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Abstract

French

How do Muslim women balance their religious agency and political aspirations? Gender quotas have been used across the African continent to improve women's political visibility since the 1990s. Senegal's own experiment with gender equality in 2010 faced political barriers as well as religious ones. The author sheds light on how Muslim women activists in Senegal shaped women's place in their communities through the gender parity law. Based on multiple fieldwork visits from 2016 to 2018 and individual interviews with activists and scholars involved in the movement to make gender parity the law in Senegal, the author argues that while Islam may not always be the most adequate tool to dismantle patriarchal norms, it remains a valuable framework for women activists in Senegal to achieve secular change.

Keywords

Senegal gender equality gender parity women's organisation religion Islam gender quota

Introduction

How do women activists in Senegal navigate between their political fight for equal gender representation and their identity as Muslim women? This article explores how women activists in Senegal shaped and reshaped their political agency in their journey towards gender parity law within the religious and cultural context of their society.¹ The notion of women's agency, especially within the patriarchal and conservative boundaries of religion, has been the subject of much research and scholarship (Alidou, 2005; Göle, 1996; Latha, 2010; Mahmood, 2004; Rinaldo, 2013). Mahmood's seminal work in reframing docility and piety as a form of agency within Islam has especially prompted a new debate around the different forms of religious agency. However, Deeb and Harb (2013), as well as Schielke (2009), have noted that piety is often not the primary motivator for everyone involved in the advancement and practice of their faith. “Privileging piety and the cultivation of virtuous selves ignores the complexities of the social context,” (Deeb and Harb, 2013: 2), this article analyzes one form of female religious agency through the political work of women activists in Senegal around the gender parity law adopted in 2010 and highlights the nuanced way Islam guides their political goals without compromising their religious practices and rules.

Senegal became the first country in Africa to pass a Law on Absolute Parity (Loi sur la Parité Absolue – LPA, but also commonly referred to as the gender parity law) in 2010,² which led to an immediate and significant increase in the number of female deputies in the national assembly, from 22 per cent in 2007 to 42 per cent in 2012 to 44 per cent following the latest legislative elections in July 2022.³ The law clearly stipulates that all political parties participating in elections at the national and regional levels must present a list of candidates that includes 50 per cent male and 50 per cent female candidates. The list should indicate the sex of the candidate next to each name and should also ensure that the list alternates between men and women (often called a zebra system). The national assembly in Senegal is composed of 165 members, with ninety seats that are elected through a simple majority system and sixty through a proportional system. Fifteen are reserved for overseas voters. The LPA is to be applied for all these seats without exception. Theoretically, this should ensure an “absolute parity” once elections have been conducted. In reality, very few to none of the political parties will put a female candidate at the head of the list. This means that when a political party or a coalition wins an uneven number of seats, there will always be more men than women. The establishment of this law, not without its challenges and opponents, and the numerical improvement it has brought, when juxtaposed with the reality that Senegal is an overwhelmingly Muslim country, offers pertinent insight into how women activists in Senegal have strategically used and continue to use Islam as a support for their political agency, all the while maintaining the delicate rules of gender balance in the private sphere.

I argue that in their effort to make the LPA a reality, activist women in Senegal were not aiming at a radical change of the status quo within their society and did not intend to disrupt the religious teachings to which they were accustomed. Rather, they rallied behind the secular law to pursue and see the changes they actually cared about, which had more to do with better representation of women in politics and less to do with dismantling the existing patriarchal or religious system. The reason many Senegalese activist women who fought for their rights did not want to radically change their status quo is Islam's role in their society and day-to-day lives. The presence of Islam in every aspect of their lives meant that many of the existing norms within their domestic spheres, for instance, were left untouched or did not warrant further discussion for change, at least at this stage. Following Sieveking's (2007) work on Senegal's Family Code and the glocalisation of norms and Sow's (2018) work on the danger of religious fundamentalism when used to deny women their rights, this article observes the different strategies and arguments used by women activists in their political journey towards gender parity while taking into account their social and religious contexts. The article further highlights the strategy to pursue and enforce parity rather than the traditional quota (often at less than 50 per cent) in Senegal as a choice that aligns better with women's Muslim values and better counters some of the objections from more religious and traditional groups.

Women Defining Agency within Islam and through Gender Quotas

The following literature review first addresses the existing scholarship on how women use religious spaces and faith to activate their political agency. This review helps situate Senegal as a predominantly Muslim country and juxtaposes women's activism in Senegal with their religious context. Following this, the review addresses the literature around gender quotas, which, as vast as it is, often very much neglects the role of religion and religious identities in the populations affected. The majority of the literature on gender quotas is concentrated on Latin America and African countries where Islam is not prevalent, thus the case of Senegal provides a useful opportunity to examine the strategies and contexts of the implementation of gender quotas in an understudied religious context.

Scholars like Ahmed (1992), Alidou (2005), Al-Sharmani (2013), Mahmood (2004), and Kang (2013, 2015) have revealed the specific space for political and social activism that Islam provides for women. Especially aligning with the argument made by postcolonial feminists that western feminists often only recognise certain kinds of agency that are limited to a narrow definition of fighting for empowerment and freedom from patriarchy (Mohanty, 1988; Narayan, 1997), the work on Muslim women's agency highlights the multitude of ways Muslim women are using and transforming their religious beliefs to fight for what they believe to be their rights as not only women but as individuals with intersecting identities in the larger society (Byng, 1998; Haddad et al., 2006; Rinaldo, 2013). From Mahmood's (2004) work on piety as a form of agency to Rinaldo's work (2013) on pious critical agency, the way Muslim women use religious texts and practices to accompany their political activism as well as their social interactions has been well researched. Islam and feminism should therefore not be seen in adversary or opposite terms but rather as a complementary relationship. Scholars like Badran (2009), Mir-Hosseini (2006), and Moghadam (2012) also argue that Muslim women very much engage with ideas of feminism and work to reconcile the teachings of Islam with ideas of female empowerment and gender equality on their own terms. Moreover, women residing in countries where Islam plays a significant role in people's daily lives as well as in social and political institutions are aware that a secular framing of the issues they care about, especially related to gender, is not as efficient as a religious one (Tajali, 2015). It is in this context where religion cannot be ignored that we can best understand the strategies used by women activists in Senegal to reframe their political rights.

While this article focuses on how and why religion shapes the strategies of women activists in Senegal, it also builds on the significant research on gender quotas, their varieties (legislative, voluntary, reserved seats), the strategies leading up to them, the changes they bring (descriptive, substantive or symbolic), and their effectiveness. Chattopadhyay and Duflo (2004) and Piscopo (2011) demonstrate that in the case of India, Mexico, and Argentina, once elected, women enact policies or propose legislation that are beneficial to women and respond to the needs and demands of their female constituents, whether better access to clean water sources and safer roads (India) or more attention to health concerns and general women's rights (Mexico and Argentina). Dahlerup and Freidenvall (2010), Krook (2006, 2009, 2014), Schwindt-Bayer (2009), and Tripp and Kang (2008) agree that gender quotas at the very least improve women's presence in political positions, thereby achieving descriptive significance.

Most existing scholarship is more preoccupied with the effects of gender quotas⁴ and whether they lead to substantive changes for women, both inside and outside of politics, than with the adoption of quotas. However, existing literature suggests that for gender quotas to be adopted, women's groups and women's campaigns need to make sure that quotas are portrayed as a legitimate means to increase gender equality. In more specific terms, this means that they often need the support of political parties or elites as well as international and transnational networks. Gender quotas have rarely succeeded without alliances or networks. Quotas tend to be adopted after women's organisations or civil society agents bring the idea to the table, often inspired by transnational and global women's norms and conferences. Political parties and/or political elites then have to pick those proposals and bring them to the legislative forum, which is often facilitated (though not always) by male legislators (Caul, 2001; Dahlerup, 2008; Krook, 2009).

Bauer and Britton (2006), Bauer (2012), Bauer and Burnet (2013), Kang (2015), and Muriaas et al. (2013) are among the many scholars who have specifically examined the adoption of gender quotas in the African context. Bauer and Burnet (2013) especially argue that Botswana not only failed to adopt gender quotas but also failed to establish significant women's representation in their political apparatus because of a weak women's movement in the country. They emphasise the importance of a cohesive and long-lasting women's movement to quota adoption. Scholars have also explored the type of electoral systems that are more conducive to efficient gender quota implementation (Tripp et al., 2009; Yoon and Bunwaree, 2006). Tøraasen's (2019) article on the symbolic effect of the law on parity in Senegal underscores the vibrant activity of women's organisations in Senegal and their long campaign for parity as key drivers in the adoption of the parity law. She also emphasises women activists’ allyship with the then-President Abdoulaye Wade, which helped overcome the reticence of Muslim conservative leaders, especially in the city of Touba, which is considered a holy place in Senegal and therefore often exempt from political and social rules of the rest of the country (465–466).

Kang's (2015) book on Niger, another Muslim country aspiring for democracy offers a comparable case with Senegal. Kang argues that “Niger's adoption of a gender quota law was inextricably linked to women's mobilisation in and outside the state. Women's activists constructed the lack of women in formal politics as a public problem and quotas as a thinkable solution” (2015: 118). The significant presence of women's mobilisation outside of the state resonates with what happened in Senegal, as will be explained in the later sections. However, Kang also notes that in Niger, “the nonmobilisation of conservative religious activists also helped make the adoption of a quota possible” (118, emphasis added by the author). I contend that this lack of religious resistance presents a contrast with Senegal. While there was no notable religious activism in the form of protests, the gender parity law encountered severe resistance from religious conservatives who claimed that this form of gender equality did not fit with the scriptures of the Qur’an or with the existing Senegalese “tradition.” This opposition actually led the first version of the law to be considered unconstitutional in 2007. Therefore, the present article contributes to gaining a broader understanding of the different forces that occur before and after the adoption of gender quotas and argues that insight into what (or who) leads to such legislative measures is primordial in evaluating their place in the larger society.

Why Senegal? Islam and the Emergence of the Gender Parity Law

As in many parts of West Africa, Islam arrived in Senegal as early as the eleventh century but was not adopted by the ruling class until well after, even as the religion spread to most of the population. Until the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Muslim religious leaders, or marabouts, served as advisors to Senegalese rulers and provided religious protection through prayers, blessings, and amulets, but they did not interfere with local politics (Babou, 2005; Robinson, 2000). Islam in Senegal is institutionalised around a hierarchical system that binds disciples of different Islamic groups into associations that are in turn tied to religious leaders and centres. This hierarchical organisation existed well before colonialism, but it was solidified during the colonial period to benefit the French administration. It was maintained and reinforced in the post-colonial setting, giving Islam its significant role today in various aspects of political and social life in Senegal (Villalón, 2004). The French colonial powers were at first doubtful of the presence and influence of Islam and marabouts in Senegal. Some saw the religion and its followers as a potential source of resistance against the new colonial presence, but most colonial authorities soon learned that they could use the existing hierarchy and authority to their benefit. The marabouts became “one of the main pillars of the French colonial system,” collaborating with colonial authorities and helping provide legitimacy to many colonial economic and social endeavours. At the same time, they distanced “themselves from direct association with the French colonial administration” (Gellar, 2005: 33).⁵ Rather than using traditional or religious leaders for administration, the French placed formal canton chiefs throughout the country to carry out their orders. These canton chiefs were seen as part of the colonial machine, and the local population turned to religious authorities and village chiefs (who were not recognised as legitimate authority by the French administration) as a source of leadership and trust. Consequently, marabouts had close ties to the French state yet retained their independence and status in society. Even today, survey results indicate that local marabouts and local chiefs are deemed more trustworthy than politicians, National Assembly delegates, and anyone who represents the central government in Dakar (Afrobarometer, 2008). The particular cohabitation of politics and religion that emerged during the colonial period is at the basis of much of the political and social life in Senegal and is something that has continued to be at the core of Senegal's identity as a nation since its independence under the rule of Léopold Sédar Senghor, first president of the country and for the subsequent twenty years. Smith explains that “Senghor repeatedly criticised the Western dichotomisation of politics and religion” (2013: 158) and created a political culture and consensus “among Senegalese political elites that ‘The state must support religions and brotherhoods in order to help Senegalese to better live their faith’” (2013: 161). The history and socialisation of religion in politics and vice versa permeates the dynamics and structures of women's organisations as well, as discussed later in the article.

As previous literature has asserted, the heavy presence of Islam has never deterred women's activism in Senegal. Indeed, the LPA is the result of the effort of various women's organisations in Senegal starting as early as the 2000s, mainly the Senegalese Council of Women (Conseil Sénégalais des Femmes, COSEF), the Siggil Jiggéen Network (Réseau Siggil Jiggeen, RSJ), and the Association of Female Jurists in Senegal (Association des Juristes Sénégalaises, AJS). All of them were created in the 1990s, at the height of Africa's wave of democratisation and as women realised the need for more structural organisation around the pre-existing local and informal women's groups (Tøraasen, 2019: 465). Many, if not most members, of these organisations were and are themselves Muslim, and their religion had never been a problem in their fight for the law. After an unsuccessful attempt in 2007, when a less extensive law (which only applied to the proportional list at the national assembly and excluded local and regional elections) was boycotted by a dozen deputies and deemed unconstitutional by the Constitutional Council, the LPA became an uncontested part of the national legal cloth in 2010. It went into effect for the legislative elections of July 2012 and saw an immediate change in the composition of the national assembly. Sixty-four women were elected to sit in the National Assembly, comprising 42.67 per cent of the total number of seats. Today, there are seventy-six women among a total of 165 representatives in the national assembly (46 per cent).⁶

Methodology

The data for this article are drawn primarily from forty semi-structured interviews with key informants conducted over nine months from the summer of 2016 to the spring of 2018 in the capital city of Dakar, as well as the region of Thiès, Kaolack, and Saint-Louis. In choosing my field sites, I prioritised cities that had an active women's movement or were home to important women's organisations. Since I was interested in the journey leading up to the law, especially the connection between the activists and their religious identity, I deemed it was important that I talk with the women activists who were involved first-hand in its proposal and drafting over time. The capital city of Dakar is home to COSEF, the RSJ and the AJS, while Thiès, due to its proximity to the capital, benefits from active and dynamic local women's organisations. I was able to attend three different regular village meetings around Thiès, often organised around neighbourhoods. Women also organised themselves according to their occupation (street vendors) or their concerns (group for disabled women). Kaolack is further in the interior of the country but is home to APROFES, a vibrant women's organisation that coordinated with COSEF for their campaign in rural areas to raise awareness around the parity law. Members of APROFES also hold regular legal caravans in the surrounding rural areas, where women often have a hard time travelling. As the former capital of the French colonial administration in Senegal and then West Africa until 1902, Saint-Louis’ political and social position has since dwindled. Nevertheless, the fact that the second most renowned university of Senegal (Université Gaston Berger) and the Center for Research and Documentation of Senegal (Centre de Recherches et Documentation du Sénégal) are housed in this city meant that I would be able to talk to researchers, scholars, and activists in these places.

My interviewees were mostly individuals working in women's organisations, reporters at local radio stations, and academics. Many academics were both activists and members of civil society who raised awareness around the law. The interviews were conducted in the offices of the organisations (COSEF, RSJ, and AJS), and I was able to establish contact prior to my arrival through Facebook. Once I finished interviews in Dakar, I asked for referrals for people and organisations in more rural areas. This snowball sampling was efficient in Senegal, especially as a foreign researcher, since this indirect introduction and connection helped establish a minimum sense of trust between myself and the interviewees. Each interview lasted for an hour to an hour and a half and was conducted in French. The interview questions focused on the different political, social, and religious aspects of the LPA and were drafted prior to the meeting, with room for questions on the spot depending on the answers of my interviewees. The interviews addressed LPA's origin and history and its “place” in Senegalese society, as well as the role of the different respondents in the movement for the LPA, their perception and interpretation of how it was received by people, and of course their perception of the role of religion in the process and the aftermath of the LPA. With Islam playing a vital role in Senegalese society, the participants often naturally mentioned religion to explain and illustrate their responses, even when unprompted. To complement the interviews, I also took an ethnographic approach when attending conferences, workshops, training sessions, and village and neighbourhood gatherings, during which I was also able to converse with the different participants, oftentimes sharing a meal, an important aspect of Senegalese daily life.

Political Representation and “Doing” Religion in Senegal

Political representation of women in Senegal reflects gender inequalities at the societal level, such as the gap in education between boys and girls at the primary, secondary, and tertiary levels.⁷ Gender disparity becomes even more visible in rural areas, where women are often discouraged from working and pressured to get married young and are therefore less able to become employed in formal sectors, and even if they do, are not provided equal pay.⁸ Many women living in rural areas are also unaware of their rights or of the legal recourse available to them, for example when they want to exit unstable relationships. Until the legislative elections of 2001, the percentage of women voted into the national assembly remained below 20 per cent. Due to the patrimonial and patriarchal nature of the Senegalese Government, women struggled to gain the authority and more importantly, the financial resources, to sustain political support (Beck, 2003). A long-term politician and one of the pioneers of the LPA explained to me that “money is a big problem,” and that she did not always have the means to sustain her political career path and even less her leadership position in her political party (Member of National Assembly, 2017, personal communication).

Whether the numerical increase in female representation across the country following the LPA's adoption will lead to significant and actual changes for the rest of Senegalese women is a pertinent inquiry. Many women activists see this law as something that will open conversation about the need for stricter rules to combat gender-based violence or even the need to legalise abortion. However, the focus of this article is retrospective: what strategies were used by the women who worked for the LPA and how did religion shape these strategies? The analysis takes religion into account by looking at Islam not in terms of limitation or hindrance in achieving the goal of women's representation, but rather as an inevitable social fact and an inescapable aspect of women activists’ identity. In other words, the research looks at Senegalese women as both religious and political agents. Research on political autonomy and motivation among female actors who are part of a religion is scarce (as opposed to research on “female religious actors” who are defined by said religion), and this article attempts to fill this gap by bringing in the political into the religious and vice versa and by considering Senegalese women activists as political agents first and as religious beings second. Research is also scarce on women's movements that lead to feminist legislation in officially secular, Muslim-majority countries. According to Avishai et al., applying a gendered lens on religion means “treating neither religion nor gender as a variable, but rather examining their complex intersections, without assuming a deterministic framework” and “studying how religious collectivities produce and reproduce gendered identities and institutions, as well as how men and women live their lives and negotiate with dominant ideas and identities” (2015: 13). In this article, I argue that activist women in Senegal did not necessarily aim at dismantling some of the patriarchal systems and gender notions that religion had developed over the years in society (to borrow Avishai et al.'s words, the “dominant ideas and identities”). Rather they used strategies that did not disrupt the religious teachings they all lived with. They negotiated patriarchal norms through an intricate process of merging their primary political goal of equal representation with existing religious mores. They saw religion as part of their lives and pointed out the teachings of the Qur’an to support their argument, therefore using the same strategy that sceptics of the LPA used to argue against gender equality based on Islam. While portrayals of Muslim women and women living in Muslim countries, as well as Islam overall, by Western media may lead us to think of women's rights as being separate from the religion, Senegalese women have found ways to redefine their rights and interests through a religious lens and to form leadership in religious instances.⁹ This process of redefining the concept of women's rights within the Senegalese context resonates with Mahmood's critique of our need to find resistance even when there is none, and her argument against the assumption that “we all somehow seek to assert our autonomy when allowed to do so, that human agency primarily consists of acts that challenge social norms and not those that uphold them (Mahmood, 2004: 5).”

Arguing for Parity, a “Religious” Strategy?

Since the passage of the LPA, parité has become a catchphrase for everything in Senegal. Proponents of the law use it as a symbol of victory in terms of advancing women's representation in Senegal. Opponents and sceptics of the law use it as a derogatory and dismissive term to express their discontent with a concept they do not see as “Senegalese” or as something serious enough to merit attention. Yet, the choice of this word, as I came to learn, instead of other words more widely used elsewhere, such as “gender equality” or simply “equality” (égalité), was a deliberate one to indicate the specific scope of the law and to signal its adherence to existing Muslim norms around gender roles. One of the first confusions in my fieldwork in Senegal was indeed this distinction most women made when asked about the LPA and equality. My initial understanding had been that the LPA would eventually lead to a conversation about equality between sexes, which included not only equal wages at the workplace or equal representation in politics but also, on a more mundane level, an equal share of household duties at home or an equal access to religious positions; in other words, notions of equality embedded within women's personal lives. These assumptions were quickly corrected when respondents stated firmly that “parity is not equality (‘la parité, ce n’est pas l’égalité’)” or that “the law is not about gender equality.”

For women, parity means that men and women have the same competencies. What men can do, women can do too. Parity is limited to elective functions. Parity is not saying that men are equal to women. Islam forbids that and women understand it very well. Parity is not equality. It's not at the level of households or in society. When we talk about parity, we need to open the dialogue with the imams (religious leaders). (Female deputy mayor, 2018, personal communication)

Equality is what ensures a balance. Parity is mathematics, but parity is an element of equality (…) and a phenomenon we have to value. It's a necessary value to ensure human rights and women's right to development. It is the source and cause of harmony in God's world. (Female community organiser in the city of Thiès, 2017, personal communication)

In fact, one way to distinguish the two terms was explained as differentiating between “political parity” on the one hand and “personal or household parity” (parité du ménage) on the other. With the former, Senegalese women would be given the same opportunities to run for office and to represent the Senegalese people at the national assembly or at the municipal offices. To prepare women for these political roles, they would have training opportunities and networks of support. The change would be purely political and would not disrupt the existing social or religious norms. Women were quick to point out, for instance, that they were not expecting men to deal with banal household chores. “Parity doesn’t mean that men have to go to the market” said one interviewee, underlining that men do not have to engage with maintaining the household (Member of National Assembly, 2017, personal communication). Part of the concern with changing household roles is that equality might mean women would have to contribute equally to the household budget, as opposed to the current situation, based on the teachings of Islam, where the man is presumed to be the sole or main provider of the family while women control their own financial earnings and are not required to use them for household expenses (President of neighbourhood women's association, 2017, personal communication). This division of roles is not purely financial or blatant proof that Islam puts women in a subordinate role to men within the family even though men make “the decisions that matter” (Female reporter, 2016, personal communication). The understanding and application of this division is more complex, in that the practice of Islam in Senegal acknowledges the different roles of men and women, as well as their specific contributions to the functioning of a household.

In religion, it's the man who is always at the head of the household (chef de la maison), and the woman contributes to the management of the family. This is a fact, pure and simple, and we are not looking to change this fact. For instance, a woman can never be an imam, and this is also a fact that women agree with and are not looking to change. But women are just as competent in any other field of the workplace. Women are for parity because if a woman is mediocre, they will just as well be against it. They won’t just condone a woman's incompetence just because she is a woman. (Female city council member, 2018, personal communication)

This statement shows that Islam as practiced in Senegal almost follows the precolonial gender roles, according to which men and women had different responsibilities but equal in terms of importance (Sudarkasa, 1986). In other words, Islam may dictate that men be financially responsible for the family, but women would have the responsibility of maintaining peace and order in the household, a role that is seen as complimentary to and not inferior to that of providing the family budget.

The strategic choice of the term parité as opposed to égalité therefore illustrates women activists’ desire for equal political rights and their adherence to religious norms so as not to disturb existing ideologies and practices around gender roles in Senegal. This process is starkly different from the moves from gender quotas to parity that we have witnessed lately in some countries in Europe (Portugal) and Latin America (Ecuador, Bolivia, Costa Rica, Honduras, Mexico, Nicaragua, and Panama). In these countries, the change from quota to parity often occurred after a “trial period” with gender quotas, especially in Latin America (Baum and Esperanto-Santo, 2012; Piscopo, 2014). Piscopo argues that in both regions, quotas proved to be insufficient for making structural changes and transcending the tokenism that affirmative measures like quotas instil. By quoting Archenti, she emphasises that “parity–unlike quotas–constitutes a principle, not a measure” (2014: 3). This decision to choose quotas over parity at the beginning indicates that many countries had aimed at quotas to redress some of the inequalities without “ruffling the feathers” too much. However, these countries are slowly realising that the quota, as a “measure,” is actually not getting at the more substantive and fundamental challenges of gender inequity.

I argue that quota as an option was not the case in Senegal, where women's organisations like COSEF were intent on parity law from the start. The firm decision to approach women's political rights through parity and parity only is supported by Tøraasen's recent study on the process and symbolic effect of the law and is especially evidenced by the numerous seminars and publications on the gender parity law and non-existent documentation on a move for the quota (COSEF, 2011a, 2011b; Tøraasen, 2019: 465). Since its establishment in 1994, COSEF has been invested in engaging with political actors to better understand and solve the issue of women's marginalisation in the political sphere. COSEF's clear political objectives for women often led to debates around the meanings and mechanics of democracy (a campaign in 1998) and citizenry (a campaign organised in 2001). Based on these initiatives, COSEF slowly but naturally turned its attention to the question of parity in 2005 (COSEF, 2011b: 12–13). All of my interviewees started the conversation with the gender quota right away, clarifying specifically that the parity was not a quota and that women activists in Senegal were clear in their intention to suggest a parity law from the start instead of pushing for a quota like many of their neighbours in the continent. They were also proud that even Rwanda, which boasts more than 60 per cent of women in its national assembly started with a gender quota “only.”¹⁰

This article, therefore, argues that women's organisations and women activists in Senegal saw in parity not just a political strategy towards a better democracy, like their counterparts in Niger, but also a social and religious strategy that would uphold the Muslim values of equality of political rights but not equality of responsibilities. In supporting and pursuing this objective of political equality, women's organisations embraced and dealt with religious questions rather than avoiding them altogether. This is not to generalise that all women activists or that all communication from the different organisations emphasised religion. However, there is no denying that this has been an important aspect of their strategies, since women within these associations are aware that Islam plays an important part in Senegalese society. A female reporter told me for instance that “When we invoke religion, the men have to retreat because of our strong belief system in Islam (…) Islam is already paritaire (abiding by parity)¹¹ and men and women have the same responsibilities in the Qur’an” (2016, personal communication). More importantly, many of the women were invested in maintaining those religious values, either for personal or social reasons. Many of the neighbourhood gatherings for instance often started with a Muslim prayer headed by one of the more senior women. Legal clinics that travelled to remote villages to advise women always had a prayer pause as well. For the activists involved in the achievement of gender parity, their Muslim identity exists as a given, in parallel to their political and economic objectives and embedded within their identity. As such, the religious concerns accompanied the women's struggle for better equality of their rights, without having to disrupt their familial or personal duties as taught by the Qur’an.

Mahmood (2004) in her work, questions the idea that the authority of religious institutions and rules are often, if not always, a source of oppression and simply submission. When women “choose” to find themselves, either spiritually or politically, they can do so within the fluid boundaries of religion, she asserts. Islam is therefore not seen as limiting their potential by these women, but rather as a given and a must in developing the individuals’ full potential. The women in this research align with the Egyptian women in Mahmood's work in that they live in “a context where the distinction between the subject's own desires and socially prescribed performances cannot be easily presumed” and in that “submission to certain forms of (external) authority is a condition for achieving the subject's potentiality” (2004: 31). Resistance and freedom (against and from patriarchal norms embedded in Muslim practices in Senegal) therefore are not the most significant part of the agency performed by supporters of the LPA. Instead, the definition of agency and choice happen within the Senegalese and Muslim realities women are living in.

However, unlike Mahmood's subjects, the women this research analyzes did not aim for religious piety either. Instead, the way activist women in Senegal addressed parity gets closer to the framework of Avishai's “doing religion” as a “mode of conduct and being, a performance of identity,” all the while diverging from “the goal of becoming an authentic religious subject” (2008: 413). The emphasis is not so much on the unquestioned religiosity of the subject but rather on the construction of religiosity and especially on “the enactment of religiosity in the context of social norms and regulatory discourses” (2008: 413). In the same line, Alidou (2005) contends that agency cannot be apprehended outside the realm of possibilities – material or otherwise – available to individuals or communities in the larger society. In her exploration of women's political and strategic usage of religion to address particular needs, Alidou argues that Muslim women have appropriated Islam to both reinforce existing patriarchal norms on the one hand, but also “open up potentially emancipatory space, on the other hand” (2005: 150). In doing so, she expands our understanding and assumptions of agency. The agency does not exist in a vacuum and is not an abstract concept women are supposed to achieve in a uniform manner, regardless of their own identities or their surroundings. Agency will therefore look different under different conditions, such as under varying degrees of religiosity.

By maintaining that men have to be the main financial providers of the household, women in Senegal were not looking for “financial independence” that often underlines the fight against patriarchy and that therefore accompanies the women's rights movements in the West. This economic aspect often associated with “gender equality” is not an aspect that is deemed important for women supporting the LPA at the moment. Nonetheless, for the majority of the activists that I have met and talked to, parity is synonymous with “equal political and economic opportunities as men.” They want to have the same access to jobs as men, and they want to be paid the same. They want to be acknowledged for the qualities they themselves have always known to be true, that they can do any job as any man can; and be recognised for it. They want their daughters to be able to stay in school because they can and do excel in their classes. They do not want to have to justify their maternity leave and having children and be punished for remaining faithful to their familial duties. Parity, according to a former president of a women's association in Dakar, is “imperative for women to gain their autonomy and (affirm) their political role within the public space” (2016, personal communication).

Women are certainly aware that religion will always be used as an argument against their fight for parity. However, more than anything, they are aware that Senegal lives and thrives in that religious connection and tolerance. As a reporter working for the national press explained, “religion is a positive experience in Senegal and religious actors play an important part in communities. Women were aware of this and made sure that for every topic they dealt with, they prepared a religious argument based on research and a close reading of the Qur’an, which helped them to have a conversation with religious leaders” (2016, personal communication). Activists in Senegal very much distanced themselves from Islam as practiced in Saudi Arabia or even in their neighbouring country of Mauritania. They saw their Islam as more flexible and something that united the country. According to the same reporter:

In Senegal, finding consensus and national unity is very important. People are linked by history and religion. Religion is something that is very fundamental. Faith is very strong. There are rules, religious and cultural that we need to follow. (2016, personal communication)

She then proceeded to describe Islam as a resource for support many women could turn to in their fight for parity, all the while acknowledging that others could just as well use it for the opposite purpose:

Islam is already very equitable among genders. Men and women have the same obligations. God cites men and women the same number of times. Islam is open to interpretation. That is why sometimes it is used to say men are superior to women. Parity can bring equilibrium and balance in these circumstances and bring equality of opportunity and access to women.

They saw Islam as a tolerant belief system and expressed pride in how it was practiced in the country (Diouf, 2013). The fact that Islam was open to diverse interpretations was something that activists were counting on when situating parity within religion, and therefore constituted a source of strength for the women fighting for gender parity. This idea of tolerance and support coming from Islam was iterated multiple times during this research, from women activists to jurists to people meeting in their village gatherings. This religious and philosophical practice as seen in Senegal coincides with what many Muslim women have done in other Muslim-majority countries and Islamic countries, finding “woman-friendly sources from an already existing set of authoritative exegetical texts” (Ahmadi, 2006: 37; Mojab, 2001). A law professor and lawyer also reiterated the same argument:

Many organisations use religious arguments in their texts and pleas. Islam is actually beneficial for them because it allows open interpretations of the religious text. It is not like Catholicism, where there is a strict and single teaching coming down from a single authority. Even judicial arguments here include religious elements. Because the Qur’an specifies the role of women and of the mother, so judicial texts and society should reflect this. Even when it comes to abortion, there are different schools in Islam, and the most tolerant one can be used as an argument. (2016, personal communication)

The concepts of parity and equality illustrate the way activists are complying with their specificities and using them to construct a new framework around discussing their political rights without being seen as going against the religion they grew up with. The activists in Senegal do not want their understanding of this gender parity to become the start of a debate that involves gender equality, not only because this would go against some of the teachings of Islam as some people would see it, but also because they do not see equality as their goal.¹² Certainly, many women's organisations and feminist organisations have gender-related issues as their priority, such as eliminating (or reducing) gender-based violence and changing divorce laws to increase women's freedom and parental rights. However, these issues remain on the “fringe” in Senegal, as in many countries across the world. According to Htun and Weldon, when women's movements have to deal with the constraints of the state or religious norms, they must “argue for the relevance of their concerns to these established, often already defined priorities” (2018: 54). Religious norms and the gender roles of Islam in Senegal play a role in limiting what is defined as priorities. In this context, the LPA was less controversial than other potential laws women activists might have advocated for, for example related to abortion or regulating gender-based violence. Women activists could push the LPA as something that worked within what is deemed possible and acceptable in Senegalese society in a way they have not been able to with other issues.

The LPA would indeed facilitate conversations around gender-related issues that have not yet taken hold in Senegalese society. After all, if women and men are both considered important in the Qur’an even if not equal, wouldn’t gender-based violence go against such teachings? Parity only involves the numbers at the national assembly level and only expands to the political and economic incentives that come with these numbers. Women and men should be equal at this level, which does not necessarily translate into their homes, households, or religious instances.

“They do not want their husbands to stop providing economically for their families, since this is a duty delineated in the Qur’an. They do not want men to turn away from their traditional responsibilities as heads of the household because they do not want to disrupt the familial ties and structures that Islam preaches. They most certainly do not want a chance to become imams” (Member of COSEF, 2016, personal communication).

The casual yet intentional distinction Senegalese women make between the two words “parité” and “égalité” is one that is, perhaps, not easy to understand for many of us who may see the political equality leading to personal equality (the personal is political, after all, and vice versa).¹³

It may not be obvious to many why activists in Senegal actively make the choice of using one word over the other. Yet power resided in this choice; the power to choose, the power to adapt, and the power to redefine. The choice of this strategy in the Senegalese context aligns better with Islamic principles and therefore allows women activists to stay true to their Muslim values while also advancing their political rights. Abu-Lughod suggests that instead of simply reading acts women take as moments of opposition to and escape from, dominant relations of power, they should also be understood as reinscribing alternative forms of power (Abu-Lughod, 1990). By consciously choosing certain terms over another, women activists for parity were not necessarily going against the dominant system, but rather reemphasising their needs and their definition of what power meant for them within the existing structures.

The parity in numbers does not lead to the simple equation of “woman = man” which is something that is often engrained in men's minds when they talk about the law. In the words of the aforementioned politician and delegate at the national assembly, parity is “purely mathematical” (which inadvertently is not “equality” because there are more women than men in Senegal), while equality is “what allows for a balance,” and “not necessarily mathematical” (Member of national assembly, 2017, personal communication). Parity is only a part of equality, hence the struggle for parity is only a start towards equality, in some future, but not yet. Moreover, for some activists, this small effort of starting a discussion on women's rights and bringing equality that matches their respective capacities is not contrary to Senegalese culture, tradition, and religion. Both men and women have mentioned the matriarchal society and how women have always held power in Senegal in various ways. However, colonisation upset these mores and Islam has been twisted and wrongly interpreted to serve the benefits of men. Meanwhile, women in Senegal have no problem or difficulty respecting men the way religion taught them, all the while keeping their “privileges” as women in society. They respect and appreciate that the Qur’an specifies the role of the woman and mother, in ways that it does not that of the man and father. They want laws and society to reflect this difference, and for them, parity rises as a solution and a manifestation of such religious and social respect. For them, the word and concept of parity illustrate and represent these needs and demands, in a way that the word “equality” does not and cannot within their specific Senegalese tradition and society.

Conclusion

Debates around women's agency within the traditional and conservative contours of religions offer us insights into the different definitions of agency, the various forms of activism, and the multiple ways women find and shape their identities. Gender quotas aiming to increase women's political representation have been the centre of significant research, with differing assessments of their strategies and results. In combining the political and the religious aspects of Senegalese women's endeavours, this article adds to the existing research in Muslim women's lives that delves into the redefining piety and agency and analyzes the role and place of Islam in adjusting gender equality according to local norms. While the Senegalese women in this research did not explicitly put Islam at the forefront of their efforts to increase and improve their political presence, neither did they shy away from including and even using Islam to strengthen their argument in favour of gender parity. The inevitable and undeniable presence of religion in people's lives makes it so that activists found it necessary to weave and navigate through the religious teachings and texts and people's perceptions and faith to advance their agenda on women's political participation and representation. I argue that in the process, they also redefined and localised concepts of gender equality and women's rights to fit with their personal, religious, and political beliefs as well as the larger societal perceptions. The results can be impressive, as in Senegal where the law on parity has resulted in equal proportions of men and women in the legislature, exceeding what has been achieved by quotas elsewhere. It is worth noting, however, that their arguments and efforts are often perceived as “foreign” and “un-Senegalese” at times, especially by their male peers. Only a handful of male politicians and members of the national assembly, for instance, expressed their support for the gender parity law or other subsequent policies relating to women's rights (the debate on the right to abortion, for example is still very much a taboo subject). Nevertheless, the private and public conversations the women's organisations and associations are fostering around the secular law within their lived religious context provide a valuable insight into the place of Islam in women's lives and their political endeavour.

Footnotes

Acknowledgements

The author would like to thank the anonymous reviewers for their time and constructive feedback in improving this article.

Declaration of Conflicting Interests

The author declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research,authorship,and/or publication of this article.

Funding

The author disclosed receipt of the following financial support for the research,authorship,and/or publication of this article: This work was supported in part by the Institute on Culture,Religion and World Affairs and the Graduate Student Organization Research Grant at Boston University,and the Air Morocco Travel Award at the African Studies Association.

Informed Consent

Informed consent from interviewees was obtained verbally and in written form before participation.

ORCID iD

Seulgie Lim

Author Biography

Seulgie Lim is an assistant professor in politics at Bates College. Her research interests include international politics,sub-Saharan African politics and gender studies,more specifically examining women's political participation and representation as well as examining the various trends of feminism in Senegal and more broadly in West Africa.

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