to read. Disparity was huge, both with us and amongst the Senegalese, but we saw nothing like the growing homeless encampments that are now features of many North American cities.

Upon reflection, I believe that the reality of what I as a White person in a near-universally Black society felt was far different than what my Black husband and son feel in a mostly White society. White is near universally the skin colour of power and privilege, and black the skin colour of the powerless, underserved, and underprivileged. Before this trip, I wondered if I would encounter any signs of resentment, but I did not wonder about being targeted by police, denied service, or endangered by a system geared for those who do not look like me. (In fact, none of these happened to me, but they have to my non-white family members in the USA).

Senegal provided a wonderful example of what it means to be Black. In the USA in particular, the majority consider Black people in mostly monolithic terms: Black and African American are used as a broad classification, label, or title. White is an adjective of skin colour, not culture or language; for those, we use nationalities and cultures (i.e. Italian, French, etc.). From this perspective, the Senegalese would not be considered Black - and I suspect would not identify even as black. They are Senegalese, Wolof, Fula, Serer, Mandinka, Jola, Soninke, or African. As the book and title Africa is Not a Country makes clear, Africa and its nation-states are not monolithic, but are every bit as diverse collections of peoples, languages, and cultures as in any of the majority-white areas around the globe.

Visiting Senegal was powerful, wondrous, and a privilege.

More to follow.

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