It happens that today we have too many wars in Africa, especially in Africa south of the Sahara. But there is also our daily life, the life that continues after all, with our daily actions from which the masses do not hold back. The people do not hold back. Some want to convince us that we are "vegetating." Yet this underground struggle, this struggle by the people, similar to the struggles of other peoples, this is what I call the heroism of the everyday.—Ousmane Sembène

Throughout his long, accomplished career, Ousmane Sembène has been an admirer of the everyday heroism of African women. While respecting the value of tradition, his films continually criticize the misuse of tradition as a vehicle for exploitation. They proclaim the need for Africans to come to terms with their tradition by themselves and on their own terms, without interference from the Western world. For the director, Africans must have access to the benefits of modernity, but not if it means sacrificing their ability to determine their own fate. We have seen him pursue this dynamic within the context of polygamy, colonialism and neo-colonialism, the imposition of Christianity and Islam, and the rights of women’s right to economic self-determination. It’s not surprising, then, that his latest film, Moolaadé, deals with the complex, highly sensitive subject of female circumcision.

The practice of female circumcision, or excision (also known by the more politically charged term Female Genital Mutilation, or FGM), has been traditional in many parts of Africa (though many, if not most ethnic groups have never practiced it). While it is often identified with Islam, the practice in fact is not mentioned in the Koran. It predates Islam and is to be found among people who practice Christianity and traditional religions as well. It plays a critical role in traditional culture. It is generally tied to traditional initiation ceremonies, in which girls are taught the essentials of motherhood and womanliness by their elders (usually by the grandmothers, women past childbearing age). Traditionally performed by a highly respected elder woman, the actual "cut" varies by ethnic group, from the very superficial to the profound, and can lead to health-related complications. Many Africans, both women and men, have been calling for the eradication of the practice, and it is formally banned in many countries—while continuing to exist in fact. The issue becomes even more complicated when Westerners attempt to intervene to try to end of the practice—this often results in Africans reacting and clinging to it more firmly out of a sense of cultural self-affirmation. [For recommended readings on the subject, see the suggestions at the end of these notes.]

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But the happy expectations and veneer of village solidarity are quickly shattered. Six of the girls in the initiation age-set refuse to be excised and flee the Salindanna. Four of them run to the compound of Ciré Bathilly, where he lives with his three wives-- Hadjatou Traoré, the First Wife; Collé Ardo, the Second Wife, and Alima, the Third Wife—and their children. They seek the protection (the "Moolaadé") of Collé Ardo because seven years earlier she had refused to have her daughter Amsatou excised. This was an extraordinary act of defiance in a village like Djerriso, but Collé’s popularity and strength of character had allowed her to pull it off. We come to learn that she was motivated to do so by her own horrible experiences with childbirth (she had lost two of her children and was only able to deliver Amsatou via a Caesarian section performed by a Western-educated woman doctor), which were probably due to the after-effects of her own excision as a girl.

Though initially reluctant to do so, Collé does choose to take the girls under her protection and performs the traditional ritual of Moolaadé. Having done so, no one—neither man nor woman—can remove these girls without her consent. Only by her publicly speaking the words of release can the Moolaadé end. Any attempt to violate this ancient bond of protection will lead to death. We come to hear the story of the ancient king who once violated Moolaadé, who was immediately killed, and whose body was subsequently transformed into a giant termite mound. The termite mound—and the stunning but very strange mosque that was patterned after it—sits at the heart of the village, remaining as the reminder of the essential, ancient values of these people.

Those values, however, have degenerated somewhat into the mere trappings of tradition, more concerned with the preservation of power and the status quo than in the deeper needs of the people. As is often the case in Sembène’s films, the men in power are treated critically and satirically. There is a classic Sembène bit of satire when Ibrahima, the chief’s son, returns from France and is given the "red-carpet treatment" (an understatement in this case!), fawned over by all, elogized by the chief’s griot (whose griot wife is simulataneously flirting with Mercenaire). Things deteriorate quickly, however, as Ibrahima realizes that Amsatou, whom he had hoped to marry, is now barred from him due to her mother’s defiance and to the fact that she is "Bilakoro" (uncircumcised). Ibrahima, a decent young man, finds himself caught up in something he cannot quite understand.

The initiatory tradition, which should have been the means to solidarity among the villagers, comes to disrupt that solidarity and reveal the underlying tensions in this community. Relationships deteriorate and unexpected alliances ensue, e.g., between Collé and the elder wife, between Collé and Mercenaire (Mercenaire in fact reveals some surprising wrinkles to his character as the film goes on). Eventually, though, events will draw the women back together again into mutual support in resistance to the tyranny of the (elderly) male power structure and the Salindanna who are their allies.

Interestingly, one of the primary catalysts for this shift will be the the men’s confiscation of all the radios in the village, the radios that were not only a source of entertainment and relief for these hard-working women, but also their point of access to other points of view. The men correctly see the radios as threats to their ability to dominate, and they deal with them accordingly (in a manner that brings Nazi Germany to mind). Their strategy will eventually backfire.

The struggle over circumcision and the Moolaadé will culminate in tragedy and triumph on the moral field of battle beside the termite mound, where Collé rises as challenger and champion of the women and their daughters. As often occurs with Ousmane Sembène, it is a woman’s act of refusal that provides the moral center of the film, the emodiment of hope and redemption. The 82-year-old director envisions the film as the middle panel of a triptych that began with Faat Kiné (2000), a series of films devoted to the unacknowledged "everyday heroes"--on whom so much depends.