Nira shared her story with me: she was from a rural community in India, and when she was only eleven years old, her parents forced her into child marriage. When Nira turned thirteen, she ran away to New Delhi to live with her aunt, but her husband tracked her down and then poured burning sulfuric acid all over her body. The acid melted Nira’s face, leaving her with permanent blindness in one eye, and it melted some of her bones, disfiguring her hands. “When I was young, I had a dream, you know,” Nira said. “I wanted to become a big movie star in Bollywood, just like my favorite actress, Madhubala. But now how can I act when I look like a monster with my face all melted by the acid?” A palpable sadness fell over us as we sped through the busy, crowded streets. Sadly, Nira’s case is not unique, as every year more than fifteen hundred women and girls are attacked by acid globally, including in countries like the UK and Canada.
Child marriage doesn’t just happen in India or Africa, as people often assume, but also in the developed world, even in the United States. In New Jersey, I visited a synagogue with a Jewish friend of mine who introduced me to Sarah, then seventeen years old, whose parents forced her into child marriage when she turned fifteen.
After the service, we sat in a local café drinking peppermint tea and eating bagels and cream cheese. Sarah wore a pair of trendy, blue-rimmed reading glasses, a long black dress, and a white head scarf. She explained that she had tried twice to run away from her abusive husband, but unlike Nira, none of her family agreed to take her in. When she sought refuge at the women’s shelter, she was turned away because she was not yet eighteen, and as a legal minor, she required parental consent to stay. She decided to live on the streets rather than return to an unsafe home, but she was arrested both times by the police, who brought her back to her husband, because again, she was a minor and considered a child in the eyes of the law.
“Am I not supposed to be living in the greatest country in the world? So how come I feel trapped?” Sarah asks with intense frustration. “But I won’t let them win. Next year I will be eighteen and I am going to run away for good this time. You wait and see, one day I will be a lawyer so I can change laws for girls like me,” she said with determination. I felt the same frustration; on one hand the US law protected Sarah as a minor; yet on the other hand, the law failed to offer protection when that very same minor was being violated. The United States, despite being one of the world’s most wealthy and powerful countries, has never passed a law at the national level banning child marriage, meaning that according to federal law it is permissible to marry a child as young as twelve years old. Even worse: child marriage is still legal in forty-six out of the fifty states.
* * *
I share none of this with Ambuya Rufa, for these are not her burdens or stories to bear. I can feel my heart breaking as I rock the little baby against my chest. It breaks for these two motherless babies, and for Ambuya Rufa who must live with her grief while struggling to feed two extra children. My heart breaks for my community, having lost one of our sisis, and for Tanaka herself, who was driven to take her own life. Ambuya Rufa is still wailing; I throw my arm around her shoulder and say, “One day, change will come, Ambuya. One day change will come.” I make a promise to myself that I will find a way to put an end to the unjust practice of child marriage, wherever I find it.
* * *
When I return to my office in New York City and learn that the president of Malawi has expressed interest in joining the initiative as a HeForShe Champion, I immediately jump at the opportunity to push for a commitment to enact legislation that will end child marriage. Despite more than five years of UN Women’s tireless efforts working alongside the government, civil society organizations, and female chiefs in Malawi, advocating for and investing in anti–child marriage initiatives, nearly half of the girls in Malawi continue to be married before the age of eighteen. Here is my chance to make good on my promise: for Tanaka and Nira and Ambuya Rufa and Sarah, and for so many others that I have never met but know are out there, suffering.
I meet with the Malawian ambassador to the United Nations in his office in New York, and waste no time in making my case. “Your Excellency, Malawi has an unprecedented opportunity to be a beacon of light on the African continent,” I say, channeling the same calm and authority I watched Julia exude that first time I saw her in full diplomatic action, at the beginning of my career. I sit across from the ambassador, who sits behind a cherrywood desk. I look directly at him, taking in his dignified face and proper, coiffured jet-black hair. He looks back through square reading glasses that frame his serious eyes.
I take a breath and continue. “We know that child marriage has been a part of our African culture, but it is also one of the main causes of perpetuating poverty on our continent. As you know, Your Excellency, when girls are married young, we not only rob them of their childhood, we rob them of their dreams. The loss of those dreams—to get an education, to make life better for themselves and their families, to broaden their possibilities—is also a loss for our communities and countries. When a girl loses her dreams, none of us achieve the prosperity that we would otherwise enjoy.” I hear the conviction in my voice, and I can tell that the ambassador feels it as well.
* * *
My proposal is initially received as too ambitious, which is something I’ve grown accustomed to hearing. However, after months of relentless diplomatic negotiations with the ambassador and the president’s office, with the support of our UN Women colleagues in Malawi, we successfully secure the president’s personal pledge, as part of his gender equality commitment, to end child marriage in Malawi.
To our joy and surprise, within just fifteen months of making this commitment the government of Malawi in a determined and unprecedented manner passes Malawi’s first ever “Marriage, Divorce and Family Relations Act on child marriage,” making it illegal to marry a child under the age of eighteen. Because the HeForShe movement, in the spirit of ubuntu, engages everyone to work together toward gender equality, thousands of girls will have better and more meaningful lives.
Phumzile and I meet with the Malawian president at a formal dinner of HeForShe Champions in New York City, the evening before the start of the annual 2016 United Nations General Assembly, which brings together all world leaders to discuss issues of global cooperation and peace. In a cozy restaurant in midtown Manhattan, we are served beautifully plated dishes of wild salmon with steamed vegetables and potatoes. Phumzile and I sit alongside impeccably dressed global CEOs, university presidents, and the president of Malawi. I am almost too anxious to eat. Tomorrow our HeForShe Champions will stand in front of international media and share the progress that they have made as part of their gender commitments. Tonight’s event is a rehearsal dinner to provide Phumzile with a first look at the remarkable results.
When the Malawian president speaks, he not only highlights the passing of the anti–child marriage law, but he also specifically acknowledges the remarkable efforts of communities in Malawi that are actively supporting anti–child marriage efforts. “I am happy to announce that in the past twelve months alone, our communities have annulled more than 1,455 child marriages and those girls are now back in school,” he says in an authoritative voice laced with pride. These developments are truly groundbreaking, and provide a strong foundation for lasting change. I feel my heart swell with pride, and my eyes sting with tears of joy.
A year ago, in Goromonzi, I told Ambuya Rufa that one day things would change. I made a promise to myself to play a part in creating that change, even though at the time I didn’t know how I would do it, or what shape my plan would take. And now things are actively changing for girls and communities in Malawi, due in part to the HeForShe movement. So many unsung heroes—youth activists, nonprofit organizations, and communities—have worked alongside us and their government to collectively make child marriage a thing of the past in Malawi. One of those people is Memory Banda, a fearless, nineteen-year-old anti–child marriage youth activist.
I
met Memory the year before when I was invited to give a TED Talk during the annual TEDWomen Conference in San Francisco. A fellow speaker, I found Memory pacing up and down in the green room, polishing her speech for the packed theater of people waiting to hear her story. Her lacy yellow dress reminded me of the beautiful African sun and was paired with bright blue pointed shoes. She was both the sun and the sky. Her hair, braided and pulled back into an elegant bun, highlighted her round face and big brown eyes. I knew that Memory had led many of the community efforts that made the anti–child marriage bill possible. She even stood outside the parliament house for months with fellow youth activists, tirelessly lobbying members of parliament to support the bill.
“My little sister was only eleven years old when she got pregnant,” Memory told me. “As is the custom in my culture, she was sent to an initiation camp, where young girls are taught how to sexually please a man once they reach puberty. There is a special day, which they call ‘Very Special Day,’ where a man who is hired by the community comes to the camp and sleeps with the little girls. Some girls end up contracting HIV/AIDS and other sexually transmitted diseases. My little sister ended up pregnant. Now she has three children even though she is only sixteen years old.”
There was so much pain on Memory’s face as she shared her sister’s experiences. But that’s not how the story ended. After having refused to go to the initiation camp herself, Memory was ostracized for disrespecting traditions. She turned her pain into action and started advocating with both female and male village elders to end harmful practices in their village. This wasn’t an easy task, but Memory persevered until, one day, the elders relented and agreed to end child marriage.
“I had a lot of dreams as a young girl,” Memory explained to me. “But every day I refused to go to the initiation camps, the older women in my community badgered me. ‘Look at you, you are all grown up, your little sister has a baby, what about you?’ But I wanted to get educated to find a decent job in the future. I imagined myself as a lawyer seated on that big chair. I knew that one day I would contribute something, a little something, to my community. So I refused to give up.” When she looks at me, with pride and passion in her eyes, I am reminded of all the struggles on the winding path to achieve my own dreams—and the moments I feared those dreams would never come true.
* * *
Uncle Sam is lying on his back inside a shiny wooden coffin padded with white fabric. His eyes and lips are closed, his short hair nicely combed back from his familiar face. He is dressed in his favorite gray suit, paired with a crisp white shirt and a patterned blue tie. He looks peaceful, like he is having a nice, long sleep. I lean in closer to his face and whisper, “Wake up, Uncle Sam,” and for a moment I truly believe that he will rise. “Wake up. Please, Uncle Sam,” I repeat, louder this time, just to be sure he heard me, and then I keep my eyes trained on his face, waiting for his brown eyes to open. When they don’t, I wail at the top of my lungs, throw myself onto the wooden floor, and bellow like a bull.
“Eeee, Lizzy, stop! You, you will hurt yourself,” Amai shouts as she yanks me off the floor and drags me away from the coffin, through Aunt Jane’s crowded living room, then down the corridor into my old bedroom. We both collapse onto the bed, throw our arms around each other, and wail at the top of our lungs. Uncle Sam is dead, and he is never coming back. It feels too horrible to be true.
When I have no more tears left to cry and my throat feels dry and raw, I realize that Amai has left the room and I am alone. I sit up with my back against the wall and stare into empty space. I haven’t eaten anything in days. A part of me wants to die, because the pain feels too unbearable, so final, so unfair, so impossible and unfamiliar. At least hunger pains I can understand, but not this loss. If I don’t eat, I think, then perhaps I too can disappear from this world and I will be free of the devastating weight of grief.
“Shiri yakanaka unoendepi? Huya, huya, huya titambe—Pretty bird, where are you going? Come, come, come, let’s play,” I sing to myself, but Uncle Sam has gone to the clouds, just like the bird in the song. From now on, I will never hear his response apart from the memory of his singing voice in my head.
From the living room, I can hear the loud chatter and occasional screams from grieving ambuyas and sekurus from Goromonzi, as well as some of Uncle Sam’s relatives. As is the custom in our Shona culture, Uncle Sam’s body will remain in the living room in an open coffin for three days, allowing everyone to say goodbye to him and see his face one final time before he is buried. Over these next three days, the ambuyas and sekurus will create a fire in the yard, and make drums full of sadza and cow and goat stew to feed the hundreds of relatives and neighbors who will come by to pay their respects. We will sing songs of praise and pray to God for the safe return of Uncle Sam’s soul back to the heavenly father.
There is only one problem with this plan: Aunt Jane and I don’t want Uncle Sam in the house for three days. What is the point of tormenting ourselves, being forced to see him every day, when he is never going to wake up, when he is never going to come back to us?
Aunt Jane is angry and wants him buried right away. Her face is a mask of fury and her eyes are bright with rage. She wants him gone from the house and from our lives for breaking his promise. When God refused to bless Aunt Jane and Uncle Sam with a child of their own, they made a promise to each other that they would never be separated, that they would live for each other, and therefore have no choice but to die together. Now Uncle Sam is dead, and Aunt Jane is alone. As soon as Amai brought Uncle Sam’s coffin into the house with the men from the morgue, Aunt Jane rose from the green couch and went into her bedroom, and a few minutes later, she emerged dressed in black, to say, “I am going to work.” A few of the ambuyas gasped with horror and then whispered, “Eeee, Germany made her forget our customs.” Aunt Jane left, only to return home the following morning.
I also want to run away, but I feel weak and numb from my pain, without focus or purpose or drive. I keep walking to Uncle Sam’s coffin and whispering for him to wake up, hoping each time that he will come back to me. Each time I ask and nothing happens, it’s like losing him all over again, and I become more and more distressed. Amai finally locks me in the bedroom until it is time to bury Uncle Sam.
* * *
After Uncle Sam’s funeral, everything changes. I move from Epworth to Harare to live again with Aunt Jane, who insists that she is fine, even though everyone can see that she is falling apart. Now that Uncle Sam is gone, Aunt Jane is afraid to sleep alone or be alone in the dark. She is no longer sleeping well or eating properly, and she vacillates between extreme anger and gutting sadness.
One night, when I go to bed, I have the same dream that I’ve had many times before. I am standing in the middle of the living room and Uncle Sam is leaning against the front door, still wearing his green hospital robe. “Elizabeth,” he says, calling me to him.
I have begun to walk toward him when I hear Aunt Jane’s voice behind me. “Elizabeth, don’t go.”
I turn around and see Aunt Jane sitting on the sofa, wearing her white nightdress and reaching out to me. I change course and walk in her direction until I hear Uncle Sam call to me again. When I look at him, he lowers his gaze and opens the door, flooding the living room with bright white light. He turns around, walks out the door, and disappears into the light.
“Uncle Sam!” I scream, but the door closes before I can follow him. I scream again, jolting myself out of sleep, and bolt upright. I gasp for air, wipe fresh sweat from my forehead, and allow my eyes to adjust to the light in the room. I am now fully awake, sitting in Aunt Jane and Uncle Sam’s bedroom, in their bed. Aunt Jane is still sleeping soundly on the pillow next to me.
I settle back into bed, burying my face in Uncle Sam’s pillow to smell his familiar musky scent, and wait anxiously for dawn to break. Gogo always said, “However long the night, dawn always breaks… bringing with it a new beginning.” I think Gogo was wrong, because it feels like Aunt Jane an
d I are stuck in perpetual darkness, waiting for our sadness to lift, for the cracks in our hearts to mend, for the scars to heal. I shut my eyes, waiting for morning, and allow the darkness to consume me.
Now that Uncle Sam is gone, this is our new normal: our nights are filled with nightmares and painful memories, our days feel too long and seem completely pointless, and even our food has lost its taste. Aunt Jane and I refuse to eat until our clothes are hanging off our bodies. Aunt Jane throws herself into her work and refuses to talk about Uncle Sam, and when I say, “I miss him too, Aunt Jane. I think it will do us good to talk about him,” I feel a wall go up between us. I feel hopeless and defeated. I can see that Aunt Jane is in immense pain and feels all alone now that Uncle Sam is gone. Time moves painfully slowly, and suddenly Uncle Sam has been gone for three years. All at once, I wake up from what feels like a coma and remember my dream to become the girl in the blue uniform, wondering if it is forever lost to me, or even worth pursuing.
My dream seems farther away than ever, and it seems too late to pursue it now. I am still responsible for helping Amai search for money for Chio’s school fees. Even though Osi and Memo have both completed secondary school, they are unemployed because of a job shortage. They both live with Amai and Baba, who need money for their food. Now that Uncle Sam is gone, I have a new responsibility to take care of Aunt Jane, who is lost in her grief and depression, even as she refuses to acknowledge it. I need to be there for her just like she has always been there for me. How can I chase a dream to uplift others without first uplifting my own family? I am saddened and burdened by this reality, but I also know that supporting my family is the right thing to do.
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