I Dare to Say: African Women Share Their Stories of Hope and Survival - Softcover

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1569768420 ISBN 13: 9781569768426

Publisher: Lawrence Hill Books, 2012

Synopsis

A young woman at last finds love, only to discover, after the death of her baby and her man, that he was married, had eight children, and died of “slim,” or AIDS.

A girl hides under a blanket in her dormitory while the Lord’s Resistance Army, in search of child brides, pushes an armed child soldier through the window so they can take their pick of the terrified girls.

Not long after her ritual genital mutilation, a girl on her way home from school is beaten by four men, then delivered to an old man who will be her husband, a standard marriage practice.

In I Dare to Say, African women speak out in their own words, sharing poignant tales of womanhood, revealing how they cope and survive, and confiding their dreams and hopes for themselves and their children. They tell not only of atrocities and pain but also of motherhood, marriage, love, and courage, a testament to the bond among women from all cultures.

Dramatic, sometimes heartbreaking, often inspiring, I Dare to Say vividly brings to life how political instability, ethnic rivalries, and traditional religion shape the daily life—as well as the future—of rural African girls and women.

About this title

About the Author

Hilda Twongyeirwe is an author, a poet, an editor, and the recipient of the Certificate of Recognition from the National Book Trust of Uganda for her book Fina the Dancer. She is the coordinator of FEMRITE and lives in Kampala, Uganda. FEMRITE, the Uganda Women Writers’ Association was founded in 1995 to empower women through writing and sisterhood, giving them a voice in a male-dominated culture.

Reviews

In 23 searing personal testimonies, women in rural Uganda today speak out about what they have suffered and witnessed, including family feuds and domestic violence; survival with AIDS; civil war atrocities of abduction, rape, and massacre; and the torture and trauma of female genital mutilation (FGM). A wife is thrown out because she only gives birth to girls, and “Educating a girl is a waste of money.” Imbued with horror, the writing is often heartbreaking, including in the eloquent introductions, one for each story, by an interviewer from FEMRITE, a Uganda’s Women Writers’ Association. An educated girl remembers her mother “with a hoe on her shoulder and a child on her back.” A mother remembers her daughter, 14, who left school with an HIV-AIDs infected man and did not come back. A woman tries to stay busy cleaning her house, but “there was no one to make it dirty.” Although FGM is now officially criminalized, some still insist on the tradition, and it continues in secret. Breaking that secrecy, this collection will move readers to action. --Hazel Rochman

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

I Dare to Say

African Women Share Their Stories of Hope and Survival

By Hilda Twongyeirwe

Chicago Review Press Incorporated

Copyright © 2012 FEMRITE, the Uganda Women Writers Association
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-56976-842-6

Contents

Acknowledgments, 
Introduction, 
I Tears of Hope: Surviving Abuse and Reclaiming Our Own and Our Children's Lives, 
Where Do I Belong? Hilda Twongyeirwe, 
Frieda's World Waltraud Ndagijimana, 
Maria Demands Her Share Winnie Munyarugerero, 
Quest for Freedom Philomena Rwabukuku, 
Taste of Betraya Margaret Ntakalimaze, 
Not Until I Find My Daughter Bananuka Jocelyn Ekochu, 
II I Dare to Say: Facing HIV/AIDS with Courage, 
The Second Twin Glaydah Namukasa, 
Key to a New Life Betty Kituyi, 
Looking for Home Beverley Nambozo, 
In God's Palm Rose Rwakasisi, 
III Farming Ashes: Tales of Agony and Resilience, 
Fathomless Luck Apophia Agiresaasi, 
Guilty of Surviving Rosey Sembatya, 
The White Coat Margaret Aduto, 
Bitter Escape Apophia Agiresaasi, 
Pages of My Life Rosey Sembatya, 
The Family of Three Beatrice Lamwaka, 
IV Beyond the Dance: The Torture and Trauma of Female Genital Mutilation, 
Saina's Story Catherine Anite, 
Do Not Count on Me Betty Kituyi, 
Petals for the Wind Sharon Lamwaka and Hilda Twongyeirwe, 
The Woman in Me Bananuka Jocelyn Ekochu, 
Beyond the Music and the Dance Lillian Tindyebwa, 
My Mbasuben Betty Kituyi, 
The Intrigue Hilda Twongyeirwe, 
Glossary, 
Contributors, 
Index, 

CHAPTER 1

Tears of Hope

Surviving Abuse and Reclaiming Our Own and Our Children's Lives

"I salute all the brave women and the countless others who refuse to be defeated despite the severity of abuse they suffer, who continue to work for a better life for their families despite the odds against them emanating from tradition, culture, poverty, ignorance, greed, and gender. They are the unsung heroes on whose backs development is built. May their tears one day be seen by those with the power to make a difference." — Irene Ovonji-Odida, Uganda Association of Women Lawyers

We all carry two feelings, love and pain, as burdens in our hearts. Sometimes these two feelings make us stronger and wiser. Many times, it is the people we love who cause us pain. Often that spouse whom you married after a romantic courtship or even your kin, who seem not to value the saying "Blood is thicker than water," cause you pain. And more often than not, women carry the biggest burden of pain because they are victims of societal norms defined by patriarchy. Society expects women to bear their pain in silence and lead normal lives. But there are women who have dared to say no to inequality; they carry their stories in their hearts so that they can have the strength to defy injustice.

The true stories in this section reflect the predicament of African rural women, specifically Ugandan rural women, in a male-dominated society. Some of these women have suffered silently while others have spoken out, attempting to rectify wrongs even in the face of seemingly insurmountable legal challenges. They have vowed to die fighting for their rights.

The collection reflects the ironies created by the patriarchy on which most African cultures hinge. For instance, in traditional marriages, women are valued only as part of the labor force, working land controlled by men but receiving none of the profits. However, equilibrium is destabilized once women start earning money, thus undermining patriarchal rules. Where Christian marriages are performed, a woman is fairly protected if the man dies and leaves a will. Otherwise, traditional culture is upheld, and a co-wife at times may unfairly benefit from property that the legal wife and husband jointly accumulated.

The stories of these women present the conflict between traditional and modern Africa, where the extended family tends to have control over the well-being of the nuclear family. After a woman marries, be it a traditional, Christian, or Muslim marriage, she ceases to belong to her maiden home. If she seeks refuge there in times of marital strife, she is made to feel like an interloper.

Domestic violence is another recurrent theme. Most girls are not considered part of the clan, because they are expected to marry and join another clan. When family property is distributed, they are naturally left out. In families that allocate property to daughters upon the parents' death, conflicts between them and their brothers usually arise. However, this becomes even more intricate with the backdrop of the AIDS scourge and the refugee situation in Kisoro created by the 1994 Rwanda genocide, which left many women widowed and homeless.

The unfair legal system in Uganda favors male spouses in cases of divorce. Despite ample evidence of adultery, physical torture, neglect, and desertion, a woman often cannot get a divorce if the man is not ready to let her go.

Bride-price is another issue laced throughout these stories of bravery. Most traditional marriages are recognized only when bride-price is paid. It is this symbolic rite of passage — even after marrying, a girl remains a girl until the family has received bride-price from her husband — that often keeps women stuck in abusive marriages.

Women are considered valuable only because they can carry on familial lines and add to the labor force. The patriarchy turns women into their own enemies by forcing them to uphold the negative tenets of power that society accords to men. For instance, when men indulge in adultery, it is tolerated, but when women do it, it is abhorred.

These are stories of women who have become wiser by loving and hurting. They have picked up the broken pieces of their lives and have lain awake at night, thinking and reshaping their destinies. Some have found hope by visiting Legal Aid clinics; others have vowed to move even beyond, wherever a flicker of hope may be.

Here are stories of courage by Ugandan rural women. They will surprise the urban woman who suffers the same fate they do but has responded with silence.

Violet Barungi and Ayeta Anne Wangusa

Where Do I Belong?

* * *

Hilda Twongyeirwe

Edisa Zayaga sits uncomfortably next to me on the veranda. Her stare dances between the patterned hills and me. The hazy morning sunshine plays on her dark, glistening forehead. A cloud quickly appears, taking with it the much-needed rays. Edisa's brown eyes dig into mine as if mining something from deep inside. Her full lips are tightly closed in a guarded manner. A strong, cold wind blows, forcing us momentarily to fold our bodies like mats. I fumble with my shawl to keep away the biting cold as Edisa quickly buttons her sweater and pulls her pleated brown skirt to cover her short, sturdy legs. We both look with longing at the patches of sunshine running across the Rugarama hills.

Edisa shoots out her left leg and shakes it for a while. Looking at her clean brown canvas shoes, one can hardly believe that she walked all the way to our meeting place! She lifts her right hand and neatly presses her black, natural hair into position. It is about fifteen inches long. Her nails are clean and trimmed short. Her fingers are small but rough, perhaps from tilling the land and splitting firewood. Her meticulous appearance is enhanced by the two strands of white beads she wears around her long neck. They match the white dotted blouse under her pink sweater.

My eyes shift back to her face. It is marred by premature wrinkles running across her forehead. But something else is striking. There is no sadness in her rumpled face. There is a glow behind her deep eyes. I smile at her. She smiles back, shifting her light body to sit more comfortably. She parts her lips briefly, and our steamy breaths, as if looking for more warmth and sisterhood from each other, mingle and waltz in unison above our heads. She clears her throat and begins to speak.

My mother's daughter, I will tell you my story because we belong together — wherever it is we belong.

My name is Zayaga, in short. In full, it is Zayaga Zaburobutoro Zamaromwonyo Zazagiremigina. I am the last born in a family of nine children. When our father married our mother, he was so proud of her. He did not bargain when her parents asked for the best of his father's cows as bride-price. Our mother was blessed. She told us that it did not take long before she conceived and gave birth to a very beautiful baby girl. However, our father was not very happy with a daughter for a firstborn. He called her Bakeitwara, meaning the in-laws took the bride-price for nothing when their daughter could not give him a son at the outset. He did not even buy her meat like other husbands do to congratulate their wives upon successful deliveries. He could not wait to make her pregnant again. His prayer for rapid pregnancies was answered, but not with a boy! Two other daughters followed Bakeitwara, and my father's unhappiness increased.

Then, finally, a boy came. Father smiled all the time. He called his son Kurinamanyire, which means "I wish I had known." Mother said that she did not know what he was regretting. He was more than eager for the next child, who also came quite fast. However, it was a girl. Father called her Kuribakanya, which implied that if he could have many children, there would then be more chances of getting more boys. But my father's prayers went unanswered. Kuribakanya was followed by another girl, whom he called Gakibayo. Gakibayo meant there was still hope for the right child. The numerous girls were not the right children. Mother did not give up either.

A few years passed, and my mother got pregnant again. My father, too, got pregnant with hope. The expectant couple regarded each other silently, never discussing their fears and hopes. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. Soon, nine months were over, and Mother gave birth to a strong, bouncing baby. It was a beautiful girl. Father, who seemed never to run out of cynical names, called her Zibahurire. This implies that fate listens to people's hopes and fears and provides what is contrary to their prayers.

Indeed, fate did exactly that, and a girl he called Bafwokuheka was born next. Bafwokuheka means that one has no choice but to carry whichever baby it is on one's back. When she grew up, Bafwokuheka hated her name so much that she changed it to Tukamuhabwa, meaning that the child was God given. Bafwokuheka Tukamuhabwa is the girl I come after. Father must have guessed that I was going to be the last born to my mother, for he gave me a name that seemed to carry all his venom. My long name talks about cows. Through my name, my father was lamenting the too many cows that would fill his homestead. The many girls would fetch many cows as bride-price, but there would be no boys to use them to get brides. The cows would exhaust all the grass and salt in the area. They would use up all the space in the home, leaving none for the human beings.

That was his line of thought! In African culture, producing only girls is looked at as a curse, because it implies the end of the family line. And, you see, my mother was a third wife. The first two wives had had only one son each. My father had married my mother so as to have more sons. After Mother, he married once more. His fourth wife produced one boy and very few girls. Father lived unhappily thereafter. But we did not hate him.

When I became of marriageable age, I looked forward to proposals, and they soon fell on me like rain. I was very hardworking. I could tend a garden from sunrise to sunset and do all the housework. When I finally chose the man I would marry, I was very happy that at last I was leaving my father's home to go and join a man who appreciated me as a woman. But I did not know many things to do with men yet. My aunt called me aside and instructed me, "Never open your mouth wide while speaking to your man. When he speaks twice, you speak only once. Never cry in front of him. Never turn your back to him, because someone else might be willing to turn her front to him. Treat him like a baby. He is your first born." She told me many other dos and don'ts of marriage. When she had finished, I was not sure I still wanted to go.

She was a clever woman, because after that, she told me the sweet side of it. I thought that if I did not get married, I would never die properly. My husband, in appreciation for her instruction, later gave her a goat.

I got married in 1977. My husband was a very nice man. He was called Davida. But I shouldn't have said his name. It is not right to say your spouse's name — he knows you in the manner in which you came from your mother's womb! There is profound respect, and you don't just go calling out their names. Although we are not together, it does not take away the fact that we shared deep secrets at the time. I still respect him. He called me Muhara, and I called him Owangye.

We loved each other very much. He praised me genuinely and made me feel confident and proud to be a woman. Yes, for the first time, I appreciated womanhood.

In 1978, I became pregnant. My husband and I were very happy. At the same time, I was apprehensive, because I did not know what to expect. At the back of my mind, I knew that the sex of the child I would bear would matter to the community. They would use it to label me a curse or a blessing to my husband's family. My husband looked after me very well, never mentioning his wishes or fears.

You know when you are pregnant; you become crazy about some foods and hate others. He provided whatever I wanted, and I prayed that God should do his will. Sometimes he asked me how my stomach felt. I would teasingly tell him to touch it and find out for himself, but he never did. He just laughed.

Soon it was time to deliver. I wanted to surprise my husband with a baby, so I did not tell him that the labor pains had begun. Quietly I went to the old woman who had been monitoring my pregnancy and told her. As usual, she put warm water in a metallic basin and disappeared behind her kitchen. Within seconds, she was back with some herbs, which she dropped in the water and used to gently massage my stomach. With her fingers, she felt my stomach and told me that the baby was very well positioned and that it was on its way out. I smiled in anticipation.

I had been told that labor was tough but that it was proof of real womanhood. I was, therefore, very scared, but at the same time I was happy that I was about to prove myself a capable woman. I walked back to our house and suggested to my husband that he go and do some work in one of our gardens, which was far from our home. I did not want him to see me whimper in pain. He went to the kitchen, picked a panga and a hoe from the corner in which we kept them, and left. I did not mind his departure because the old woman, a traditional birth attendant, was around. She made strong black tea and forced me to take cups and cups of it without sugar.

"Tea leaves are good," she insisted. "They will do the trick."

By evening, however, no trick had been done, and the pain was getting worse. The old woman called a few other women, and each brought different herbs. They all sat there staring at me.

"You'll soon make it," they kept saying. "And when you hold the baby in your arms, you'll forget what you are calling unbearable pain."

The contractions seemed to intensify with each cup of sugarless tea I drank and each herb I took. Pain reached the tip of my small toe and the longest strand of my hair. I looked at the women crowding my little room, telling me to push harder, and I felt like spitting in their faces. Soon it was time for my husband to come home. My plan to present to him a baby that evening had flopped. Somewhere in between contractions, I heard metals striking against each other. I knew it was he, putting the hoe and panga back in the corner from which he had picked them that morning. One of the women quickly left the room, and we heard whispers outside. The whispers built up until we could hear what they were saying.

"Why can't you let me see her?" he asked.

"OK. Give me a few minutes, and I will see what I can do."

I could hear him pacing up and down, but he never entered the room where I was.

Helped by traditional birth attendants, many women deliver without any problem in their homes. At that time, it was almost a disgrace for a woman worth the name to go and deliver either in a hospital or at a health center where male nurses and doctors would all be staring at her. And we had been told that there, instead of kneeling down to deliver, women were required to lie on their backs and look at the ceiling!

Therefore, I swore that I would never deliver in the hospital. But my people say that when a person accompanies you at night, you wait and thank him in the morning. After experiencing prolonged, severe contractions, I was begging to be taken to a health center. But there was a problem. There is no health center near our home! The nearest hospital that serves our area is Kabale Hospital, several miles away. And another problem — there is no public transport in our village. And even if there were, the road does not reach my husband's home. It stops some miles away. I therefore had to be carried for more than twenty miles to get medical assistance. But thank God for the teamwork that prevailed in the village. My husband's kinsmen agreed to carry me.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from I Dare to Say by Hilda Twongyeirwe. Copyright © 2012 FEMRITE, the Uganda Women Writers Association. Excerpted by permission of Chicago Review Press Incorporated.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Lawrence Hill Books
• Publication date: 2012
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1569768420
• ISBN 13: 9781569768426
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 288
• Editor: Twongyeirwe Hilda