For Awa Fall-Diop, working with plants is more than just a chance to retreat, it is lived politics. As all things living in her garden, feminism, too, will only grow through care, time, and dedication. Nature teaches her that true resistance will only grow in places where attention and patience have prepared the ground for it.
For decades Awa Fall-Diop has been a formative voice for feminist struggles in Senegal ‒ and beyond. She is well-known for her trade union activism, her efforts towards institutional reform, and the role she has played in the development of Pan-African feminist strategies. Many of us younger feminists refer to her, as a matter of course, as Maman Awa or Tata Awa. Yet beyond her public image there is a more quiet, less visible side of Awa Fall Diop, a side that I was only to learn about by and by, a side which is fundamental for her feminist commitment.
The Garden as a Political Locus
I first became truly aware of this other aspect of her at the sidelines of a national forum of Senegalese feminists that took place towards the end of last year. There, during many debates, Awa Fall-Diop, to the surprise of some participants, again and again referred to her relationship with plants and gardening. These recurrent images piqued my curiosity, and thus I approached her and tried to find out how, to her, the garden has become a central locus of feminist thinking.
For Awa Fall-Diop the love of plants and gardening is neither a hobby nor a fleeting passion. Rather it is part of a profound examination of the political struggle itself, of patience, attention, and regrowth as vital elements of feminist action. Through the careful attention to all things living she is able to get in touch with the soil that is the base which quietly nurtures all that is meant to grow and flourish.
My activism is meant to heal all those collective injuries in our society that were brought about by patriarchy, capitalism, slavery, colonialism, and neocolonialism.
Through her relationship with plants, Awa Fall-Diop's examination of the existing power and economic structures does become tangible. She told me: "My activism is meant to heal all those collective injuries in our society that were brought about by patriarchy, capitalism, slavery, colonialism, and neocolonialism." Although she does not expressly designate this as ecofeminism, she views sustainable plant care and agro-ecological methods as ways of expressing feminist opposition. For her, gardening does not mean turning her back on the world but to engage with what gives life by working, with her own hands, the soil – a soil that is marked by the same violence that also scars our bodies and societies.
For Awa Fall-Diop, sowing, watering, growing seedlings, composting, and preserving endangered species are everyday practices that interconnect feminism, environmental responsibility, and social justice. By engaging in this, she will find answers to the socio-psychological hurts of feminist activism, as well as to the environmental devastations of the current era.
We, as feminists, are under so much emotional, mental and physical pressure that we need support in order to re-energise and stay active in the struggle.
For Awa Fall-Diop, her garden is her refuge, an almost secret realm, which she will only share with a few confidantes. Such withdrawal, however, is neither retreat from struggle, nor is it unpolitical. Quite the contrary is true – tending her garden is a political decision in favour of caring and paying attention, and the garden is a space where she is able to regain the strength that is necessary to persist in the struggle. "We, as feminists, are under so much emotional, mental and physical pressure that we need support in order to re-energise and stay active in the struggle," is how she explains it. Care and attention are thus not a question of personal luxury, but for feminists, as for plants, they represent a strategy for survival.
The garden thus appears to be a locus of quiet resistance, fertile soil on which the political struggle may rest without ever ending. It is a space which she describes thus: "When working in my garden, I'm in a state of peace and at ease, and this gives my the opportunity to think about what is needed in our struggle." It is a space where one is not exposed, a space where to prepare; a space that teaches us to respect certain rhythms, to embrace periods of waiting, and to work with the environment instead of trying to dominate it.
Awa Fall-Diop's relationship with plants is also closely linked with experiences of loss and vulnerability. After the death of her husband, who had been not just a partner but also an important political ally, she experienced a phase of "pre-depression". While looking for aid she became interested in Ayurvedic medicines, and she spent time in a health centre in Kerala, India, where she lived in the middle of a forest full of medicinal plants.
Garab: When Plant and Healing Is the Same Word
In this forest, healing was achieved through listening. To chose a plant that "speaks" means also learning to listen to what hurts inside oneself – without giving up the will to live. A leaf, a blossom will be collected, chopped, and processed – in ways similar to how our bodies will be touched, massaged, and attended to. In such a way, plants become agents in a process of healing, and it is this experience that will deeply shape our relationship with all things living. Since her return from India, she has been consolidating this practice of healing with plants by cultivating and growing them and by letting them grow.
Likewise she points out that language, too, reflects the connection between plant and healing, as in Wolof the same word, garab, means "plant" as well as "remedy". Thus, healing is not something external but part and parcel of all things living. For Awa Fall-Diop plants are much more than a resource for treating wounds; she thinks of them as a certain way to grasp and practice politics, namely, as something that grows, that is passed on and that relies on relationships. Through plants she is able to impart the meaning of struggle, solidarity, and knowledge in ways that are nor abstract but tangible, meaning, something that may be shared and pursued collectively. "Feminism", she says, "is also a movement about sharing" – about sharing knowledge, of sharing practices, and of sharing possessions. Accordingly, the care for living things can neither be accumulated nor privatised, it circulates, it is passed on, and it is given away.
Seeds That Travel – Feminism Without Borders
This is why, during the feminist Jootay Ji festival, Awa Fall-Diop was seen giving away her plants. To her, passing on a plant, is a deeply political act. In her words: "Whenever participants take a plant and learn how to care for it, they will, at the same time, learn how to take care of themselves and of others." Planting and passing on seedlings thus become part of a feminist welfare education, an education that is based on mindfulness, responsibility, and continuity.
Her plants will also travel across borders. Some plants will accompany her, despite the risks of customs checks, bans, and painful losses. To let plants travel means opposing the confinement of all things living; it means believing that feminist struggles are like seeds – spread by the wind, sometimes sorely tested, sometimes lost, yet always with the potential to sprout in new places. Just like seeds, feminist struggles may cross space and time, may move on, put down roots elsewhere, and transform themselves according to context.
The Cactus as Metaphor for Feminist Resilience
Again and again during our conversation she would bring up certain types of plants to visualise feminist experiences of struggle, vulnerability, and perseverance. For Awa Fall-Diop, the cactus is a pivotal metaphor for feminist resilience. She says: "A cactus will survive all kinds of maltreatment without perishing. In this, it is just like women who will withstand all kinds of oppression and continue to live. And whenever you get too close, a cactus will remind you that it has spines."
If we grasp that each moment of our struggle is nothing but an episode within a larger historical play, then we will understand that not all issues will be solved within this present episode of history.
The jasmine plant, on the other hand, teaches us patience, as we do have to wait for a whole season – without ever knowing whether it will blossom in the end. "One day I thought my jasmine had died," she tells me, "yet then, after some rainfall, I did notice a few green shoots. This taught me that what we think of as powerless may actually hold exceptional powers." A few drops of rain may suffice to bring out the green in what seemed to be withered and dead. This comparison reminds us that we should not be discouraged if our feminist struggle does not produce results immediately. Awa Fall-Diop stresses: "If we grasp that each moment of our struggle is nothing but an episode within a larger historical play, then we will understand that not all issues will be solved within this present episode of history." And she emphatically reminds us that "patience is a virtue of feminism, and without it there is no hope."
After all, the image of the blossom invites us to reflect on the ripening of feminism, and on the times, when, what had been seeded before we were born, will start to grow, blossom and, finally, bear fruit. Awa Fall Diop explains: "Not only have I witnessed times of bloom but also, if you want, times when feminism has born fruit." By this she means not so much political achievements such as the Maputo Protocol, Senegal's parity laws, or the criminalisation of rape but the fact that different generations of feminists have sprung up and have learned to work together. She emphasises: "The fact, that we women of different ages are here today is the fruit of decades of feminism." Awa Fall Diop's journey through life exemplifies both phases – the time of blossoming, during which new pathways were explored, new ideas developed, and foundations laid, and the time of fruition, during which new generations appear and continue the struggle.
The Ethic of a Struggle That Follows the Rhythms of Life
To observe Awa Fall-Diop in her garden is to understand her feminism anew – it is to see how a struggle is being cared for, watered, and guarded, and how it will, on occasion, fall fallow in order to gather new strength. Her love of plants is a testimony of her persistence and her ability to view the struggle as a process of life. This is at the core of what is being honoured through the Anne Klein Women's Award – not just visible political results but also the ethic of a struggle that follows the rhythms of life, thus taking into account the slow sustainable growth of women's movements. For the younger generation of feminists this is a vivid reminder of what matters most, namely, that our struggle also involves caring.
Translation: Bernd Hermann
