Sisters

Sitting in a tiny, sparsely furnished mud hut with only a small opening for a window allowing a bit of air and a glimmer of sunlight into our midst, I felt incredibly humbled at the strength and courage of the women sitting next to me.  Nancy, one of the women and also my interpreter, snuggled in close to me, as all 15 of us squished into the small room. Some of the women held babies as they slept or nursed, or toddlers sat quietly just staring questioningly at me, the muzungu (white person).  One even wiggled around in his mom’s arms to get a closer look and then let out a loud scream, letting us all know that there was not only a stranger in our midst, but also danger! I looked around the room and thought, “What in the world, could I say or speak to these women?” More importantly, “What could they speak to me?”  Looking into their beautiful faces, all I could see were eyes clouded with despair, so much hopelessness, fear and worry. I wondered if they looked to me for something…perhaps an answer to their problems, maybe a few shillings or maybe more.  One thing I’ve come to know:  even in this room of 15, there are 15 million women more just like them here in Africa.  If only I could give and give and give and meet their needs.  Alas, all I have to offer is our sameness.  We meet as women, one American, one Kenyan, sisters in so many ways.  We are the same; we have needs; we are challenged in many areas.  My heart as a mom is not Black or White, it beats with love for my children, the same as these women’s hearts beat for their children.  We are the same. Convincing them of this, I asked each one to share one of the many struggles they are facing today. Assured of our similarities, they were not shocked when I told them of our youngest and the extremely poor and dangerous choices he is making in his life.  They listened and nodded their heads knowingly, believing that indeed we are alike.  One after the other we shared, heart to heart, sister to sister.  As we listened in turn, the needs were so great, the devastation so rampant, the loneliness and hopelessness so profound. As each matter of factly stated their plight, I thought my heart would break. One spoke of a husband who was a drunkard and had left the family; another, a widow, told how she had experienced the custom of being chased from her home when her husband had died and how his family had taken everything, including her own children; then, a young mom who had worked and saved and managed to have a room and small business for herself and her child—all of it had recently burned to the ground, leaving her nothing but maybe a small seed of faith to begin again; one more whose husband had left many months ago leaving her with three children, no food, no shelter, no school fees; and on around the circle it went. I listened, I looked into their faces, these African women with their soft, gentle ways, and beautiful glistening skin.  Where is justice? Where is hope?  The oppression, the victimization brews and steeps in their minds and hearts.  They have lost all hope; they believe life can never change.