The league reorganises itself like a peasant work party

Explaining the retreat, Madeleine Sylvain-Bouchereau said the leadership of the Ligue Feminine d'Action Sociale was closing ranks. For the moment the task was to unite a conscious group, clear of lukewarm and doubtful members, who by study could train cadres in the philosophies behind the questions that would decide the country's future. Nothing in Haitian public life ran that way. The state governed from the top down and so did most of the organisations that dealt with it. What Sylvain-Bouchereau set out instead resembles the kombit, the rural work party in which neighbours pool their labour to plant, rotate and share a crop so that everyone in the group eats. She was not sentimental about the comparison. She said plainly that the impact they wanted would take several seasons of hard and concentrated work. The irony is worth holding on to. Elite women who had struggled for years to see peasant women as equals reached for the peasantry's own model of collective labour when they needed a way to rebuild themselves.

After the war colonial governments went into crop production themselves. State marketing boards in British West Africa fixed prices to prevent a repeat of the 1930s collapse, and substantial public money was made available for colonial development for the first time. African growers saw the arrangement clearly enough. They were paid a small share of what their crops fetched, and the surpluses piled up in good years went into large capital projects instead of back to the farmers who had produced them. Capital-intensive schemes favoured machinery and settler experts over African smallholders. The groundnut scheme in Tanganyika laid out plantations on North American prairie lines. The ground was too dry, the soil too thin, the machinery no match for the climate, and it cost British taxpayers millions. French investment in Niger River dams for cotton failed similarly, as farmers there grew sugar and rice for local sale. Officials also compelled farmers to dig erosion trenches, rotate crops and cull cattle. These measures politicised the countryside and handed nationalist leaders a constituency.

Suzanne Comhaire-Sylvain divided Port-au-Prince into class zones for her research. Close to twenty thousand women lived at the seams between them. They were domestic workers, and their day was set by somebody else's breakfast. Coffee had to be on the table at seven, so they set out at five, and they came home after dark. Both ends of the journey happened when nobody was watching. Many of them had given up schooling for jobs paid at the legal minimum, and that trade runs one way only. The capital ran on these women. The households that employed them, the zones Comhaire-Sylvain mapped, and the professional and political life conducted inside them all rested on twenty thousand people walking through the dark twice a day. The map of the city did not show them. The census counted them in somebody else's house. The hours they spent in transit belonged to no one's accounts at all.

Comhaire-Sylvain set out in 1939 to find what girls in Port-au-Prince did with their free hours. The premise was that unaccounted time was a danger, that a girl whose day could not be reconstructed might be doing something that would cost her a reputation, and that such time therefore needed watching. The survey found something else. A large share of the girls she interviewed were servants in the houses of the well off, and they were working more than ninety eight hours a week. A small number were enrolled as full time pupils. Most were part time, and of those, many missed classes often. There was almost no free time left to investigate. The ninety eight hour week belonged to children who appeared on the rolls as students, and the houses that employed them were the houses of the women who would read the report.