Mosadi wa se-Afrika (African Woman)

Celine Dion’s voice emanated from the stereo system in the large meeting hall. Again. Phaketse was sitting next to me, so I leaned over to ask her, “Why do Batswana like Celine Dion so much?”

“I don’t know,” she hesitated. With a dramatic smile as she flipped both hands over the top knee of her crossed legs, she said “but I just love her voice.”

“I like her voice too, but do they have to keep playing the same song?”

“I saw an interview with Celine once.” Phaketse’s change in poise and facial expression told me she was about to choose her words carefully and try to speak in the clearest English she could muster. “She was raised Catholic. Her mother is Catholic. When she fell pregnant with Celine, it was a surprise pregnancy, and she wanted to have an abortion.”

Great, I thought, where is this going? Why am I a polemic magnet? And why does everyone here say “fall” pregnant? How does someone “fall” pregnant? Did she trip and fall on someone’s hard-on and *poof* conception?

Phaketse continued, “Because of her religious beliefs, she decided not to have an abortion, and Celine was born. That’s why Celine is anti-abortion.”

Without missing a beat, I retorted, “I was conceived because the condom broke. That doesn’t mean I don’t believe in safer sex.” Truth be told, my parents ran out of spermicide, but the condom analogy seemed more appropriate.

She got that habitual flustered look of speechlessness on her face, and as good timing would have it, the event we were attending together had just begun, ending our conversation that never continued.

The issue of abortion is seen from a completely different perspective here. It’s not about the right for a woman to choose what to do with her body, but it’s about the right for a woman to have babies. This comes out of the renowned 1995 Beijing Women’s Conference and China’s history with abortion. When the one-child family policy came into effect, many women were forced to have abortions if they “fell” pregnant with another child. From that point of view, it’s easy to see how one can see the issue as the “right to have babies.”

The problem, however, is it paints the picture that women are baby-making machines. Here in Botswana, a country with a population of only 1.7 million, the birthrate has been declining. Instead of seeing the positive side of this news, that perhaps people are sticking to fewer sexual partners and using condoms more frequently, the president spoke about it last year by encouraging women to have more babies, both treating women as objects and encouraging people to have unprotected sex in a country with the highest prevalence of HIV in the world.

During our first Peace Corps training, someone from BOFWA (Botswana Family Welfare Association) came to speak to the NGO volunteers, and the issue of abortion came up. They told us that abortion is not legal in Botswana, but if women come to them requesting abortion services, they provide counseling and refer them to a clinic across the border in South Africa where they can seek abortion services if they choose that route.

(NOTE: BOFWA is funded by the International Planned Parenthood Federation and essentially a Planned Parenthood clinic disguised by a local name. i.e. Brilliant.)

During their presentation, one of our male language trainers spoke up and asked, “But the president tells us that the birth rate in Botswana is declining. We shouldn’t be having abortions.”

Abortion is an ugly process, mostly psychologically. No pregnant woman wakes up on a Saturday morning and thinks, “Hmmm, what am I going to do today? I think I’ll have an abortion! That sounds like fun!” and then marches in a parade down to the clinic. No one in their right mind is “pro-abortion.” It’s not a delightful process to have to consider or go through. Women should simply have a right to choose what to do with their bodies, a right to choose when they can have babies at a time when or if they know they can and want to be mothers, and a right to have services that handle an unpleasant process safely. Whether it’s in China, sub-Saharan Africa, or the West, it’s the basic right every woman should have, the right to choose. It’s not pro-abortion. It’s pro-choice.

I work at a “women’s rights” organization here in Botswana. It’s a far cry from the coalition work I used to do with Planned Parenthood in the States, and my co-workers are nothing like my outspoken feminist friends, but so much of what I was taught in women’s studies classes during college still applies. I’ve learned WAR sees women’s rights with much more tapered and opaque vision. Uneasiness about abortion is only a part of that image. Many places in the country still insist that women shouldn’t be allowed to wear pants, especially at special events or when attending kgotla meetings (customary court with some similarity to the operations of a city hall). Shockingly enough, that debate happens within my office.

For two different events that our staff was to attend, one a kgotla meeting, and the other a celebration of International Women’s Day, it was suggested by a female staff member that all the women should wear skirts. For the latter event, I couldn’t comprehend the irony, and more so that most people didn’t see a problem. Thankfully, each time this happened, one of the other women challenged the suggestion.

“How can we advocate for women and then insist that we can’t wear what we want? That’s absurd. If men can wear pants, so can we.” Sonya piped up.

“That’s the reality,” our Coordinator said. “If we’re going to an official event, we have to wear skirts. It’s just the way it is. How can you expect men to listen to us if we don’t respect the cultural traditions?”

Tradition also says that if a woman’s husband dies she is supposed to marry the brother, that marital rape doesn’t exist because a woman is property that the husband has purchased from her family, and that women are not allowed to make any decisions about sex including whether or not a condom is used. Progress is usually about breaking tradition. Over time, as individuals learn the possibilities of empowerment, freedom and individual choice, things have to change out of respect and compassion for those human beings. That’s what equality is.

The people at WAR fight on behalf of Batswana women in many contexts: fighting the legalities of marital rape, providing counseling services and a safe house for abused women and children, educating adolescents about gender-based violence, and implementing a proper rape protocol at police stations and hospitals. So why is wearing skirts, something so simple, yet so symbolic, an issue? I suppose in the practice of picking and choosing one’s battles, there are too many other urgent issues in women’s lives for which to advocate.

At an economic empowerment workshop that WAR put on for several of its clients, I met Tsholofelo, and learned that choosing between pants and skirts is the least of her worries. Throughout the morning, sitting next to her, I was struck by her big smile and the confidence that radiated from her being. We started chatting over the tea break.

“After the last time my husband raped me, my brothers beat me up. They were in the house next to us, and when they heard my screams for help, they were angry that I woke them in the middle of the night. That’s when I fled. I took my two kids and went to the other side of the country,” she said to me, matter-of-factly, as if she’s told this story a hundred times, and perhaps she was taught how important it was to talk about what happened.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through such a horrible experience, and I’m impressed by the optimism and faith I see in you today,” I was still in partial disbelief that she blurted this story out to the white man sitting next to her right after we met.

She went on, “I lived as a destitute in Kasane for a few weeks and couldn’t find a place to stay. That’s when I came to Maun, and I’ve been here ever since.”

The nature of her story isn’t entirely uncommon, but it still boggles my mind. In a place like Botswana, the anomaly of Africa with no history of war, a peaceful democracy with little conflict, how can there be so much violence in people’s homes? It’s because they bottle up all of their emotions. Batswana can be very agreeable and passive-aggressive. They would rather pretend to agree or suppress their anger than make a fuss. With few hobbies, activities or community happenings, where, when and how do they release all of this repressed emotion?

At home. They hide it in public, which is what makes Botswana such a peaceful place, and many, particularly men who are socialized not to let their emotions show, let it out in their houses. All of this repressed emotion manifests in yelling, beating, rape, verbal assault on their families, the ones with whom they share a home and claim to love.

I understand that my working environment may give me some sort of bias. From my perspective it may seem like everyone’s abused. But these stories are ubiquitous. I don’t just hear them at work. I hear them from other volunteers, from teachers, from neighbors, a wide variety of people. Furthermore, a recent research says that half of the women in my district have been raped, and over 62% are survivors of domestic violence.

For that reason, I don’t think I’m biased, but I certainly have an over-exposure to the stories, and I can’t help but draw parallels to many of my other observations here.

Several months ago, for example, when I got home from 2 weeks of vacation in Mozambique and Swaziland, not only was I welcomed by a tall field of grass that had popped up due to all of the wet season rain, but I was also greeted by 5 abandoned puppies.

I had no clue where they came from, and I wondered, where’s the mother? Maybe she’s out looking for food. Most dogs in Botswana are strays, but do these perhaps belong to someone? Batswana typically don’t like dogs and throw rocks at them to protect their livestock, so perhaps this was the only safe place they could find.

Over the next three days, every morning I would find the puppies pressed up against the wall on my front porch, and every day when I came home, they would be romping in front of my house, pouncing on grasshoppers and each other in my large jungle of a yard. Worried about their health, I started feeding them. There’s a “take-away” place near my office where I usually get lunch, and I was able to get leftovers from them at the end of each day. The pups ate ravenously for the next week, and then the mother finally showed up.

She was completely emaciated, the outline of all of her ribs showing. I watched as the 5 puppies ran to her energetically. Still hungry, out of instinct, each of them tried to grab on to her teats. The mother yelped as each one tried to latch on, and she eventually ran away, all dried up.

I thought, “This dog is trapped with no choices. She was raped by some male dog, got pregnant, had 5 babies, and has now starved herself trying to feed them while the father is probably sitting around somewhere else just getting fat and/or impregnating others. This dog needs to go to WAR for counseling! And to the social worker for a food basket!”

At least Botswana is a place where there are several resources available, and it’s certainly much better off than other countries around the world. In most of the middle east for example, women can’t even leave the house without a man’s permission, can’t press charges for crimes without a male witness who’s willing to testify, and aren’t able to register an NGO to advocate for women’s issues without fear of forced closure or bomb threats. They have a long way to go to reach any sense of women’s empowerment.

In Botswana, women are at least close to full equality under the law. There are female members of parliament, a few female dikgosi (chiefs), and the former chief justice of one of the high courts, recently retired Unity Dow, is a woman, a prolific author and a well-respected human rights advocate. In Botswana, there is hope, there are a growing number of strong role models for women and young girls, and the progress is slow, but visible.

However, it still comes down to choices. In a sparsely populated country with few employment opportunities, a woman in an abusive situation is often forced to choose between two difficult options: 1) Stay in an abusive relationship and suffer through the psychological damage to herself and her children to maintain financial security or 2) Do the hard work to leave everything familiar to start over, which means finding a way to support herself and her kids while going to school or starting her own business to generate some income.

At our most recent economic empowerment workshop, a selection of WAR’s clients wanted some basic information on how to start their own business. Starting a business is more than just a dream; it’s generating income, building self-esteem, accomplishment, independence, empowerment and ultimately, freedom.

The facilitator had the women brainstorm a list of basic needs and then prioritized the top two as shelter and food. In a discussion about wants and needs, he talked about the food one needs to survive vs. the new clothes that would be nice to have. He went on to talk about budgeting and dependents. Several of these women are financially responsible for kids and other extended family members, which add to the financial burden.

It was one of those moments where I was reminded of my privilege. I have no kids, no other dependents, and even though all of my current personal belongings fit inside two large suitcases, I feel like I have too many clothes. Months ago, I started wearing the same five shirts to the office every week since I noticed that’s the norm here, and having more clothes is another sign of wealth.

When you start from scratch, you don’t have many choices beyond doing what you need to do to survive. It takes a lot of courage for many women to leave an abusive relationship to do that.

Tradition tells women to find a man to support them. Customarily, women live with their families until the right man comes along who has saved up enough cattle for dowry. With that expectation and fantasy, women are taught not to think or be independent but to wait for a man to support them, and if or when they find him, commit to him, no matter what.

Another resource WAR provides is a Safe House, a temporary, transitional home for abused women and children who are desperate to get out of an violent situation but don’t know where to start. The Safe House is fairly new, and over the past few months, I’ve been supporting the two women who work there. The facility is well-funded, but I spent most of my time helping them to build basic infrastructure, writing policies, conditions for clients, developing programming, etc.

Working at the Shelter is one of the bigger projects I work on to help WAR better support its clients, but it’s often the day-to-day things, those little ways that I help encourage women in the office that gives me doses of joy. A great example is a stereotypical Peace Corps moment I had with one of our new staff members, Mowetsi.

Mowetsi is rather timid and soft-spoken, as far too many Batswana women are, and she has never touched a keyboard in her life, until she started working at WAR. Quite often, she would come into my office (shared by 2 others and a desktop computer) and ask someone to type a document for her.

The third time she did this, I said “Mowetsi, no one is typing for you today. You’re going to type this one by yourself.”

“But I don’t know how to type,” she said, as if she had no other choice but to depend on others to type for her.

“Mowetsi, you’re smart and you can read, let me help you do this,” I said as I sat her in front of the desktop computer and pulled up a chair next to her.

Using her two pointer fingers to type a short agenda for a meeting, she typed her own document in about an hour. When she was finished, I taught her where and what to click so she could print. At that moment, she created something, something she didn’t know she was even capable of. She watched her own finger hit a button that printed a document that she had typed herself. She was jumping up and down screaming with excitement and hugging me, “Thank you, Kabo! Thank you!”

With loads of patience, I got her through it, and now she types everything on her own. I appreciate those moments. And I have to admit, in the back of my mind sometimes, I think “I left the States so I could teach someone how to type and print?” But it’s so much deeper than that. It’s not about teaching Mowetsi how to use a computer. It’s about teaching a woman that she’s intelligent and capable of doing something on her own without dependence on others.

A few weeks before International Women’s Day, celebrated on March 8th every year, Fortune, from our education department, suggested that we sing a song together as a staff at the commemoration event in Maun. One of our co-workers wrote a song with great lyrics about a strong African woman, and a week before the event, we started rehearsing the song in four part harmonies in the office every day.

At first it was disastrous. The song sounded horrible, no one was taking leadership on it, and no one seemed to care that we were going to perform in front of hundreds of people in just a few days. Every morning, I hear my co-workers sing the most beautiful Setswana songs with intricate harmonies, so part of me wondered why a song was written with which so many seem to be struggling instead of singing something familiar. However, it was one of those situations where I didn’t ask questions or challenge any of the ideas about how this was going to come together. I was impressed by their initiative, commitment and creativity, so I just sat back did everything I was asked to do and let things unfold without my influence.

Eventually, Fortune, who is usually reserved and aloof, stepped up and took charge. Surprisingly, he was able to sing all four parts from soprano to bass, exposed a huge talent, and conducted us as a choir over the next couple of days.

The events for International Women’s Day were held in a part of Maun called Big Tree. It’s been a popular meeting place for decades, and receives it’s moniker from a gargantuan tree with a trunk that is almost as big as my house. In typical Batswana fashion, the event started late, but despite the complaints of a couple of my co-workers who claimed the event was poorly organized, I thought everything was put together extraordinarily well.

There was a large tent well-decorated with large pieces of fabric in the Botswana colors of black, white and blue, and packed with almost 400 people. There were strong speakers from a variety of NGOs that advocate for women’s issues from around the country and dance performances from local theatre groups and primary schools. One of the WAR staff members, Kgotso, was the MC for the day, did a fantastic job and caught up on time to get back on schedule.

We sang after our Coordinator spoke, and I think we gave a nice performance. We received much applause, and we were all happy about how far we came together as a team that week. What I was most struck by, though, were the comments from some of my co-workers afterwards.

“Kabo, I’ve been wanting to tell you, that I’m so impressed by you this week,” Tshepo said to me.

“Why’s that?” I asked, honestly having no clue what she was talking about.

“You’ve had such a positive attitude all week, learning this song, and it’s not even in a language you know very well. It’s so motivating when people like you participate with us,” she said to me with the utmost sincerity.

I think by “people like you,” she meant “the white guy” singing about strong African women. Kgotso came up to me independently the next day and said something similar. I forget how those little things, being a part of the group, joining in, learning the language and just having a positive attitude can have an effect on others. It’s not always about the work and the struggles over political ideology. Sometimes, just pushing aside my skepticism to fully participate is enough. Too often, I get caught up in the big picture and forget how important the little things are.