I Am a Girl from Africa

by Elizabeth Nyamayaro

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  When the president of Malawi shares his country’s success story the next morning to a room packed to the brim with journalists, activists, and UN officials and staff, I am immediately inundated with questions: How were the communities able to annul 1,455 child marriages? How did they manage to convince the young girls’ husbands to end the marriage with no retribution as is often the case? Did the husbands demand a reimbursement of their dowry? If so, who paid it back to them? What about the girls? Where are they living now that their marriages have ended? If their parents couldn’t feed and clothe them or send them to school the last time, how are they now able to suddenly be expected to provide for them, in addition to possible new babies from their marriages? If the families accepted the girls back, how are they dealing with the shame and stigma of having a child that is now considered “damaged goods”? Also, what is going to stop the parents from remarrying the girls when they realize that they still can’t take care of them due to poverty? How do the girls feel about being back at school, and who is paying for their school fees? These are all real questions and concerns shared by our partners and the media.

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  Within a few weeks I send our UN Women team to communities in Malawi to search for answers. Our goal is to learn lessons from Malawi’s significant progress over the past year, gaining insight directly from the communities that will help create a template for ending such marriages in other African countries and worldwide, a plan that can be adapted and used to accelerate global progress on the issue.

  In the Karonga District in the northern region of Malawi, an eight-hour drive from the country’s capital city of Lilongwe, our team is met with a warm welcome from the whole community: religious leaders in nicely pressed cassock robes and tailored suits with ties; traditional leaders in colorful African print attire with animal fur headgear; parents and children, including child-marriage survivors; and a strikingly powerful female chief whose neck and waist are adorned in layers of colorful beads and who is regal in a burnt orange dress with a large front bib and sleeves made of leopard skin and fur. Her fur headgear features long ostrich feathers that stretch out beyond her round face, infectious smile, and eyes as bright as the African sun. This is Senior Chief Kachindamoto, and she is the woman in charge.

  Dusk falls as everyone gathers in a wide yard, the sun casting delicate patterns on the ground through the tree branches. Among the child marriage survivors is a fifteen-year-old girl named Frazia, who has a perfectly shaped round head, short black hair, a calm demeanor, and highly alert eyes. She wears a blue skirt and a loose blue shirt over an orange T-shirt. Frazia is one of the 1,455 girls whose marriages have just been annulled, and she happily shares her story. “One day when I was home, I saw a man and his parents. At the time I was going to school. Then the man came with his parents again. This time they came for me. When I heard I was about to get married, I got very upset, but my parents told me that if I refused, I would have to move out of the house. I knew that I couldn’t stay alone. My parents insisted that I should marry the man because they could not afford to support me. And so by force I was married at the age of fourteen. Nothing good came out of getting married.” She pauses, pain blanketing her face. “My life changed after my marriage was annulled. I went back to school. To me it was a big opportunity. When I get educated, I think… no, I shouldn’t say I think, I know that I will become an international journalist,” she says, and now her face is beaming with joy.

  When Frazia finishes telling her story, the community members all chime in with their personal contributions toward ending child marriages within the community. Their stories reveal a sophisticated system, developed by the community for the community, where everyone’s input is valued and where everyone is able to make a difference, men and women alike. Working on the front lines are the “Mother Groups,” which consist of mothers who volunteer their time to search for cases of child marriage that have gone undetected or undocumented. As one member of a Mother Group shares, “Our job is to assist and patrol the community. Us, we call ourselves secret mothers and we operate in open areas—for instance, at boreholes where everyone collects water. Much of our information is sourced from there. When I learn a child has been married, I borrow a phone and report the case to the Village Head.”

  On the second line of defense are “Village Heads,” also known as community leaders, who oversee all activities at the village level. Once the Mother Groups notify the Village Heads about a child marriage, the Village Heads act as first-line responders, visiting both the girl’s family and her husband to negotiate an amicable termination of the marriage. If they are not successful, they bring the matter to a “Group Village Head,” who is the person in charge of overseeing all activities at the district level, who returns to the girl’s family and husband for serious negotiations. “Yes, we try our best to make sure that parents and husbands understand that our children need to go to school, so we encourage them to end their child marriage. And if they refuse to listen to us, we take them to Senior Chief Kachindamoto,” the Group Village Head explains.

  And that’s when Senior Chief Kachindamoto gets involved, but she doesn’t act alone. She has a whole network behind her, which she happily describes to our team. “In the beginning, I didn’t know that things were that bad. When I walked around in the community, I noticed that many young girls aged thirteen and fourteen were carrying babies on their backs. When I asked them, they answered that the children were theirs. Then I sat down and thought, I cannot be a chief that rules over young children living their lives like this. So I created a committee which includes child protection officers, community police, Village Heads, and Group Village Heads, and together when we hear that a child has been married, we visit the girl’s family and we also visit her husband. At this moment, whether one likes it or not, this marriage has ended,” Senior Chief Kachindamoto says with fortitude.

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  As the sun sets and community members share their experiences, it is clear to see that this is truly a collective effort to uplift the community in the spirit of ubuntu, just like Apio’s village in Uganda. We hear from male chiefs who have begun to educate other male chiefs about the importance of girls’ education, all as part of their own personal HeForShe commitment, while continuing to work with Chief Kachindamoto and other female chiefs to prevent and end child marriages. We speak to religious leaders who now demand to see birth certificates before agreeing to any marriage. We witness the power of ubuntu as husbands who would have otherwise demanded their dowry back accept the annulment of their marriages with no retribution toward the girls and their families. Families welcome their girls back home, supporting them and their babies with feeding, clothing, and schooling. Members of the Mother Groups help raise the girls’ babies while they are in school, providing essential childcare free of cost. We hear about development partners and the United Nations itself treating communities with more dignity by ensuring that the people themselves lead and inform change; partners provide support when it is needed and asked for, including a provision for the girls’ school fees. “Our children are now going back to school and we are happy about that, because the future of our children and our nation depends on education,” the chief continues. “When you educate a girl, you educate a nation.”

  And just like that, so many girls’ lives are changed for the better. That’s what happens when everyone comes together in the spirit of ubuntu: the burden is shared; the load is lessened; the investment is total. Members of the community make a firm commitment to stand behind the initiative regardless of the challenges they may face. And by the end of 2018, the results are outstanding, with more than twenty thousand child marriages annulled across Malawi. The community’s incredible efforts inspire us to publish the story of Malawi’s historic anti–child marriage law in an official United Nations publication for distribution in 196 countries around the world. This example of communities rising up to create a world that is safer and happier and healt
hier for young girls—this story out of Africa—sets an example for other governments around the world.

  Once again, I feel immense pride to know that ubuntu, when fully embraced, elevates everyone, not only in Iceland, where unequal pay has now been outlawed, but also here in Malawi, where child marriage is no longer legal. Similar to Iceland, these changes were only possible because of the efforts of entire communities coming together to create real and lasting change. Now girls in Malawi have regained their potential; they are holding hands and laughing as they run to school; they are dreaming about the future, offering advice and support to other young girls, and believing in their worth and their options. This is ubuntu, a recognition that when we uplift each other, everyone wins.

  If you think you are too small to make a difference, try sleeping in a room with a mosquito.

  —African proverb

  16

  I fumble in the dark, moving toward a light that flickers inside a small building with dusty, steel-barred windows. My feet sink in and out of the sandy ground and dust covers my shins. The chirping of crickets in the nearby shrubs fills the night with joyous sound, brightening what would otherwise feel like an ominous darkness. The air is warm and thick and clings to my skin like a loving, invisible hug. I look up to the heavens, at the twinkling stars, take a deep breath, and chuckle gleefully as the familiar earthy scent fills my lungs. I am back on the African continent.

  A dimly lit sign hangs on the wooden door of the building; it reads HeForShe Tavern. It’s 2018, four years since the launch of HeForShe. I am as curious as I am apprehensive. I know that I shouldn’t have come here. My work, in fact, forbids me to be here, but I have traveled too far to go back now: from New York City to Johannesburg, South Africa, followed by a two-hour drive to Klerksdorp, a city located in the North West Province of the country. I cannot just walk away. I must go inside and see for myself what is actually happening in this place.

  I gently push the door open and enter the room, coming face-to-face with a group of thirty or so casually dressed women and men of varying ages. The room is full; almost every seat is taken. I quickly introduce myself, find one of the last remaining seats next to my local colleague, and take my place in the open circle of men and women facing one another.

  I am unfamiliar with the Klerksdorp community and have never been to a HeForShe tavern before. In fact, I learned of their existence only recently, and they are somewhat controversial. The community did not seek permission from the United Nations to establish the tavern which bears the HeForShe name. In any case, such a request would have been denied on the basis of a UN policy that forbids association with individuals or organizations involved in the alcohol business. This is due in part to the fact that excessive drinking has often been closely linked with acts of gender-based violence and domestic abuse, not to mention its negative effects on overall health and wellness.

  I look around the room, notice open beer bottles beneath the chairs, and feel my nerves twitch with anxiety before promptly reminding myself not to worry about UN protocol. Right now, I need to be focused on what is happening inside this tavern. I need to remember the bigger purpose behind this gathering and cannot forget the devastating story that brought the HeForShe taverns to our attention.

  One year ago, a young girl from the Klerksdorp community was abducted, brutally gang-raped, and then burned to death. This was a heartbreaking story, but sadly not unique. One in three women in South Africa will experience some form of violence during their lifetime, and tragic stories of young girls being raped and murdered often go unreported. But this time something incredible happened. A group of self-proclaimed HeForShe men from HeForShe taverns rallied alongside the women in Klerksdorp. The community worked together to identify the main perpetrator, reported him to the police, and got the rapist placed behind bars. Then they helped raise money to cover legal costs for the girl’s family, and for months they picketed outside the courthouse demanding justice for the victim’s family.

  When I heard the story from my colleagues in South Africa, I felt encouraged by the community’s actions, but also saddened by the girl’s death. I recalled many more stories of suffering that remained largely unknown. During my first months working with Phumzile, we visited Safe Horizon—one of the largest women’s shelters in the United States—to advocate for more support and essential services for survivors. We stood on a street corner shivering in the bitter New York City winter cold, waiting to be escorted to an undisclosed location to meet the survivors. For the safety of the women, the organization wouldn’t disclose the exact address to us, as often the abusers track down the survivors to cause more harm.

  “I needed a place where somebody would listen to me and where I could just cry,” one of the survivors, Lisa, who had fled a violent relationship with her two children, told us. “It is not an easy step to leave, but I didn’t want my kids to ever think that violence should be part of a relationship,” she said, recalling her trauma, and the incredible support she and her children had subsequently received from the shelter. Two months after she left her partner, Lisa was able to finish her doctorate to become a reverend.

  As Lisa and the other women recounted their painful experiences with raw emotion, I felt my heart ache with sadness: “I am exhausted, but I am afraid to sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see him charging toward me with clenched fists”; “I feel as though my life is over. I had a job I loved and now I am homeless and unemployed as I can’t leave the shelter for fear that he will find me. Many times, I think of ending my life, but then I think about my kids and know that I have to live for them”; “I had to cut all ties with my family so that even they don’t know where I am. I am afraid that he will threaten them for my address and find me and take away my children”; “I am ashamed to face my friends and colleagues. My partner and I were supposed to be this role-model couple for what a successful marriage should be. I had a big job, I was a powerful woman, and now I fear that everyone will judge me.”

  As Phumzile and I said our goodbyes and stepped back into the freezing cold, I knew that these stories would leave an indelible imprint on my mind. It felt entirely unjust that these strong and hardworking women now lived in perpetual fear, hiding away from society and putting their lives on hold. Sadly, these singular stories formed pieces of a much large mosaic of equally devastating violations. In shelters, homes, and hospitals the world over, in Asia, Africa, Europe, and the Americas, I met more survivors and their children as part of my work with UN Women. In Helsinki, Finland, Hanna, a survivor of domestic violence, shared her story. “They say that our country is one of the leading countries in the world when it comes to gender equality, but look at me, I have two broken ribs and four embarrassing stitches across my chin. How is this fair?” Hanna was right. It wasn’t fair, and neither was it fair for Neza, another domestic violence survivor, in Rwanda’s capital city, Kigali, whose husband dislocated her jaw far too many times; or for the one in three women in every single country in the world who suffer from physical and emotional violence.

  I found the opportunity to bring in men as part of the solution in addressing gender-based violence, with the launch of the HeForShe pilot initiative three years ago, which engaged the president of Rwanda and the president of Finland as two of the Champions committed to combating gender-based violence in their respective countries. I had come to understand that gender-based violence is a terrible loss to women, but also a loss for families and societies. When women are hurt, societies hurt. And the impact to the children involved often perpetuates this cycle of abuse. Gender-based violence is as much a men’s issue as it is a women’s issue; the impact of such violence is not just detrimental to women, but to all of us. Thus, given the rallying call of HeForShe to men, we decided to make gender-based violence core to the movement, and a tangible issue that men could play a role in combating. Now, in 2018, we are witnessing two world leaders creating concrete change.

  Rwanda put in place substantive, targeted care for s
urvivors of domestic violence, establishing a network of centers across the country called the Isange One Stop Centres (IOSC). At these forty-four facilities, victims and survivors receive appropriate and comprehensive medical, psychosocial, and legal services, all free of charge.

  In Finland, the government is addressing the issue at its source, rolling out a course on gender-based violence and how to manage aggression across the entire Finnish army—which is mandatory for all Finnish men. As a result, incidents of domestic violence are on the decline as men get better at managing aggression and take responsibility for their actions.

  In other countries, I have also encountered countless men whose perception of male responsibility in ending gender-based violence is starting to change. Men like Paul, from a rural community in Uganda; a father of four daughters, two of his girls had been raped while going to fetch water from the river in the forest. Pain was seared into his face as he told me this story. Often after an incident of violence, or in the face of consistent violence, women and girls are given the advice to avoid going out when it is dark. But instead, this father explained, “Us, we decide to create a team of HeForShe bodyguards. I invited other men and boys in our community to join me so we could go to the river with the women and girls to fetch water together. Now we carry more buckets and share the load. Now our wives and daughters don’t have to go back to the river too often or feel afraid to go because now we all walk together,” Paul explained. I felt myself choke up with emotion at this visible action of solidarity.