Rape Culture

After a day and a half of being able to think about little more than the Steubenville rape case, I thought it was time to write. Nothing I say here will be new or add any sort of insight/perspective to what happened in Ohio, but I need to write for my sake. I need to write because I'm angry, and I'm sad, and I'm disappointed and I'm disgusted.

Less than six months ago the world rallied and mourned together over the death of a 23 year old Indian woman who was brutally gang raped and killed. Americans were outraged. How could such a terrible thing happen "over there?"  For many people "Congo" and "rape" have become synonymous. How come in "certain parts of the world" women still need to live in fear of rape and sexual violence?  Then, when a woman is raped in the U.S. we (not everyone, but an alarming amount of the country, including CNN) sympathize with the rapists.

I didn't know this happened or that this case was going on until yesterday afternoon. Within minutes of reading my first facebook post about it, it started to be all I saw. I began to read about it on numerous blogs and news sites. The more I read and the more I saw, the more my mind was blown and the more I began to feel physically sick.

Rape Culture in the United States has been a particularly hot topic since the attention placed on Delhi. I don't think it's shocking that I'm appalled by  the gender stereotypes the U.S. struggles with, or the sexism engrained in our social, political and economic structures  too few Americans recognize. But, a couple months ago I wasn't prepared to say there is a strong rape culture in the U.S.  Maybe I didn't want to admit this. Maybe I was in denial and didn't want to think that my brothers, my friends, and my friend's son were developing their identities, or being raised, in such a society. Maybe I didn't want  to believe that every woman, myself included, had been raised in a society that places the responsibility of rape on the victim. Maybe I wanted to believe we, as a society, have moved beyond this point.  

However, after months of further contemplation, and, finally, the response to the rape in Steubenville, I can't deny that there is a strong rape culture not only in other parts of the world, but in the United States as well. In the United States it's so engrained in our system that sometimes it's hard to recognize, or, in my case, hard to admit, but it's there and it affects all of us. While the statistic that 1 in 3 women will experience some form of sexual assault in their lifetime is commonly known, I don't think many people understand what this looks like for those women who make up that 1 in 3. 

The boys who raped the girl in Ohio have been raised in a society that they felt would find amusement in their 12 minute clip mocking this "dead," "dry," girl (video clip of boys joking about the girl). While it is clear that most people are outraged by what they did, it is also clear that there isn't enough pressure being put on men to prevent rape.  It is clear that there is a problem with our country when a female news reporter can sympathize so openly with two rapists (CNN Clip).  

When I was in the Philippines some of my students had to suffer through rape and other forms of sexual harassment. This was the first time that I was in a position to teach youth about rape and sexual harassment. It was the first time I heard adults try to teach youth about these two significant things (I don't remember ever learning about rape in middle school or high school). I couldn't believe the things being said during "the rape talk" at my school in the Philippines. Some of the highlights are 1) if a girl doesn't want to get raped she should dress more conservatively, 2) if a girl is raped then it is part of God's plan for her life and she should learn from it,  3) if a girl is raped she should not talk about it because it will bring her family many problems and it will alienate her from her community, often leading to more harassment and ridicule, and 4) men have no control over themselves if they see the slightest bit of skin on a woman. 

When I first heard these things I was so angry that I interjected even though it wasn't my time to speak. I told the students I didn't agree with any of these things and that I would be more than willing to meet with them for one on one meetings about any sort of abuse or harassment they have experienced. That's all I had time to say before I was ushered away from the podium. I realize that wasn't the most culturally sensitive way to handle the situation, but I couldn't sit still and let my kids hear these things. I couldn't let girls who have gone through one of the most traumatic things a person can experience in his/her life be criminalized for the violations against them. 

In each of my classes for the rest of the week we talked about rape, sexual harassment and sexism. We talked about the negative effects of putting the blame on the victim for both men and women. Students asked questions and I answered as best as I could. During my private meetings with students I learned just how many of them suffered from some degree of abuse, which for most of the girls took on the form of sexual abuse. I couldn't believe how rampant this was, and even more astounding was that my boys were going to grow up to be the fathers, uncles and neighbors that could one day be capable of inflicting so much pain on a young girl or woman. 

With this recognition some of our sessions were divided by sex so that the boys could have a different session than the girls. I was amazed to hear some of the thoughts the boys had about rape and sexual harassment. I was equally amazed by their desire to better understand the dangers of these things. They had thought sexual violence was "bad" because it were "dirty," but initially not many seemed to think there were problems with entitlement, objectification, morality or abuse. They said men would never boast about doing any of these things, but that it was common knowledge that many men did them.  They also said the men weren't responsible for their actions because it happened after drinking alcohol or when the girl was bad or when the girl was being too seductive (i.e. wearing too little clothing).  How do you combat such a mentality? How do you change something that has been engrained in a person's mind by their female teachers and their mothers? How do you demonstrate that the hardcore, very violent, porn (one of the regulars that played on the bus between Anda and Alaminos was of a girl being unwillingly gang raped and then buried in the dirt to be trampled on by horses) they see on a bus isn't funny or acceptable treatment for another human being?

All of this made me think a lot about my own life--my own experiences, my own education, my own culture. I went to a university that handed out rape whistles to women and invited women to attend a self defense class to protect us from rape.  Great, protections. But, what about the men?  Were they being taught not to hurt women, not to objectify women?  When a boyfriend got too angry, or when "good Christian men" took advantage of a lady who got "too drunk" what resources were available for the women to help them recover?  Where could someone get help when her boyfriend was too forceful and wouldn't listen to her when she said no?  When a lady did go for help, what happened to the guy who violated her in some way?  

While I've heard a lot of stories from a lot of different women, I can't say for sure what APU had in place for these situations.  Therefore, I can't legitimately criticize them. However, I can criticize the fact that women didn't feel they would have a voice, or be validated  and supported, if they did seek help from the school. This is a common problem across the U.S. Women, just like my students in the Philippines, fear if they bring awareness to he violence they experience then they will be stigmatized or ridiculed. They fear, like in the Ohio case, people will react against them.  They fear what people will think of them.  They fear fear, and sometimes think it is better to blame themselves for what has happened to them than to bare the idea that some people do unspeakable things to other people without reason, and sometimes we don't have control over the actions of other people.

I read today that the victim in the Steubenville rape case has not forgiven the boys who raped her. This was a bit stunning and the first thing I've read directly about her (a lot of feminist bloggers and writers outraged by CNN have written about the overall situation and how there should be more emphasis put on her, but I've heard very little specifically about how she is right now).  I know that forgiveness is a powerful thing and has the ability to help a person heal through the traumas they have endured. I know that it is a freeing experience and one that allows you to experience a lot of joy, but is anyone surprised she hasn't forgiven these boys at this point in time?  

They violated her personhood. They, and everyone who continues to criticize her, have jeopardized her trust in people, particularly in men. While being the victim of rape is not her entire identity, it will forever be with her and something she may see when she looks in the mirror--an identity she didn't choose. It will be a reminder of weakness and vulnerability. It is something many of us will forget once this news story blows over, but something she will relive countless times. 

As a culture, we need to change this. We need to create a world that is safe for women. A world that supports, loves, and strengthens a 16 year old girl who was brutally treated. A world that teaches responsibility, compassion and empathy.  A world that, instead of creating fear out of our most vulnerable moments, is safe and stable and allows us to create our own identities free of abuse. 

Computers for Schools

As many of you know I spent the last two years working at a school on a small island, Anda, of the Philippines. I'm currently talking to Leah about the experience and some of the activities I did with my students over those two years. While many parts of the Peace Corps were very hard I don't regret any of it because I got to spend two years with some amazing and beautiful youth. Young people that are truly capable of changing the course of their country's history.

I never had any desire to teach, let alone to teach English during my Peace Corps service. I had romanticized visions of the Peace Corps before leaving. I imagined myself in the middle of the African desert in a village where I would spend the morning working on maternal health projects, the afternoons making chapati with my neighbors, and nights watching the stars as my fire burnt out. I was going to have braided hair and wear vibrant fabrics. I was going to, finally, master the djembe and, finally, learn to dance. I was going to learn ancient wisdoms and experience villages raising children.

Then, D.C. spoke and told me I would be teaching English. I packed my bags and off I went. To teach. English. To say I was hesitant would be an understatement.

I got to my school and met 570+ incredible students. At first they weren't so sure about me. Luckily I grew on them. They began to share their lives with me and began to make me a part of their lives. It was an amazing privilege. They taught me so much about the world. Ancient wisdom was within each of them. For two years we wrote together and read together and played endless English games together and watched movies together and listened to music together. For two years I worked as hard as I could to figure out what it would take to get them to believe in their abilities as students and as people. For two years I struggled with classroom management, many days left without a clue on how to help students work through the issues they were facing that they carried with them to the classroom. For two years they helped me understand their lives, what they needed, what they wanted, and what I could do.

The students of ANHS are filled with so much joy and laughter. Their minds are able to conceptualize ideas mine could never create on its own. They are creative and lively; feisty and intelligent; determined and full of personality. The students of ANHS are ambitious and, like the rest of us, have great dreams for the future. Dreams of writing novels, going to medical school, starting businesses, and helping their community.

They are aware of the struggles they face. While many adults tell them that they, as the sons and daughters of fisherfolk and rice farmers, have little to look forward to in the future, they know that they are capable of defying the odds society has given them. They see the problems both their local community and country face, but they also see the solutions. And, I have seen their ability to turn ideas into reality, thoughts into action. I have seen their resilience and their persistence. I have seen them improve beyond what their teachers thought they were capable of. I have seen them take responsibility for their families and community, and I have seen them develop aspirations they hope to attain.

I, along with four other Peace Corps volunteers, are continuing to raise more money for computers for our students. ANHS had no textbooks let alone computers when I first arrived. We were able to accumulate enough written resources for the school, but ANHS still needs a few more computers in order to meet he needs of their students. These computers will be used to equip the students with necessary IT skills for college. A few more computers would allow all the students instead of just the top sections to take IT classes. Most of the world has access to computers. It is difficult for students to achieve their goals in todays world without IT knowledge. It's not impossible for them, but it's more difficult than it is for their peers. These computers will contribute to long-lasting academic and technical development for the students of Anda National High School.

Many of you have already donated to one or many of the projects I worked on in the Philippines. If you have, please please don't donate again. For those of you who haven't already donated and are interested in helping this computer project you can visit this website to donate: https://donate.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=492-407

You can also join our fb group at: https://www.facebook.com/events/202616856545786/

Thank you for your time, attention and continuous support.

P.S. I'm not sure why you can't click on the links, but you can copy and paste them in your browser if you're interested

a birthday celebration

Today, February 3rd, Super Bowl Day 2013, is Erica's 35th birthday. A day that should be filled with balloons, cake, joy, pizza, beer, raw smoothies, rugby, beards, jeepney top riding through the mountains of Sagada, hot baths, friends, laughter, lots of love and family. Today is a day to celebrate Erica and all that she has fought through, all that she has created, and all that she has shared with the world.

For those of you who don't know Erica she has just finished her last chemo treatment. Over the last few months she has met cancer with grace and strength, refusing to let cancer define her or dictate her outlook on life. Throughout this battle Erica has radiated with positivity, acting as an inspiration and encouragement to those who know her.

This isn't shocking though because that's who Erica is. She is fun and kind and full of life and positive and passionate and strong. She is stubborn. No one will tell her cancer will have the best of her just as no one will tell her she can't work with a rice farmers cooperative in the mountains. She is understanding but fierce and unwavering. She is true to herself and what she believes. Always searching for answers and more understanding.

I met Erica more than two years ago. We both had the AWESOME opportunity to spend three months living in Olongapo aka the city known for "Shit River," countless floods, prostitution and creepy-old-white-men. During those three months I didn't know Erica very well, but that changed and I'm very glad it did.

After training we were sent to two towns about 14 hours apart. Somehow the distance didn't keep us from connecting.Through PC events and other activities we were able to get to know each other better and spend more time talking, processing and just trying to make the most of our experiences.

One highlight of my time in the Philippines was an Easter trip to the mountains of Sagada. Erica loves Sagada. You can read her blog to hear more about this magical, mountainous, oasis. A land of culture, kind people, yogurt, community, history, and peace. I will never forget riding on top of jeepneys for hours through sprawling rice terraces, rocky cliffs, and refreshingly cold clouds. We spent hours in silence just taking in the fresh air and the freedom that comes with top riding. We spent hours talking to the farmers sharing the roof with us. We laughed as we shared our stories from site.

Erica was in her element on the roof of the jeep. She laughed and joked with the farmers. She was at ease as the jeep struggled to stay on the road. She sat tall and content as we wove our way through mountain passes.

We stopped in Banuae and Erica took us to her friend's hotel so we could shed a few bags before our hike in Batad. When we were at the jeep terminal Erica saw a couple people she knew. She greeted her Ate's and Kuyas with love and familiarity. It was evident that Erica brought each of these people joy. They had become a part of each other's lives. She knew about their families and she cared to hear more about their families. Everyone Erica meets is important to her and she puts effort into knowing people, no matter how long or short she has known someone.

The same happened in Sagada and Batad. In Sagada we ate at her friend's restaurant. Erica was of course warmly welcomed back and treated like family. In Batad Erica asked about a boy named Rambo she had met months before. Everyone knew him, and through him knew Erica. Because of Erica's warmth we were welcomed and given the chance to also become a part of these people's lives for the few days we spent in the mountains.

As we hiked through the terraces Erica asked questions about the history of the terraces, about our guides' family, about the giant earthworms that were wrecking the stability of the terraces, about the recent collapses, about the future of the terraces, about the daily lives of the people who lived in Batad. She was curious because she has a passion for people and a passion for culture. She wants to understand what she can to help protect livelihoods and histories. Her questions were filled with compassion and empathy.

But, Erica is also feisty and she stands firmly for what she believes. One of my favorite conversations with Erica happened in her kitchen. It was a conversation my soul needed. We secretly lit two cloves and sat on plastic stools in her kitchen so no one could see us smoking (girls don't smoke after all, especially not Peace Corps girls). She understood me and I understood her. We were able to share our frustrations, sadness, and desires. We discussed our fears and our pessimism. We offset those fears and pessimism with stories of rebirth and hope. Anger at the injustices around us fueled the conversation long past the time our cloves fizzled out. Whereas I am often weak and unsure how to respond to what i feel is wrong, Erica is strong and stands firm against what she knows is wrong. She is honest regardless of whether or not her words will please those she is speaking to. From there we talked about solutions, solutions neither of us were sure would work. It hurt Erica to think about the problems of the world. She carries the burdens of those around her.  She is convicted by what is right and good.  She is human and gets discouraged. But she is also human in that she wakes up the next morning with optimism and determination. The world needs all of this. It needs people to hurt for it, it needs people to feel, it needs people to contemplate solutions, it needs people  to be unsure, it needs people to know what is right and good and stand unwavering in support of those things. It needs people who care and are willing to fight for change however they are able and know how.

Erica is fun. Rum and cokes on beaches, sneaking into music festivals because we literally had no money for anything including food (good old empty atm's), dancing  to great and terrible music alike, hanging out at artist parties, eating cheese whiz and sky flakes, playing african drums in the Philippines...living life to the fullest. She doesn't let money or preconceived notions of societal success stand in her way. Nothing slows her down or gets her down.Erica lives life and Erica shares life with all those she interacts with.

For her birthday we can commit to caring for all of those she cares about, and decide to stand against the hate and the wrong that inhibits empowerment and equality. On this day we celebrate Erica and all that she is. All she symbolizes and all that she inspires within us.

p.s. check out erica's blog: http://ezimmer78.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/on-monday-my-mom-and-i-got-into-my.html

it's been a few months.

I have been back from the Philippines for five full months now. Time goes fast when you're not on island time. Since being back I've seen three seasons come and go. That's something I didn't see for two years. It's amazing how much the seasons contribute to your emotional concept of time and place.

Since leaving the Peace Corps I have been able to spend significant time with friends and family. You have no idea how significant a conversation is with someone who has seen all of you, someone who knows the best and worst parts of you, someone you can be honest with, someone you can trust completely, someone who knows your history and the reasons you are who you are today until you have lived a life that isn't your own. A life where you are constantly on guard of what you say, when you say something, and how you say it. A life where no one has any idea, and where most people have no desire to know, why you are the way you are. What events formed you, hardened you and softened you. A life where you can't express your true beliefs or defend what you are passionate about. A life where you can tell people about your history, but when you do you are considered a liar because you aren't describing the latest episode of The Kardashians, Gossip Girl, or America's Next Top Model.

Since being back I have rediscovered the significance of affirmation and physical contact. For two years the only physical contact I had with anyone, other than my dog who I could hold and pet, was negative. If someone wasn't lifting up my shirt to grab my fat in front of all the teachers in the canteen or grabbing me as I was trying to find a trike, I didn't have physical contact with anyone. Maybe a high five or two, but no hugs or hand holding. My students were amazing when it came to affirmation. They were amazing when it came to anything and everything. I dearly miss each of them, each for their own reasons. And, there were a few people I worked with who were encouraging and supportive,  but contestant criticism from most of the adults I was surrounded by wore me down. It wasn't only criticism. There were times when I was yelled at quite aggressively in front of other staff and students. There were meetings held without me to complain about the projects I was doing with and for the students. There were rumors started and conflicts started without my knowing. You come to realize that if you hear something enough you start to believe it regardless of how true it is. Whether or not it is actual truth it becomes truth in your mind and truth in the minds of the people around you. I've found that I get slightly upset when people now compliment me in any capacity because i "know" that those things aren't true and it frustrates me when people say things for the sake of saying them instead of saying truth. This is something a few of you have had to patiently work through with me (shout out to Rebekah). All this to say, it feels amazing to feel the warmth of another person picking you up from the airport or giving you a hug on his/her way to work or even to be adoringly pinched on the face and slammed into the wall (another shout out to Rebekah).

A significant thing I have come to slowly accept and know, is that men are good. I don't think I have ever hid the fact that I'm slightly sexist. I know it's not good. I'm not trying to justify it. But, over the last ten years I have had numerous negative experiences with men. Some of you have had to hear and rehear these stories more than you wanted as I try to process them and accept them and allow myself to heal from them. The Philippines didn't help my sexism. If anything it made it worse. Severely worse. Details are not important, and I know not all Pinoy men are bad. I even know the men I struggled with are not bad. But sometimes it's hard to match what we know with how we feel when you have no space. Now that I have space, now that I am separated from those moments, I can see that men are good. I have amazing men in my life in the states who I am very very grateful for. All of whom have helped me in different ways at different times, all who have faith in me, and all who show me goodness in their own ways. I have recently moved to Scotland for my masters. I am in a program that is predominantly male. I have met countless men over the last few weeks all from different countries and backgrounds, and each one has restored my faith in the world without knowing that's what they were doing.

SInce being back I have seen young people give up their seats on buses and trains for the elderly, seen strangers hold doors open for one another, I have watched countless people drop money in red buckets for the needy, I have had taxi drivers help me carry my suitcases rom the train station to a hotel instead of picking up passengers, I have had countless people offer me directions, I have talked to shoppers at the mall about their lost love ones during the holidays, I have seen people stop what they are doing to help someone carry something. I have seen compassion and consideration. All of these things have rejuvenated me and have restored me motivation.

By no means do I mean to criticize the Philippines or Anda. But, my two years in the Peace Corps definitely brought their struggles. To be sent off to an island that rarely sees a foreigner as a single, young, white, american girl includes a few challenges. To learn to work within a system you are morally opposed to for countless reasons takes time to adjust to. To adapt to a lifestyle that isn't your own, and one that has no privacy for you to make it your own, is exhausting. To forget who you are and what it is about the world that makes you passionate is frightening. To deal with the worst parts of yourself alone is frustrating. To see how weak you are and how much of the world you can't affect is disheartening. To watch terrible things happen to people you care about, and to hear students be told that they aren't capable of achieving what you know they are beyond capable of achieving, is angering. To hear and watch people deliberately hurt one another and refuse to support those who need help leaves you jaded and hopeless.

 I am very grateful, especially to my host family and my students, for giving me so much life and love and joy while I was in Anda. I am so blessed that all of these people have allowed me into their lives and offered to share their lives with me. I will always be grateful for them, and love them, and appreciate them beyond comprehension. I will always hope for the best for my students and try to help them however I can. However, I am glad for all that I am learning about the world since leaving the Peace Corps. I'm glad that my vision is being restored and that I'm slowly rediscovering myself.

**This post didn't mention the amazing volunteers who kept me sane during my time in the Philippines, and continue to inspire me. That post is coming soon

i once saw a tattoo

I knocked on a door that had taken in many women before me. It was a welcoming and safe door. A door that offers second chances—a walking stick for support when the path becomes muddy. Through that door the stars realign themselves to form new constellations, giving us second births and new destinies to seek.

I laid my compass on the table. I explained the arrow was broken. I lost my way North. I had travelled the world with different comrades here and there. I had met kind faces and violent fists alike. I had shivered in lonely tundra and sweat in temples filled for communal prayer. My feet were torn and my heart tired. I had seen it all, but my place was still unknown.

The woman before me picked up the compass. She studied it closely before brushing off some dirt with the hem of her rainbow skirt.  She offered me a place at the table and told me I would always be welcome. She told me I should listen to the beat of my compass, as not every soul was meant for Sirius.

As she walked away, with her skirt flowing behind her like a banner of freedom waving with grace and pride, I noticed she had a woman tattooed on her back. A woman unlike any I had ever seen.  “Wait, who is the woman on your back?” “Every woman who ever has been or ever will be. You are in her, and she is in you. She is a reflection of what we could be if we stood together,” then she continued to float on.

This home felt other-worldly with no two women alike, but each woman honored for her being. It was a  home where all were welcome no matter how many times we abandoned our sisters, or found ourselves on the wrong train west. A home of color and tears and life and laughter and beauty and truth. A home of healing. A temporary home for those passing from one world to another.

Shamans, gangsters, the homeless, and men in suits came to this home seeking remedies and healing for wounds inflicted by a cruel world.  Visitors shared stories of heartbreak, turmoil, love and jubilee. They spent hours at the table soaking in the peace the women possessed. Through their visitors the women gained strength and perspective, realizing they were gifted and needed, capable and good.

I wanted to be a part of this house, but I felt inadequate. These women knew the language of our ancestors, they communed with spirits I had never felt, and they made music with every step they took. Each had her own color, her own story, her own style of connecting to the world. They said they were lost, but I dreamt of being as sure as they.  I asked them to draw me maps of the lands they had journeyed.

They simply laughed and told me we were all on the same journey and had seen the same lands. We had shared the same laughs and cried the same tears. We had carried the same shovels to burry our loves, and we had drummed the same rhythms before war. We had raised the same white flags of surrender and danced to the same songs of hope. We had birthed the same dreams and grown the same futures.

I looked at my hands, soft and sensitive, not a callous to be found. Only chaotic noise flowed from the Djembe with fists of anger and confusion. My feet could not dance the steps of a chief calling for rain. Like a water color dropped in a puddle my dreams were a blur.  My compass was damaged, my future unsure.

The days went on and the present became real to me. No longer living in the past and future, I was living each breath as it came. Every moment embraced with my dreams and reality becoming one. Each sun rise was a new beginning, and each sun set a reminder that I still had a long way to go. A mess of possibility surrounded me like the ever changing images of a kaleidoscope. A mess I was prepared to jump into head first for all flowers take root in dirt kneaded by worms.

The woman with the tattoo came to me one day. She gave me a glass bottle. The glass was every color I had ever seen, more than any Crayola crayon box could contain. “I feel you will be leaving us soon. Keep this always. It is filled with drops of water from every river, lake and ocean. There are grains of soil and sand from every country. Let it symbolize unity and diversity. Inside is a sketch of my tattoo. Let it act as your mirror.”

“I have never seen a woman like the one on your back.”

“But you see her every day, all around you. Her features are a physical representation of a global woman who calls each continent her home. Her jewelry, make-up, feathers, and dress are inspired by world cultures that have celebrated women. In her you can see your history and the future of your daughters. Women of different colors, tongues, and prayers together and strong so the world can be healed after the many scars it has endured.”

With that she got up, turned her back to me and walked through the door to the street. As the door closed behind her I saw my reflection calling me to face the call of the wind and the demands of the road.  I grabbed my compass and bottle, ready for all that I would experience and feel and see and think and hear and wonder, for the souls of those who stood before me were guiding me with grace and wisdom, and the lives of those yet to come would keep me grounded and focused, determined to love and embrace, fight and dream.

Voices of Women

my friend Britt and I are starting a blog/group dedicated to highlighting the stories of women all over the world. we just started it a few days ago so it's not really how we envision the final product, but it's a work in progress. we wanted to make it because we are both in the Philippines where women don't support each other a whole lot and they are often critical of each other. we talked a lot about this and realized that this is also the case in the u.s. and many other places, but it takes different forms. we decided we would create a blog that highlights and encourages different women and brings women together to celebrate each other for no reason other than they are women and through that they are exceptional people living remarkable lives that should be honored. eventually we are going to put together our own articles featuring different women as well as video interviews with women, but right now we are just posting articles and information we get from other sources. we hope that through this women can join together to help each other in whatever ways they see fit, as well as just have a space for community and connection. 


so if you're interested please follow our blog: http://voicesofwomen.tumblr.com/

and here's our fb page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Voices-of-Women/246217788814381

 http://paper.li/Voices_of_Women/1341638044

back to africa

I’m going back to Africa.

I have been waiting years to say that.

Like most of my better decisions in life, it was a spontaneous decision. And like most of my better decisions in life, I chose to go back to Africa in the middle of the night.

I think we, as humans, are more honest with ourselves at night. I think we have a clarity at nightthat escapes us during the day as we busy ourselves with work and errands and meetings and people and so many other things. But, at night we can choose to pause all those things and spend time with ourselves. The parts of ourselves that we are sometimes scared to dialogue with because who knows if one night that part of ourselves will tell us to go back to Africa or to sell the house or to quit your job or take a risk on love. When we are left with nothing but our hearts we are able to see the truths our souls are searching for, but more often than not these truths leave us vulnerable. Vulnerability is a strange thing. It’s such a powerful and beautiful thing, but many people today seem to avoid vulnerability because they are scared of the outcomes. What happens if I get malaria or I won’t have a place to live or I won’t be able to find a new job or my heart will be broken? 

I know I’m young, but I’ve found that the times in my life where I allow myself to be the most vulnerable I discover great things about other people, the world and myself. During those times you are reliant on the goodness of other people and strength of yourself. You aren’t held back by fears and doubts, so you allow yourself to walk new roads filled with revelation, companionship and adventure.

I’ve thought about going back to Africa for years, but I always found reasons not to go back. Last year I thought about taking my peace corps money and spending it to go to Africa, but the rational side of my brain, no matter how small that side is, convinced me it was better to go to Southeast Asia since I’m already over here and it would be pretty cheap. I convinced myself to wait for Africa till after grad school. 

If you know me you know Africa has significantly impacted my identity. It has given me passion, shown me grace and offered me wisdom. It has given me hope and strength and a reason for living. This will sound cliché, but I have literally dreamt of Africa since I was a little girl. I have always understood Africa to be God’s gift to keep me going. For many years my dreams of Africa were the only things I had.  Life used to be a lot for me to handle. On my worst nights though I would feel a comforting presence as I fell asleep to beautiful smiles and an overwhelming sense of freedom and peace and hope and the vivid colors of a marketplace and the powerful sounds of drums. I would wake up and continue on. Africa understood me. It cradled me and strengthened me. It gave me an identity and a purpose.  I knew I would one day go to Africa and I knew the embraces from my dreams would again be felt.

I have been blessed with a couple opportunities to spend time in Sub-Saharan Africa. One of my greatest pet peeves is when people refer to any one country in Africa as “Africa.” It is such a massive continent filled with diversity of language, ethnicity, religion, art, music and history. But, no matter where I have been in Africa, whether West Africa, East Africa, Central Africa, or South Africa I have been welcomed by the same red soil and the same sense of belonging. No matter where I have been in Africa it has felt like home…the place that has given me so much and taught me the value of life. So, until I find this statement to be untrue, Africa, the whole continent, is a place of significance for me.

Africa is this continent of majestic power. It is a complex place filled with mystery and clarity. It is a real place, and the moment you come in contact with African soil you know you have met all that ever has been or all that ever will be. When you close your eyes you can see thousands of years all right where you are standing. You open your eyes and can see the way all those years have changed you and illuminated the histories that have formed your being.  Ancient truths are realized, while each step presents a new discovery. Africa teaches that each moment and each breath is a true gift. It is something that can be taken at any moment, so you must learn to celebrate each breath and mourn each passing. It is a place where there is always time for another person. Food is shared as are laughs and tears. Time is measured in the songs of children, blessings of rain, and the passing antelope. Time is found in relationships rather than a watch. Africa teaches that enlightenment and peace can only be attained when we see who we are through the lives of other people and we see the lives of other people in ourselves. We are all connected, and that connection is what gives Africa its power.  It is a place where the supernatural and the ordinary are one.

For a long time I didn’t know if I had an identity other than Africa. I was that girl who wanted to be a doctor in Africa. That’s all there really was to me. That’s what people knew about me. I feared I would lose Africa. I feared I wouldn’t end up living in Africa. I feared that if my path changed I would be nothing.

In time I learned that Africa wasn’t my identity. It isn’t who I am. At least not entirely.  It is a part of me as it is a part of any person. It is a place that has encouraged me and has gotten me to this point in my life. It helped me get through many hard things and I will forever be connected to the people I have both dreamt of, have met, and will see in the future. It will continue to inspire me and sing me to sleep, but I have realized it is not all I am. 

I think I was afraid to go back to Africa because I fear I have romanticized it. What happens if the colors are different than I remember and the songs are sung to different tunes? What happens if I don’t feel the connection? What happens if I never leave? What happens if my feelings of helplessness become too much? What happens if I realize I will never live there or I realize it is the place I will die or I realize I no longer have realizations while I’m there?  What happens if God no longer speaks to me in Africa?

I have let go of those fears with the knowledge that whatever happens will happen, and whatever is felt will be felt. Whatever I see I will see, and whatever I hear I will hear. Africa and I have an ancient relationship. One that was formed before I was born, and I trust that that no matter where life takes me, or how the universe directs me, Africa will always be with me, and in my times of need it will remind me to stand with faith. I’m excited to see what she says to me this time.

One of my favorite books is “African Nights” by KukiGallmann. She is an eloquent writer and her words bring to life my experiences with Africa. Enjoy:

“Africa is a continent of extremes.

There are droughts and there are floods. There is an Africa of tragedy and famine, of corruption and war, of blood and hunger and tears, of incurable disease and tribal clashes and misery and violence and political unrest. It is the Africa we read about today in every paper, the one we see daily in biased cable television reports. It is an Africa captive to and dependent on the blackmail of foreign aid constantly judged, constantly criticized and never understood. Here the rich West has imprinted its competitive, frantic image, created alien needs, imposed alien philosophies and financed impossible schemes, unsuited to the potential and true spirit of this troubled and fantastic continent, all too ready to take back that help and sit in judgment of yet another failure.

I do not sing that Africa. There is no need for another negative reportage, which will leave a bitter taste and serve no purpose.

There is a different side of this ancient land. It is the Africa that, since the beginning of time, has evoked travelers a deep recognition, an inexplicable yearning to return. The place that still has what most of the world has lost.Space.Roots.Traditions.Stunning beauty.True wilderness.Rare animals.Extraordinary people.the land that will always attract those who can still dream…

This maternal, primordial Africa taught me acceptance, endurance and survival. I recognized it as a place to find wisdom. A place to end this journey and begin a new one.A place of renewal and rebirth. A good place to die…

Walking alone through the pervading magic of untouched African landscapes, open to growth as one is when at the bottom of pain, I felt quintessentially part of the whole. One evening, looking down at the breathtaking depths of the Mukutan Gorge in the Great Rift Valley, in this living cathedral of the spirit I discovered my crusade and found peace…I was in Africa, and this was my cure…

Mine are love stories about Kenya, my Africa. it is the Africa of sunshine and endless vistas, or roaming herds on the plains of red dust and galloping giraffe, of forests and snow and prehistoric lakes, of gentle, handsome, intelligent people who protect the young and respect the old, care for the sick and feed the hungry, even if it means sharing the little they have; generous people, ready to smile and to forgive; people with a song in their heart and a dance in their step; enduring, compassionate and infinitely patient. The people of Kenya, whose ancient, proven wisdom I respect. I salute them and thank them for having allowed me to live amongst them, to bury my men in the soil of my garden as Africans do, and for allowing me the honor and the choice of becoming a Kenyan like them…

Magic, and the unexplainable, still touch our lives. This is the lyrical, therapeutic Africa that I describe, the one I live every day of my life, the one that is my life aim to preserve.”