* * *
And now, thanks in part to the HeForShe movement, men in Klerksdorp have stood up against rape and gender-based violence, taking concrete steps to ensure that the perpetrator of that terrible crime was brought to justice. As I look around the tavern, watching women and men sip their beers, my mind floods with questions: What exactly is a HeForShe Tavern? What further impact are they creating here?
“Good evening, my dear friends,” says a short, smiling man dressed in a green-and-black striped sweater, blue jeans, and a white HeForShe ball cap. “Tonight, me, I am your facilitator. Tonight, as always, we will talk about domestic violence and respect.” He continues, “But first we start with the reminder of our rules,” and he begins reading out loud from the list written on the poster on the wall. I lean in closer, following along, feeling pleasantly surprised and impressed—even astounded—by the words. This isn’t a poster I have seen before or ever expected to see. The rules are certainly not verified or approved by the United Nations, and this is what is so notable: these are rules made by the community for the community, rules that surpass anything that I could have hoped for when we launched the initiative four years ago.
I Am a HeForShe Tavern:
NO selling alcohol to underage and pregnant women
NO harassment of women in the Tavern
NO form of violence will be tolerated in the Tavern
Weekly community dialogues on gender-based violence will take place in the Tavern
Organize at least five community actions per year as part of awareness raising against women and girls abuse
Organize at least three health testing sessions in a year for clients
Over the next three hours I watch men and women of all ages share perspectives as they try to find common ground on difficult, complex, and often deep-rooted issues; debate ways to address rape and other gender-based violence, which some time ago felt like intractable or even impossible problems; build consensus on how to put an end to domestic abuse; and find creative solutions to foster respect and encourage positive masculinity.
I keep listening and asking questions, determined to learn more: “What are you most proud of?” “What challenges did you initially face in setting up HeForShe taverns?” “How have you been successful in getting tavern owners engaged in the initiative?” “What can other communities in South Africa and other countries learn from your experience in Klerksdorp?” “What support, if any, do you need to accelerate the positive impact of your work?”
As community members explain, I begin to understand. After witnessing high levels of domestic violence in the community, a few men got together and decided to change things.
“When we heard about HeForShe on the radio a year ago, talking about what it means to be good husbands and fathers, us, we decided that this one is for us. We decided to become HeForShe,” the smiling tavern facilitator wearing the green-and-black striped sweater says. “We looked at ourselves as men and said, us, we are the problem here. If it is us who are beating up our wives and children, then it is us who need to stop their suffering.” He pauses, and then continues. “So we said, okay, how can we do this, not just for ourselves but also for all the men in our community? We had to think of a clever-clever plan to engage the other men in a way that was easy for them. At first, we thought of organizing a community gathering, so we could talk to them about stopping domestic violence, but then we worried they would not show up. So we came up with a new plan and decided to go to the place where the men were already socializing. We decided to go to taverns and speak to them,” he says, pleased with their plan.
“Yes, us, we liked the tavern plan very much, because taverns were creating a lot of problems for our community. Men would spend all day drinking and then go back home drunk and beat up their wives and children. Us, we decided to turn taverns into places where both women and men can come together and find ways to end domestic violence in our community,” a tall, older gentleman explains.
“So, we started visiting tavern by tavern, telling tavern owners about our HeForShe plans, asking them to join us in turning their taverns into HeForShe taverns. When they agreed, we all came together as a community and created our own HeForShe tavern rules, the ones you see on this poster,” the facilitator chimes in, pointing to the poster on the wall.
“And if a tavern owner does not respect the rules, then they must stop being a HeForShe tavern. And no one wants to stop because less people will visit their tavern. So being a HeForShe tavern is also good for tavern owners,” another man chimes in, chuckling softly.
One of the women joins the conversation. “Aaaa, now, us we thank God for the HeForShe taverns. Now we can discuss issues that affect us women with our husbands without fear, knowing that they will listen to us. Now less men are beating up their wives, and when they do, we confront them as a community and tell them to stop. There is more peace in our community, and we are proud of what we did for ourselves,” she says with the same pride communities in Malawi showed as they joined together—women and men—to end child marriage. A solution by the community, for the community—and it worked.
“Us, we started with just one HeForShe tavern in the beginning, but now, aaaa, we are more than one hundred forty-four taverns here in Klerksdorp, reaching four thousand men every week. But we are just getting started, we won’t stop until all the men in our country become HeForShe,” the facilitator explains with passion and conviction in his voice. This is what I always envisioned could be possible, and here is solid proof that my belief was not unfounded. The girl in the blue uniform had told me “as Africans we must uplift each other,” and this is the embodiment of her words in action, the words that had inspired my dream and fueled my fierce determination to pursue it, even when the odds seemed insurmountable.
* * *
I am twenty-five years old, sitting in the living room and sorting through Uncle Sam’s old boxes from his office, trying to organize his papers, which Aunt Jane, in her grief, refuses to touch. In one box I find Uncle Sam’s old diary, and beneath it a glossy plastic folder. Inside is my “dream essay” from Roosevelt Girls High School—though it was written not so long ago, so much has happened in the interim that it feels like a lifetime.
I am surprised and also moved. I didn’t know that Uncle Sam had kept it. I quickly glance over the pages and remember my dream to become the girl in the blue uniform. A dream which I have now given up on so that I can support my family.
Light spills through the windows and falls over the papers spread out on the floor, covered with Uncle Sam’s familiar handwriting. I am overwhelmed with emotion, light-headed, as I hear Uncle Sam’s words ring in my head: Promise me something, Elizabeth. Never let your current circumstances limit your potential. Never let anything diminish your dreams.
What have I done? I have to find a way to pursue my dream again. I cannot just give up. I made a promise to God under the tree in Gogo’s field. I made a promise to Uncle Sam that I would do more with my life. And I haven’t. Yes, I have helped Amai search for money, and I have supported Aunt Jane in her grief, but at the cost of losing sight of my own dream. I was supposed to be the girl in the blue uniform. I was supposed to uplift not just the lives of my own family, but the lives of others in my entire community, country, and hopefully the African continent. This was my purpose and the only reason why God had saved my life during the drought—of this I was certain.
I clutch the essay, the pages rustling between my trembling hands. I ferociously scan the words and, then and there, renew my promise. “Thank you, Uncle Sam, thank you,” I say out loud. “I promise never to give up on my dream. I promise to make you proud.” I turn my head up to the heavens and cry.
When I wake up the next morning, I know that I will do anything and everything it takes to chase my dream. So, nothing has gone as planned: things rarely do. But I will no longer let my circumstances limit my potential. I will not let anything diminish my dream. I will leave my country and get myself a Commonwe
alth visa and go to London and find a job with the United Nations. If I do not go now, I may never go.
Amai and Aunt Jane are not impressed by my plan when I break the news to them at the clinic. Amai says, “Eeee, Lizzy, London is far-far. How will you get there?” I say I have a plan, which Aunt Jane quickly interrogates: “Sure you can get a visa, but do you think the United Nations is going to give you a job just like that without a degree?” I explain that I will ask the United Nations for the most junior job that doesn’t require a degree, then save money and go to university.
Aunt Jane responds, with quick German precision, “That’s not a plan, Elizabeth. Take it from someone who has lived abroad, alone, away from family. It can be very lonely and scary. This kind of haphazard planning that you are proposing won’t work. If you want to go to London, then fine, you have our full support. But we need to put in place a proper plan. We need to figure out how you will get there, where you will stay, and how you will find a job. Right now, all my savings have gone into the clinics, so we need time to help raise money for your ticket and accommodations in London, in case you are unable to find a job right away.” She is right. I need a better plan, especially given that I don’t have enough money to buy a plane ticket or pay for rent in London. Besides, I don’t know anyone in the UK who can take me in while I look for a job. Still, I decide that I must go now. I will find a way. “I will figure it out, Aunt Jane. Don’t you worry about me,” I say, and shut down the conversation.
I apply for a standard UK Commonwealth visa that will permit me to live and work in the UK for two years. When I get the visa, I go back to Goromonzi to visit Gogo. I am ashamed that I still haven’t saved enough money for my plane ticket, but when I share my plans with Gogo she quickly says, “I can help.”
“But Gogo, you, you don’t have money,” I say, knowing that Gogo will need to keep the little she has in case there is another drought.
“But I have cows and goats, my dear child. What use are our possessions, if not to serve the ones we love?” We are sitting on the stoop in front of the hut, our shins soaking up the afternoon sun. I look around Gogo’s yard, then at Gogo, and feel sadness consume me. I am excited about going to London, but I now feel the weight of my decision. I will miss Gogo terribly. I will miss my home in Goromonzi, and all that it has given me.
Gogo senses my sorrow. She takes my hand, places it on my heart, and says, “I will always be with you, right here, inside your heart, my dear child. Never forget that, never forget.” Her eyes mist with tears and I feel a lump rise in my throat. I throw my arms around Gogo, snuggle my nose into her neck, and fill my lungs with her earthy scent. As her heart beats against mine, I know that no matter the distance between us, I will always be one with Gogo. My heart will remain right here in Goromonzi, and here in Africa is where I will always belong.
Two months later, Gogo makes an incredible sacrifice: she sells a few of her cows and goats to raise money for me to go to London. Soon after, I’m on the long plane journey from Harare to London to start my new beginning. I’m on my way to chase my dream, to become the girl in the blue uniform and work for the United Nations. I will not fail.
* * *
Now in Klerksdorp, almost two decades later, I am grateful and proud that I didn’t give up on my dream, even when life got in the way, as it always will. And now I am witnessing another powerful reaffirmation. As the night wears on and the laughter from the now very merry community members grows louder and more exuberant, I lean back in my chair and try to take it all in. Indeed, there is a palpable peace in this gathering; even as people debate and challenge one another, they also sing and laugh and smile and converse. Perhaps many of them have known each other all their lives; perhaps some of them are new friends, but they are all committed to uplifting one another. Here, in front of my eyes, is real dialogue and exchange about the issues that impact so many women and girls globally, and in particular in this part of the African continent. Here is ubuntu in beautiful, complicated, colorful, joyous, and hardworking action. I am so buoyed by hope that I feel as if I might float out of the room. What I am seeing is a new Africa, but one founded on our most fundamental and ancient philosophy.
I am so happy that I made the long journey from New York to witness such a milestone moment in the history of this movement, as I witness my own people, my own community, redefine what a tavern space can provide; not just a place to drink, but a place to be seen and heard; a place to change the lives of more than four thousand women and many more, whose husbands have begun to evaluate their own behaviors, thriving to be the best possible HeForShe versions of themselves. I quickly become choked up with emotion.
I am grateful to the people of Klerksdorp for showing me once again what communities are capable of achieving for themselves: real change from within. After all the hard work and self-doubt and setbacks and sadness; after the long days and even longer nights, worried that I had lost my way; after all the doubts and triumphs and tears and laughter; after all the people I have met and their stories of struggle and pain and joy that I hold within my mind and heart, here before me is an example of all that I had hoped and wished and worked for; here is all that I have longed to do since my dream of becoming the girl in the blue uniform became my life’s purpose. I am grateful for every step of the journey, every opportunity, every person, every story, every moment.
It takes a village to raise a child.
—African proverb
17
My pulse quickens the moment I answer the phone in my office at the United Nations. I pray that I will have sufficient time to tell the whole story, in all of its nuance and texture and complexity. My mind spins with thoughts and ideas, barely keeping pace with my racing heart, when I hear a serious voice greet me on the other end of the line.
Alexandra, a journalist at the New York Times, is writing an article about gender equality that examines the dismal representation of women at the World Economic Forum, an annual event that convenes the world’s most powerful leaders in Davos, Switzerland, to discuss global issues. Infamously dubbed the “Boys Club,” the forum has experienced intense scrutiny and criticism for failing to increase the number of female delegates. Since I am one of only a few women attending in a few weeks, Alexandra is curious to learn about the groundbreaking work of the HeForShe movement and how it reflects my views and ideas about gender equality.
“First, tell me about you!” she says, without missing a beat.
As I clear my throat to speak, I realize how complicated my answer must be, and how rich and triumphant and harrowing and remarkable the path has been. I have experienced and witnessed so much to arrive at this place in my life: from my humble upbringing in a small village in Zimbabwe, where I was a small girl with big dreams, to my unlikely and often turbulent path to the United Nations. Along this journey that is my story, I have been uplifted and championed by the support of my loving family, mentors, and communities: without their belief in me and the great personal sacrifices they made to enable me to pursue my dream, I would not be here. Without their stories, my singular story would not exist. Although some of these beloved people are no longer living, if I close my eyes, I can still hear their voices of encouragement, challenge, and love.
I think of my Gogo, with her indomitable spirit and her gifts of wisdom, which form the core of who I am; I remember Amai’s resilience and how she bore the heartbreak of sending me away—not to abandon me, but to give me a chance for a better life. I think of Baba’s incredible sacrifices and of my siblings’ unconditional love. I remember Aunt Jane’s mentorship, which instilled in me the desire to always do more and showed me what it takes to be of service to others; I think of Uncle Sam’s unwavering belief in me, and his wholehearted support each step of the way, even when the path sometimes became bumpy or unclear.
In all of these communities, in Goromonzi and Epworth and Harare, I was raised to live in keeping with the central, definitive African value and philosophy of ubuntu: that when we u
plift others, we are ourselves uplifted. This has guided and sustained me, literally and figuratively. I have such a powerful mosaic of memory to call upon that shows ubuntu in action: in Goromonzi, ambuyas fed me and Gogo, even if they didn’t have food to spare; ambuyas and sekurus taught me the valuable lessons of kindness and forgiveness; sisis and hanzwadzis lightened my load as a child carrying water, or tying up goats, or tending crops; and the girl in the blue uniform, an African sisi from a different village, working for the United Nations, saved my life.
So how shall I answer Alexandra’s question? What shall I tell her about myself?
My story, their stories, and all of our stories stitched together are part of a colorful and beautifully woven African tapestry. I am humbled to know, unequivocally, that I am living proof of the power of ubuntu—that “I am because we are.” I think of all the powerful Africans I know and have known and will come to know, and how proud I am to be Mwana Wevhu, a child of the African soil. I know that without each and every one of these people and so many others along the way, I would not be the person I am today.
What shall I tell Alexandra about myself?
I take a deep breath, and say, “I will tell you everything.”
I am a girl from Africa. This is my story.
APPENDIX I
My story is a testament that we all have the ability to uplift one another and create positive change in our communities, no matter our current circumstances. Creating change starts with informing ourselves about the issues, from those impacting our local communities, to the global challenges affecting communities around the world. Below are some of the issues covered in this book that you might consider championing.
I Am a Girl from Africa Page 23