A double-sided mechanism
Senegalese society is traditionally marked by strong family ties and a strong sense of solidarity.
The individual lives not only for himself, but for his extended family, his lineage, his neighbourhood and even his village.
This solidarity, which is manifested in financial aid, educational support or housing, has long been a social safety net capable of mitigating the impact of poverty.
In a country where social protection systems remain limited and where the State is struggling to meet basic needs, the extended family plays the role of the « Social security ».
A successful immigrant, whether sending money from abroad or an employee with a stable income in Dakar, immediately becomes a pillar for a whole network of parents and allies.
This mechanism, deeply rooted in mentalities, has enabled entire generations to survive in contexts of economic and social crisis. But it is now in the grip of major drifts.
Individual success is rarely seen as a personal merit, but as a collective resource. The stable employee, the employee, the contractor or the emigrant become the « locomotive » to which all the cars in the family cling.
Incessant requests, urgent appeals for help, requests for accommodation or schooling of children... solidarity is transformed into a social pressure that is difficult to sustain.
Refusal is not an option: refusal is immediately perceived as a sign of selfishness, Westernization, or even a breach of traditional values. The person who says no risks being stigmatized, rejected, and accused of failing to perform family duties.
Many, for example, accept financial and social burdens that exceed their means.
Beyond money, the home also becomes an extensible reception space. The house supposed to house a couple and their children quickly transform into a collective dormitory : student cousins, divorced sister, nephews entrusted with sponsorship, village children coming to spend the holidays...
The intimacy of the couple disappears, the children lose their personal space and daily life turns into chaos.
This invasion of the private sector is not without consequences: marital tensions, accumulated frustrations, largent conflicts between husband and wife.
The family home, which was to be a haven of peace, became an area of overburden and constant tension.
What was initially a mutual aid mechanism becomes a vicious circle:
- Financial exhaustion Member « prosperous » the family sendette or sacrifice its own projects.
- Frustration and marital conflicts : family harmony breaks under pressure of intruders.
- Educational failure children, deprived of space and stability, suffer from this promiscuity.
- Encouraged dependency Instead of promoting autonomy, this solidarity sometimes maintains support and chronic dependency.
This model of solidarity, transformed into a binding obligation, no longer protects the family: it exhausts and weakens it.
The confidence of Aïssatou, 17 years old: « My house is full, but I feel empty »
« My name is Aïssatou, I am 17 years old, I live in Dakar with my parents and two brothers. Our house used to be simple, but it belonged to us. Everyone had a place. I had my room with a bed where I would tidy up my things, where I could read quietly or review my classes. Today, this house is no longer ours.
It all started with my aunt, my father's sister. She divorced and came to live with her two children. My mother said it was her duty to welcome him. So my room was released for her. I now sleep on a mattress on the floor. Every night, I have to move my notebooks to find a little place to put my head down.
Then came the cousins: a law student, another came to Dakar to get work, and two young people sent home by an uncle for their vacation.
The living room has become a camp. Mattresses everywhere, suitcases, clothes hanging around.
In the evening, you have to sneak between sleeping bodies to go to the kitchen. My father himself must pass over a mattress to access his room.
At home, nothing really belongs to us anymore.
The bathroom is always busy, it is necessary to get up at dawn to hope to wash before going to school.
Meals are never enough. When my mother cooks for six, we have to feed ten or twelve people. I, who likes to eat slowly, often don't have time to finish my third bite that the dish is already empty. I get up with the feeling of hunger, the throat tightened by injustice.
The hardest part is not just hunger or promiscuity, but not having space for me anymore. When I want to work, the living room is noisy. When I want to rest, my room doesn't exist anymore.
When I want to talk to my mother, she always answers the same thing: « I have a duty of solidarity with the family, my daughter. That's how it is. »
I'm a teenager. My body is changing. I sometimes feel the insistent eyes of some cousins who dwell too much on me. I hide in my clothes, I look down, but I feel their eyes, and it scares me. In my own house, I'm not protected.
I know my father's exhausted.
Sometimes I hear him whispering that he's going « Put everyone out ». But he never does, for fear of family scandal. So he's silent, he's holding back, he's pissing off my mom.
At home, the atmosphere is heavy, and I don't know where to find air.
Then I escape as I can. After my classes, I often go to my girlfriend Aida. She's the home of my dreams: a father, a mother, a little brother. A quiet, silent house where everyone has their own space.
There, I can read, revise, speak without raising my voice. There, I find some peace. When it's time to go home, I feel like I'm back in a prison.
And every night, I sleep on my mattress thinking about my studies. How can we succeed in this chaos?
I'm afraid I don't reach my dreams, not because I'm not capable, but because I don't have a place to learn. I compare my life to that of my comrades and feel an immense injustice. They walk calmly, I just struggle to exist.
I'm Aïssatou, I'm 17, my house is full of people, but I feel empty. And every day, I fear that this emptiness will end up swallowing my dreams.
For mutual help that supports without destroying
The testimony of Aïssatou illustrates with a staggering intensity the perverse effects of family solidarity that has become constrained. This mechanism, supposed to protect, weakens the balance of homes, destroys the intimacy of couples and mortgages the future of children.
Behind the idealised image of a society united by solidarity are silent dramas: frustrations, tensions, school failures, broken dreams.
Faced with this situation, some Senegalese make a radical choice: leave with wife and children, luggage and hopes, away from the country. Emigration then becomes not only an economic quest, but also a social flight, a way to escape the burden of an invading entourage.
They are looking elsewhere for a living space, a home belonging to them, an intimacy which they consider impossible to preserve at home.
Conversely, many immigrants who have already settled in Europe or America have the dream of returning home.
But this dream comes up against a visceral fear: find exactly what Aïssatou lives in his home. The fear of being invaded, of seeing their house transformed into a dormitory, their wages absorbed by endless solicitations, pushes them to delay, sometimes indefinitely, the return they so hoped.
Thus, exile continues, not always by economic choice, but for fear of reviving the social oppression of disloyal solidarity.
It is not a question of collectively rejecting this essential value, but of rethinking how it is exercised.
Solidarity must once again become a free choice, based on justice and measurement, and not an overwhelming obligation that stifles those who succeed and sacrifice the future of the youngest.
For if Senegalese society wants to preserve its cultural wealth without condemning its children, it will have to find a new balance: a Responsible solidarity, respectful of the dignity and needs of everyone, able to support without destroying, and to protect without choking.
