Unbowed: A Memoir (Vintage)

by Maathai, Wangari

  The technician was an African American who, by turns, was gentle and sarcastic. He thought me hopelessly naïve about America and African Americans and decided that I needed some educating to raise my consciousness. He suggested I attend a Sunday prayer group of the Nation of Islam, then led by the Honorable Elijah Muhammad. I invited Agatha. When we arrived at the meeting we immediately saw a large gathering of both men and women; the latter wore long white dresses and had their heads covered with equally white scarves.

  Once the meeting began, much of what the speakers said contradicted what I had been taught in the course of my religious education at school. They said that Jesus was a black man and not a blue-eyed blond, that he had attended the University of Alexandria in Egypt, and had spent much of his early years in Africa. For me that was not only untrue but also sacrilegious. I had never heard anything so outrageous! I was so shocked by such misrepresentation that I believed that I should not even hear it, because hearing it alone must be a sin. So in the middle of the meeting I left the hall, found a pay phone, and called the priest at our residence for an immediate consultation.

  “Father,” I confessed. “You will never guess where I am at the moment, and I am not sure I should even be here. But I'm at a Nation of Islam meeting and you should hear what they are saying about Jesus!”

  The priest laughed, perhaps to ease my anxiety.

  “What are you doing there?” he asked.

  “I know as a Catholic I shouldn't be listening to this,” I replied, “but I'm here and I'm not sure what I should do. Should I stay and try to respond to them or leave? They need to be talked to because they're giving wrong information about Jesus.”

  To my surprise, the priest encouraged me to stay. “Just listen to what they're saying,” he said. “You don't have to believe it, but it's good to listen. It will be interesting to hear what you think about it when you come back to the residence hall.” Not only did I now have permission to listen but the mandate to speak my mind.

  So we stayed. They continued to speak about many things I found contradictory and unbelievable. All these years I'd been taught that believers do not question faith, even when it does not make sense. One believed and the understanding came later. But here were people who were not teaching me but rather urging me to question.

  Finally, I was given a chance to speak. “It's not true that Jesus went to the University of Alexandria,” I said. “There wasn't even a University of Alexandria at that time. You are misinformed about the life and times of Jesus.”

  I continued and when I was through, the main speakers on the podium turned to the audience: “You see how indoctrinated this sister from Africa is! This is part of the problem and we must do whatever we can to educate her and others like her.” I realized that I had probably wasted my breath but I felt extremely unsettled. I could see that they believed in what they were saying; but I also believed in what I was saying. After some time, Agatha and I decided that it was time to leave. It was also getting late and we had to get back to the residence hall before dinner.

  The next day I reported to work, eager to tell my boss what had happened at the meeting and how I had informed the followers of the Nation of Islam that what they were saying was not true. “How are you so sure?” the technician asked, with a sly smile.

  “I just know,” I told him, emphatically.

  “You mean,” he replied, “you've been taught so. Why do you think that everything you've been taught is true?”

  I looked at him with astonishment and asked myself, “Is he telling me that I may not have been told the whole truth?” I realized then that he also believed what I had heard at the meeting. “Perhaps he knows something I don't,” I thought to myself.

  I didn't discuss the subject any further with him and he never invited me to another prayer meeting. But from that time on I started to think more critically about religion and developed an interest in other faiths, including the oral faith traditions. I came to realize that my understanding of Jesus's life and of my faith and others’ was rather superficial and narrow and that I needed to seek more knowledge. I gradually appreciated that the teaching I had received in Catholic schools might not have exposed me to everything I needed to know about my faith. That experience actually prepared me for the progressive steps taken by Pope John XXIII and later Pope John Paul II, who even entered a synagogue and a mosque for prayer and contemplation.

  In hindsight I can see that my boss that summer in the lab must have wondered how I could have grown up in colonial Africa and yet have had no idea about the struggles of African Americans, the African diaspora, or any knowledge of history or religion beyond what my Catholic education had taught me.

  We Kenyan students in the Midwest felt separated from the rest of the Kenyan community in the United States, especially from the majority who lived along the East Coast. Occasionally, however, we managed to travel and attend meetings with other Africans studying in the United States that were organized by a student body known as the East African Students’ Association. Such opportunities and exchanges gave us a sense of life in Africa outside of Kenya and a sense of being Kenyans rather than British subjects, as well as of being Africans. This was important because our continent was emerging from a century of colonial rule and giving rise to new nation-states.

  Then, as now, and despite the very modern forms of communication in the United States, we had little access to news about Kenya in any media, unless it was bad news. Fortunately, there was little bad news in Kenya at that time and we came to appreciate that no news was probably good news. We did get the big news that Kenya was going to become independent on December 12, 1963, and elections for representatives to the new government had been held in May 1963. To celebrate our independence, the Kenyans in Kansas got together with friends of Kenya, including many Americans, in the city of Lawrence, to eat, drink, sing, dance, and listen to speeches. Much rejoicing took place, both in Kenya and abroad, as Jomo Kenyatta became Kenya's first prime minister and, a year later, president.

  Sadly, our celebration of Kenya's independence came only a few weeks after the trauma of President Kennedy's assassination on November 22. As news of his death reached the Mount that day, classes were suspended and, in great disbelief and remorse, we prayed for the peaceful repose of his soul. Shortly after, the college closed and students were sent home. Agatha and I stayed on campus and remained glued to the television, following the events as the presumed assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, was himself murdered by Jack Ruby. And it all happened as the world watched on television!

  The night that President Kennedy died, I wrote with great urgency to my brother about what had happened and how I felt. “I admired him as a leader,” I wrote, “a lover of peace and a man who was very humanistic. I mourn with the Americans and with all those who know what it means to have an official shot dead.” I told Nderitu that even as the television repeated the news of Kennedy's death over and over again, “We find it hard to believe and yet it is so true.”

  It was a momentous time for me, for many Americans, and for many around the world for whom President Kennedy will always remain the young, energetic, and charismatic leader who was not allowed to realize the dreams he had for America and the world. Through the Kennedy Airlift I had become part of his dream, and now he was gone before I could realize it. I mourned him like a member of my family. I am lucky that later in life I was able to develop working relationships and friendships with members of the Kennedy family who helped me understand President Kennedy better. I am privileged to know and work with Kerry Kennedy, Robert F. Kennedy's daughter and one of JFK's many nieces. For many years she supported pro-democracy activists in Kenya by working for human rights and democratic institutions.

  My four years at the Mount, and the experiences I had both on and off the campus, nurtured in me a willingness to listen and learn, to think critically and analytically, and to ask questions. These skills stayed with me wherever I went from then on. The Mount also provided me with
a springboard to my next educational establishment. Some of the sisters suggested some of the American universities to which I could submit an application for graduate studies, which I was eager to pursue. Once I received my bachelor of science degree in 1964, I applied to and was accepted by the University of Pittsburgh in Pennsylvania to study for a master's degree in biology. The Africa-American Institute, which supported higher education for many Africans (and still does), gave me a scholarship that made this possible. I had visited the University of Pittsburgh on a scholarship in the summer of 1963 to attend a six-week course on leadership. My course paper was on helping women in rural areas work together and promote development efforts. Little did I know that I would be putting that theory into practice only a decade later, when I would be inspired by rural women to initiate the Green Belt Movement.

  In 1990, when I returned to Mount St. Scholastica after more than twenty-five years, almost everything except the buildings had changed: The Mount had merged with St. Benedict's, become coeducational, and was rechristened Benedictine College. The monastery, which had been the exclusive preserve of the nuns, had thrown open its doors to the public and visitors could now mingle with the sisters in their dining room. The nuns, who used to wear long black habits and white flowing veils, now wore short dresses and skirts and even trousers. They also exposed their hair, which was cut short. This time, I was the one with the floor-length skirt and a headscarf! But Atchison remained the same old, pleasant, and welcoming flat mid-western town that was home for four of the most wonderful years of my life.

  I entered the University of Pittsburgh in September 1964 and studied biological sciences under the supervision of Professor Charles Ralph, who became a good friend. Initially, he wanted me to research the life cycle of the cockroach, but I couldn't stand the thought of cockroaches crawling all over me! Instead, Professor Ralph gave me the chance to study the pineal gland, which lies deep in the brain just opposite the pituitary gland. He wanted to know how the gland develops and what its role is as animals go through life.

  He chose to look at the gland in Japanese quails, because they are small birds and easy to handle. I incubated and hatched the quails’ eggs and followed the development of the pineal gland in the brains from egg to adulthood. The study constituted my master's thesis and fulfilled the requirements of my master of science degree. It also further developed my skills in embryology, microanatomy, processing tissues, and microscopy, which proved pivotal less than two years later in Kenya.

  Pittsburgh was much bigger than Atchison, a real urban center, and much more industrial, although its rolling hills reminded me more of home than the plains of Kansas. I had become used to big towns because of the summers I spent in Kansas City, and so adapted well. In the mid-1960s, Pittsburgh, like other manufacturing towns in the United States, was coming to terms with the legacy of pollution from a hundred years of the industrial revolution. This turned out to be my first experience of environmental restoration, because the city was already working to clean up the air. People from Pittsburgh would tell me that they had had to paint their houses each year because the soot made them look as dirty as the inside of a chimney, and that there was no point in hanging your washing out to dry because it turned black. Over the years, however, environmentalists’ efforts have paid off: Today, Pittsburgh is no longer shrouded in smoke, but is one of the most beautiful metropolises in the land.

  The university was much bigger than Mount St. Scholastica, and I interacted mostly with graduate students in my department, which was relatively small. I also spent a lot of my time with the other African students at the university. Except for going to the library or cafeteria or sporting events, I wasn't very involved with the huge campus. Nor, as far as I could tell, was it a hotbed of radicalism. During my years at the University of Pittsburgh, from September 1964 to January 1966, most people, including me, did not understand why America was in Vietnam and had not fully decided if they were for or against the war. (Although as a child of colonialism, the sending of troops to a foreign land was not wholly strange to me.)

  An African American in my department was the only person I knew who was drafted. Unfortunately, he was killed soon after he arrived in Vietnam. That was my only personal experience of this conflict that was to have such a long-lasting impact on American society. When I visit the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C., I think of him in particular, mourn his loss, and honor his memory.

  By 1965, as I was completing my studies at the University of Pittsburgh, Kenya had been independent for nearly two years. The new government knew that many of us who were part of the Kennedy Airlift were just finishing our degree programs. In an effort to recruit personnel to take over positions being vacated by British civil servants, the Kenyan government sent officers to the United States to recruit young Kenyans about to graduate. As part of this process, I was interviewed by a group of people from the University College of Nairobi (later the University of Nairobi), including the deputy vice chancellor. One of the positions available was research assistant to a professor of zoology.

  Later, I received a letter from the college confirming my position. I would be involved with a project concerning the control of desert locusts. The letter instructed me to report to work on January 10, 1966. This was to be my first “real” job and I took it very seriously. I was so keen to assume my new position that I sacrificed marching at my graduation ceremony at the University of Pittsburgh and collecting my master's diploma.

  When I left the United States, I was taking back to Kenya five and a half years of higher education, as well as a belief that I should work hard, help the poor, and watch out for the weak and vulnerable. I knew that I wanted to teach in a university and share what I had learned about biology. I wanted to see my family and to start a family of my own.

  I also took America back to Kenya with me. When people think of America they think of a vast, powerful, confident country—a place where, especially in the big cities, people can be angry or brash. But there is something about the United States that I experienced in the early to mid-1960s and that I still see now. The country is an enormous juggernaut with many smaller systems in it, from the government to academic institutions to farming to transportation. In spite of everything that comes to rock that larger system, whether it be a hurricane, political controversy, or economic difficulty, the wheels of the juggernaut do not come off but, indeed, keep turning as if nothing else is happening.

  There is a persistence, a seriousness, and a vision to America: It seems to know where it is going and it will go in that direction, whether you like it or not. In America, if you can find your place you can be treated very well, because its people are very generous. But you have to be tenacious, innovative, and strong. Besides, you have to keep moving, because the machine will grind on, whether you are on board or not.

  I also returned to Kenya with a new name—my original one. When I was born, my parents gave me the name Wangari. When I was baptized as an infant, like other Christians in Kenya I was trained to consider my baptismal name, Miriam, as my primary name. Throughout my childhood I was known as Miriam Wangari, and my father's name was set aside. This was a legacy of the missionaries: Africans were taught to accept a certain amount of informality, in which surnames didn't feature. After I became a Catholic, I dropped Miriam and became Mary Josephine, or Mary Jo, Wangari, which is how I was known when I arrived in the United States. The way surnames were forgotten in Kenya struck me as similar to how many African Americans in the times of slavery and segregation were known only by their first names, yet had to address white people as Mr. or Miss, followed by their surnames.

  At the Mount the sisters called me Miss Wangari. This began to seem absurd, since I knew the term “Miss” meant the “unmarried daughter of …” and I knew I was not the unmarried daughter of myself. I decided to put this right and began writing my name as Mary Josephine Wangari Muta, so I'd be called Miss Muta. I then reversed my primary and personal names, becoming Wangar
i Mary Josephine Muta, and later dropped Mary Josephine because the name had become too long. When I returned to Kenya, I was Wangari Muta. That was what I should always have been.

  The United States prepared me to be confident not only in reclaiming my original names but to critique what was happening at home, including what women were experiencing. My years in the United States overlapped with the beginnings of the women's movement and even though many women were still bound to traditional ideas about themselves at that time, I came to see that as an African woman I was perhaps even more constrained in what I could do or think, or even hope for. This was to come into sharper perspective when I returned to Kenya in 1966, thinking that the sky was the limit for me.

  It is fair to say that America transformed me: It made me into the person I am today. It taught me not to waste any opportunity and to do what can be done—and that there is a lot to do. The spirit of freedom and possibility that America nurtured in me made me want to foster the same in Kenya, and it was in this spirit that I returned home.

  5

  Independence—Kenya's and My Own

  January 6, 1966. Nairobi International Airport. After a long, although considerably shorter than the one I took leaving Kenya in 1960, overnight flight, I step off the plane into the warm, dry air and descend the metal stairs to the tarmac. I see a group of people waving frantically from the observation bay. Even from that distance I recognize my father's towering figure. Thrilled that my family has come to greet me, I wave and walk faster toward them. They stretch out their hands and wave back, calling my name. I am home.

  Tears roll down my face as I think of how much has happened to me and to my country since I last walked on the same tarmac. I hurry into the terminal. Then I see them: my parents; my father's youngest wife, whose Kikuyu name, Wanjiru, is the same as my mother's; Murango, my father's friend from Nakuru, and his son; my oldest brother, Nderitu, and youngest, Kamunya; and others. Even though I had sent a letter letting them know the date of my arrival, I had not expected anyone, let alone so many, to meet me at the airport. They have traveled a long distance to welcome me home. I am overwhelmed.