It is not much of a secret that I only ever write poems when I am deeply moved emotionally, furiously angry, terribly sad, very very happy, well, fill in the other instances when you have read poetry at Sheblossoms.

Now that we have sufficiently explained the poem that appears just before this post, let us move on to secrets.

Someone just mentioned to me that the decision to be a writer pretty much equals a decision to forfeit your privacy. Well, for me, unless sometime soon I become a multimillion best seller and I become the obsession for papparazzos, it only means that posting my work and thoughts online, places me in a position where I will be judged, either for very bad or hopefully excellent writing, or for strangely weird, or even worse, simplistic cliched thinking.

It seems to me that their is no in-between when it comes to writing or any other entertainment art. It can either be absolutely mediocre, or incredibly creative. If you don’t fit in one extreme, you fall straight down to the other. If your opinion or presentation is not the norm, then it is considered weird. If it is not intelligent, then it is no doubt simplistic. The entertainment industry is never forgiving. Ever.

I know you are wondering what the secret is about all this. Well, it has nothing to do with writing.

It has a lot to do with the journey of 2009.

My writing, or to be more precise, blogging, has very likely revealed to people who stop by at Sheblossoms the things I have gone through this year. I started out very optimistic. I even justified chaos.

And then I went into the Comic Phase. January is generally the year when I dig into my comic collection and figure out what I don’t have then start the hunt. It is a long tradition that has not been quite classified as such till a few days ago when mum and I did the clutter eradication. I collect comics. Tintin, Asterix, Archie, Jughead, The Marvel Universe… Why? My brother was an artist. He loved comics among other things. After he died in 2001, I ended up with his comic collection. The day I found the stash of comics was January 4, 2002.

February was my Superbike month. It was on this month that I originally wrote the article that was inspired by the discovery that my mama loved big machines, even when she refused to approve of my Superbike fixation. She fell short of forcing me to sign a contract that stated that no matter how much money I ever earn, I shall never, ever, ever acquire a Monster Bike.

Early March the signs of an acute onset of Fibromyalgia begun to show. I thought I was used to the cycles, had even started to hope that it would come to an end. Anyway, I started to moan. I got more tired faster, started losing interest in stuff I love, and slowly sunk into acute distress by the end of the month.

After about two weeks in hospital, I decided to rebel against the attack. So during the month of April, I travelled to Kakamega to take part in a week long Writing Camp for Teen Girls. In Sheblossom fashio, I managed to turn that event into a clash with an NGO Mistress. However, it would be unfair if I did not underline that a lot of good did come out of our time with the girls. At least, judging from the calls I still receive from the teen beauties.

Michael Jackson died in June. I cried. Well, just a little. I still listen to his music, don’t you? I even contributed to financial numbers that his estate received since. Yes, I made sure it was a genuine copy. Speaking of tears, I lost Mary, and Peanut this year.

July was my slumber party month. I had one with the tiny little princesses whose mummies were at a hen party, and another with the Divas whom I could never quite figure out why I hang out with them. But hey they came to my house and I needed to feel a little more alive than the Fibromyalgia and Lupus allowed me to feel. And the Divaesque rubbed off on me, at least for one night.

In August, I got a major jolt, that convinced me to stop pitying myself and just live, love, live. I think every human being needs this kind of jolt every once in a while. We get so caught up in our day-to-day life, that we forget that we do not owe thiw world a thing. We start complaining and whining, that we forget fundamental rules of life. So, if life lets you live, it ain’t your place to kill it!

Thankfully, I have these important persons in my life who never forget to remind me about what is important in life. I am so infinitely glad for these persons who mean much to me. One of them would be Khalid, the man who features in my very own Legend. The Legend of Creek Town, I am told, is a very disturbing story. I don’t see why, because I think it pretty much describes what is going on in our world; the cycle of abuse that is entrenching itself into many family lives.

November is officially marked as my month of grief.  Still it offered me some comic relief. Someone I care about came to visit after a whole year away. That was interesting. I got some major revelations too. And I went into a ramble about Tampons.

As the year comes to a close, I have become acutely aware of quite a few things. I am smart. I am strong, maybe not physically, but definitely in other ways. I am loved. Not quite funny, and wardrobe challenged but I get by. I can get better, not in the dressing department unfortunately for your eyes,but I have discovered the potential for continual growth in other areas. I will have to buy a set top box, or a digital TV. I actually still like kids; you know, those little monsters that can drive a body mad. I will definitely adopt one sometime.

I still chose to love without justification. Sometimes that choice drives me crazy, or exhausts me, but I open my heart anyway. I have been spending too much time worrying about other people’s writing that I have neglected my own for a while, so now I shall pull out my very own novel to work on it. Safaricom calls Kenyan peculiar because we all indeed are, otherwise the firm would not have any clientele in Kenya. But I am definitely moving to another internet connection provider. Suggestions? I am officially completely irrevocably and very dangerously in love with the Golden Boy. The love in unrequited. *sob*

As a matter of fact, while a certain Carolyne Gaithuma begins work on her movie set for release in 2011 if things stay on schedule, I, will begin work on one of those pathetic mexican, worse yes, filipino soap operas where the lead lady cries just as much as the lead (lord?). Based on a true story. So there, that is a potential unresolution for next year. Move on. Well, just until he shows up somewhere and I fall right back to 17 years of age.

I wish you all the best in your endevours this month. Don’t drink and drive. Keep a stash of Eno, and deodoriser. Be nice to your relatives. Yes, even that disturbed mother-in-law of yours. Don’t fall in love with Golden Boys, or Girls. And write down the plan for 2010.

© Juliet Maruru 2009 www.jmaruru.wordpress.com

The twinkle in my eye,

that tear you saw,

I’ll sparkle in time.

This smile on my face,

the frown of a moment,

I’ll shine tomorrow.

The laughter in my voice,

the sob you heard,

I’ll sing with the wind.

The flutter of my lips,

the sigh in the dark,

I’ll say it with the moon.

The warmth of eternity,

the smile that you broke,

it won’t be forever.

This skip in my step,

the limp of a heartbreak,

I’ll dance with the stars.

Dedicated to the Golden Boy.

© Juliet Maruru 2009 www.jmaruru.wordpress.com

A close friend of mine is desperate to find a man who will be the one. I don’t believe in a one, not anymore. I do believe in love, and friendship, and partnership. Like my friend I would like to find a man with whom I can share life with, someone who can understand and appreciate my world, someone whose world I can understand and appreciate. Yet, somehow, I have never quite experienced the choking desperation she describes when she talks about getting married and having a family of her own.

Maybe I am slightly insensitive. I told her that that desperation will either push her into a relationship with someone who is not good enough for her, or drive away persons who might be interested in her. I told her to work on her own independence, strength and happiness and when the time was right for her she would find the love she is looking for. Que será, será. A bit of a contradiction if you ask me. What will be, will be.

Another good friend said once, in a rather cruel way, that although he might be my the one, I was not his the one. Well, to be fair, it was one of his cruel and grouchy alter egos. And this alter ego was kinda right. Although for me there have already been several the ones.

Let’s see, there was the Arab psychologist who was named after a famous Arab poet. He had dreamy emerald eyes, gorgeous white hair and really wrinkled skin. He taught me to think for myself, to believe in myself, to love myself even when I was uncertain about who I was. Goodbye was not an easy word to say.

Then there is him, the Golden Boy who comes in and out of my life, making me lose my breath every time he walks in and breaking my heart every time he closes the door. Funny thing is, I think I am the one who both opens and closes the door, but it hurts so bad each time I have decided to place all the blame on him.

Then there was the Almost One. He just did not get me, writing and definately not my insanities. My cats drove him crazy, just as much as my decision to be a ‘writer’. To be fair, he was lots of fun while he was around. And my mum loved him, although I must admit I have a very serious problem with my mum and daddy liking my friends too much. Makes it weird when I have to dump them, or they dump me before I have to dump them.

I have decided to stop at that because I am likely to go into a ramble about my cats and how they are much more reliable than humans

The point of my journey into the past is that life has incredibly rich possibilities. Things that go wrong will go wrong, but that is not to say that we cannot have any influence on what can go right. There is no one person who can make you happy. Happiness comes from within, from understanding your limitations and embracing your possibilities. Happiness is born from knowing that you are living your life the best way you possibly can, and fulfilling the purpose of your being alive to the optimum maximum. Friends and family do not make us happy, but they do add a lot of value to our lives.

I don’t think my friend heard me, and I suppose I was not quite sensitive to her feelings. I am sorry for that. But I have no doubt that I am right. Being happy with oneself will very likely contribute to attracting the right person for a life partnership, perhaps more than being hot and ‘out there’.

But hey, I really cannot be giving any advice, at least not at this time. The Golden Boy rode through again on his great white stallion, trampling all over my heart again, and breaking my smile. I made five steps forward this year, and four steps backward this weekend Aiyayaii!

© Juliet Maruru 2009 www.jmaruru.wordpress.com

I tend to write about stuff that happened in the past.  Yeah, sometimes the past does look good in retrospect. And sometimes I just want to block it out. Probably why I miss out on some lessons. Like not knowing that December weddings are coming up so I should avoid family reunions if  I do not want to find myself wearing baby blue and fuschia. Or magenta with angel gold. I know ???? (Here is proof.)

So I went out for drinks with a friend, and met her friend, who reminds me of an old friend that I do not talk to anymore. It’s not because we fell out or anything. We both just got caught up in our lives, I moved to a new town, uh, I mean the big city. He is a dad and worked his way up the hospitality industry. I actually made a career as a writer and editor.

Peanut

The last few days have been extremely tough for me. I lost a friend. A writer, a brother, someone who constantly reminded me, since I first met him, that nothing is as important as being true to yourself, and being good to those you love. His death came as a massive shock for me. Boniface Gachugu was strong, even when the illness kicked him hard, and tossed him out to sea. He fought back, and swam back time after time, never losing the smile on his face. He was not afraid of the dark dark days, instead he lit them up with laughter and optimism.

I had a hard time with that. Pain, physical, emotional, mental has wracked my life. And there have been times when I have forgotten to smile, and to laugh, and to love, to live life like it should be lived, fully, no matter what. I push my friends away. I try to forget some, because it hurts less if I lose them, or they reject me.

Last week just brought it all up, onto the table, right in front of me, glaring hard at me. There is no excuse for shutting out friends who have been good and true to you, not even if it might hurt like nothing before when you lose them. That is what Boniface taught me. The character of a man, woman, is his/her integrity, to principles, to faith, to  family (born or chosen), to the life that each one of us lives.

So I made a call. To an old friend, his boy will be 6 shortly. And I wrote email. To my cousin, she seems to be doing fine in San Jose. And then I listened to my mom and brother while we ate dinner together.

I suppose it can never be easy to learn some of life’s lessons. It takes courage, and I think I will try and gether my courage up. I will call you, because I do love you, because you matter to me, because your friendship means a lot to me.

© Juliet Maruru 2009 www.jmaruru.wordpress.com

Like so many others who were never given a chance in life, Wycliff’s story is just one of many of poverty-ridden Kenyans. Attaching no value in their lives, we see them as one: these glue-sniffing, dirt-ridden street children. I hate what my country has done to Wycliff and thousands of others just like him. I hate what poverty has done to all of us. The sound and sight of a street urchin as sit in the comfort of our cars is just as much a part of the decrepit social landscape as is the blaring chaos of insomniac matatu drivers and goats chewing away on plastic trash. Read Dipesh Pabari’s purposeful ramble about a boy who touched his parent’s lives here.

Also on kenyaimagine.com:

• Pray the Devil Back to Hell (Review) by Nekessa Opoti : The rebels fought for resources. Charles Taylor fought to stay in power. Young boys were recruited to fight in a war they barely understood. And the women of Liberia, they fought for survival, theirs and Liberia’s.

• Stonewalled: US House rejects war crimes report by Nima Shirazi : With the passing of H.Res.867, two days after what would have been Edward Said’s 74th birthday, Congress made perfectly clear that it not only seeks to deny and suppress the truth, but is itself, in the words of its own resolution, “irredeemably biased and unworthy of further consideration or legitimacy.”

• Kenya: Harmonised Draft Constitution 2009 : The Harmonised Draft of the Kenyan Constitution submitted by the Committee of Experts.  For the next thirty days the Kenyan government invites online public consultation which will be considered in the final draft.  Post comments…

• Book Review – Oil on the Brain by Robert Rapier : Oil on the Brain by Lisa Margonelli was recommended by Paul Sankey at the 2009 Energy Information Administration Conference as a book that provided great insight into the oil industry. I have had it on my list of books to read, and recently picked it up to read…

• Enter the Elephant by Nate Hagens : Our brains can accomplish amazing things when we mesh our analytical abilities with our baser emotions and impulses, but that quite often the ‘elephant’ (our limbic and reptilian cores) unwittingly assert their dominance, and in the process override any rational, reasoned intentions.

• Homosexuality and the Myth of Choice by Stephanie Migot : Since the story of Charles Ngengi and Daniel Gichia broke, LGBTQ issues have been pushed to the fore of Kenyan civil discourse. Along with outraged claims that homosexuality is “un-African” and that the two men must have been “corrupted”…

• Why Justice Must Be Served by Nekessa Opoti : Two years ago seated in my Minnesota living room I listened in horror (emails and phone calls) to stories about women being raped. The reports on rape first started with the attacks that followed soon after the election results were announced…

• Gifts for Mama by Sandra Mushi : Kassim was also the one until a month ago when he decided to leave Ashura for another woman.  He wanted to make sure that Ashura could have children before they got married, he didn’t want to end up with a barren wife.

Do you have an opinion or fiction piece that you would like to share with us? Please register on the right hand column of the online magazine at www.kenyaimagine.com, and then submit your work. You can also send in your piece to editor@kenyaimagine.com.

Kenyaimagine is on Twitter (http://twitter.com/kenyaimagine) and on Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/kenya.imagine1)

It seems to me that November marks the month of the year when I grieve most. Today, I have gone through nearly half the stages of grief, shocked numbness, denial, fear, anger… I am yet to reach acceptance, but as I mourn the loss of a true and dear friend, I am glad for the life and strength that I do have.

And so, I can’t stop the tears, but if I didn’t cry, it would mean I have not lost, and so because I have lost a good man, I must cry for the pain of the empty space he has left.

Still, I cannot forget the reason I loved him so. He made me laugh. And taught me that even when life is an absolute bitch, we can defy her and live life with all our hearts. He taught me to care, from the very bottom of the heart, and to believe in love even when it seemed to elude me.

Even though I feel the sting of death, I know that he is no longer in pain, and better I for the pain that reminds me I am alive, to honor the love, the laughter, and the friendship we shared.

So rest, little bird, for I will see you soon, dear Peanut.

How do you motivate a young child to voice his or her feelings, hopes, dreams and opinions in written form? How do you help a child grow from tentative expression to creative heights as a fiction writer, a poet, a script writer or even a journalist? How do you get a child to understand that the world is a jewel, just as it is with its troubles, as well as its beauty, to be explored and relished?

I always ask myself these questions just before I start working with a child on creative writing skills. Creative Writing skills are skills for life, useful in any career, useful for any life. Just like Mathematics has the potential to develop a critical thinker, Creative writing has the potency to develop a creative communicator.

But before anyone can become a great creative thinker and writer they must find their own voice and identity.

SOPHIE’S LOG helped me personally explore the place I wanted to go, and the place I wanted the kids I was working with discover.

Sophie’s Log is a compilation of pieces of poetry and prose written by a young English girl, Sophie Large, and compiled into a book after her tragic death in a car accident when she was 19. The pieces compiled stretch across a timeline, from when she was about nine years old until just a few days before she died.

At nine years of age, Sophie was already an avid reader, and wrote several book reviews, as well pieces about music, or things that she liked. She wrote a beautiful poem for her grandmother shortly after her grandfather died, part of which says:

Time, here, is like nothing on earth,

And I am soon with my loved ones…

When she was about 13 years old, she wrote the tale of the Goothrans, which to me felt like a serious rival for the Harry Potter Series, if she had been able to develop it.

The more Sophie writes, the better she becomes, which is a lesson for any young aspiring writer. Write, write, write, soon you shall find your niche. She draws inspiration from observations, from things she experiences, from things she hears. Her trip to Israel bears a two page essay with very deep thoughts for a fourteen year old.

Sophie’s growth, as a person and as a very expressive writer, is evident in letters, to her grandmother, her parents and friends which are also included in Sophie’s Log. As she grows older her life moves from the simple flowers, ponies and legends, to include flowers, ponies, legends, relationships, school, career hopes.

Her interest in Drama and Theatre grew in her teens. Her happiness at this time of her life is reflected in the way she writes:

Kindertransport. First performance. How do I feel? Like any amateur director after the first performance of their first play, with the knowledge that it is only a third over. A bit flat. There is a sob in my throat that won’t go away. It went really well…

At 17 years of age, Sophie ran drama workshops for younger girls at school.

She writes: I am going to be allowed to take the Junior Drama Club after half-term. There are various aspects of theatre I want to get across to these girls. Ensemble theatre is as important as single roles. You cannot have a good production if every actor is fighting for the attention if the audience instead of supporting each other…

At nineteen years of age, despite getting really good A levels Sophie did not get into Oxford though she had spent quite a few months preparing for it. She was quite emotional about it and wrote:

When people ask if I got into Oxford, my family will have to say, ‘no, but she is going to Bristol’ – and the people will say ‘ah’ and think to themselves uhuh Oxford wannabe, less than Oxford.

She got over it however, and was soon back in life, writing upbeat emails to her friends, and working on a plan to set up a Theatre Company. Within the book is an excellent example offer letter to an actor who was set to be part of her production project.

In the very last poem in Sophie’s Log, Sophie writes:

I, me, myself, am real, alive, here,

I enjoy the feel of life under my hand,

The shouting and screaming

The mad abandoned laughter of one,

Who has let go of parts of her mind

That hold the real her prisoner

Sophie’s log demonstrates that the journey to excellent creative writing is not a short one. She starts out with spelling mistakes, improving to accurate spelling with simple, childish expressions, and growing into to truly descriptive writing whether when writing the rather formal business letter, or an emotional letter to her parents or her grandmother, to poems that capture strong emotions in very few words.

Sophie’s writing also captures the joys as well as heartaches of growing up. The reader is able to look into a world where a failure only inspires more creative thinking. When she fails to get into Oxford, Sophie looks for another way to reach her dreams.

Sophie left quite a legacy through her writing. She inspires me 11 years after her death. I hope she inspires the kids who read her work. I can just imagine what she might have become with more time, an expressive writer, a creative thinker, someone who is not afraid to dream, therefore not afraid to go out and get what she wants in her life.

That she died at 19 and still left such a legacy makes me believe that I can do so much more with my life if I just try. And I hope that her writing can help the kids who read it explore their own voices, their own worlds, and dreams, and writing.

Excerpts from Sophie’s Log by Sophie Large.

© Juliet Maruru 2009 www.jmaruru.wordpress.com

@kahenya and @mkaigwa talk social media with KTN’s @larrymadowo .

Yes, this post might be about Tampons, but as has been pointed out several times, a taboo is something that has been known for a time, and then classified as a no-no. Since we are in Africa, a taboo would have to be known for several generations and quarantined as a taboo through those generations likely backed up by some oral tradition about why-not. There, we can’t really have tampon taboos, since tampons are fairly new *phenomena*

Well, the thing is, the thingy I am talking about is not a taboo either. African culture celebrated sexuality, assigning a full celebration of rites around ‘it’. When a girl reached puberty, she would go through education at the hands of the elder women at the end of which she would go through the rites of passage and become a ‘woman’. Talk about informed consent. Yeah, yeah, you are going to point at the circumcision that went with it. I am against genital mutilation. Just so we are clear. This article is not in any way an effort to make light of the brutal abuse that has caused pain for many young girls and women in Africa. But this article is all for the education that went with the rites of passage. I mean, how can you make a decision to be a woman without the information you need to make that decision?

So let’s go back to the thingy that started this all. The Tampon. At this juncture I might delve into my teens, and an experience that very nearly jarred the bejesus out of me. The Bejesus remains in me, although a certain person who might be considered my boss has as of today Patented my insanity as his. Japanese Kiondos. Sorry, I digress.

Well, I was 15, maybe 16. Those who can remember me from back then will testify that I was a very ‘boyish’ girl. Arm wrestling when the teacher was out of class, rugby practice in a team with only one other girl, oh yeah, and sitting on the wall wolf-calling at the hot girls (Daddy, you shall not comment. Mum’s mouth is zipped. We are not going to discuss species, and confusion.) Oh dear, I have wandered off again, haven’t I?

Anyway, a few years before this I had hit menarche. I had been pre-informed by mum in the ‘talks’, so i was not really shocked about the blood. But I was surprised to find out that I was a girl after all. Mum was quick to explain that I did not have to stop climbing trees, although my brother strongly advised against it, since he ‘expected me to grow up and be worth some cows.’ Mum introduced me to Tampons. We did the read-up on how to use them, and how to look out for Toxic Shock Syndrome. And then she held my hand when I tried it the first time and so I was started on climbing trees even on menstruation days.

And then came the incident that happened when i was 15, maybe 16. After rugby practice, one late afternoon, I went to the changing rooms for a shower. While i was in there, the Home Science Teacher who was on discipline duty that week walked into the changing rooms. Just as she walked in, my box of tampons fell out of my school bag. I didn’t even think much of it, until she reached to pick it up, and then looked back at me with a frown.

“Are you a virgin?”

What? What do you mean ‘Am I virgin?’ I don’t even remember answering her. I do not think I answered her. And if I had she probably would have died of stress related myocardia. Next thing I knew we had mum leaving her job to come for a PTA meeting. I think the situation would have deteriorated very fast if not for the Principal’s intervention. In retrospect, Ms. Lavingia rocked. Can’t remember that Home Science teacher’s name. Mrs. Otieno, Mrs. Ochuodho, something like that. Anyway, the PTA meeting turned into a ‘let’s educate the damned home science teacher’ session including read ups on how the vagina naturally adjusts to the tampon, and how they reason for resistance might only be ‘fear clenching’. I was not embarrassed at all. But Home-science teacher could not believe we were talking about Vaginas in the presence of ‘the child’! then she went on about destroying ‘the child’ by adopting European cultures by talking about sex. We were not talking about sex, just about the vagina, tampons, periods and adjusting to penetration.

So I remembered this incident a few days ago when someone decided to take a bashing on a kind mzungu who wanted to help collect and donate sanitary pads to poor Kenyan girls. The argument was tampons would be far much cheaper, and far much better for the environment, considering size, material and so on. At which point someone else, I think perhaps the kind mzungu, mentioned that Tampons are considered taboos by African women.

So here is my take on it, limited, since my insanity has been patented and I can therefore only use it with the very likelihood that I might be sued for copyright infringement.

Tampons are not the issue. Sex is. Sexuality is. (Honestly, judging from some people’s opinion, we should all not be alive, seeing how sex is such a bad thing) It shouldn’t be a problem but someone has perpetuated the idea that discussing sex and sexuality is a European thing. Wrong! It is not a European thing. If it was, there would not be any poor Kenyan to donate sanitary pads to. Now do not get me wrong, I have nothing against the kind mzungu. Remember that saying, ‘Mwacha mila ni mtumwa’? Well, that wise person should also have mentioned the absolute confusion of abandoning ‘all’ culture indiscriminately, and then trying to get back on the ox-cart. Seriously damaged home-science teachers.

So now, we are still having sex, but it is a bad bad thing and hush do not talk about it, or anything that has to do with it. Just use pads, which are generally uncomfortable, comparably expensive and do not ‘penetrate’. In the meantime, the same issues that have you accusing tampons of being taboos, will mean that more and more women are living unfulfilled sex lives, oh they do, cause the birth rate still has not dropped. It means that women will die of cervical and breast cancer. What didn’t you know breasts have everything to do with sex, and we do not dicuss sex, let alone go for pap smears or breast exams? I mean how can you let some strange doctor probe your ‘ladybits’? And did you know that quite a few gynaecologists are men?

Well, now, I guess what all this means is that we shall continue contributing to the environmental disaster, and continue dying of diseases that could be controlled and cured if caught early on. That’s our tampon taboo. Sigh.

© Juliet Maruru 2009 www.jmaruru.wordpress.com

I will not tell any man why he should not hit a woman. I would rather talk to you, my fellow woman. It starts with you, you see. How much you respect yourself will determine how much respect you will get. If you feel that being someone’s punching bag sits well with you, regardless of the aches, the broken bones and the indignity that you have to carry around the next day and for a few more days to come, then perhaps it is your right to endure ‘mambo ya nyumbani’. If not, then for the love of life and for the sake of women everywhere, make a stand and do something to protect yourself and your children. It is true society as a whole is paying greater attention to the crime of wife-beating but whatever laws are passed will be of little use be put in use in the protection of women, unless those women are themselves determined to use them.

The 16 Days of Activism against Gender Violence is an international campaign that was started in 1991 to call for the elimination of violence against women. It runs from the 25^th of November to the 10^th December of every year. The main objectives of the campaign are:

Ø Raising awareness about gender-based violence as a human rights issue at the local, national, regional and international levels.

Ø Strengthening local networks around violence against women.

Ø Creating a method to share and develop new effective strategies.

Ø Showing the solidarity of women around the world by organizing schemes against violence against women

Ø Creating tools to pressure governments to implement promises made to eliminate violence against women.

What does this make you think of? The women politicians violently attacked in electoral campaigns? The woman politician stabbed to death? Yes, these are the high profile incidents that carry in the media and for this reason the ones more likely to be followed by an effort, no matter how small at the apprehension and punishment of the villains. Even then, the perpetrators are likely to go free, just as they would on the numerous lower profile reported cases of violence against women.

What riles me in particular though, are the numerous cases of gender violence that are not acted on by law enforcement or commented upon because they are not reported and especially because the victims of these attacks seem themselves to be colluding in their continued commission. So it is that unless these incidents turn particularly tragic no one pays them any attention.

Every single night in my neighbourhood, the peace of the darkness is disturbed by the loud screams of a woman being punished by her spouse for one mistake or the other. No one bothers to get up and go help her; most people do not even stir, not anymore. Such screams have become a part of the night, as much as the barking of the neighbourhood dogs, the crickets or the occasional cawing of the crows. It is a nightly occurrence; just another woman being disciplined by her husband, you see. In the morning, those who decide to trespass societal norms and ask after the woman in question, is she well and does she know that the law stands in her defence, will be met with a battered but resolute smile that insists “Hiyo ni mambo kawaida ya nyumbani tu.” (Those are just normal domestic issues.)

It is persuasive to suppose that it is alright, nothing to make too big a deal about and what right does an outsider when the victims themselves seem untroubled. But it is most emphatically not alright. It is the continued commission of such crimes, and the impunity bred by never being held to account that allows women to beaten and abused so much that they are compelled to the permanent occupation of the bottom position in society, a position from which their ability to contribute to society beyond the prescribed roles is severely limited. And this attitude then spreads across some more with women discriminated against in leadership roles, or in education or looked down on as managers. It is this attitude that leads society to look the other way as men continue to escape punishment for the sexual abuse of women and children, including the perception among many women and girls that this is their lot, this is what they should expect as women.

Real men do not hit women. This is not because women are defenceless for I know myself a few women who can fight for all they are worth. Real men don’t hit women because they do not see in women a sub-humanity undeserving of treatment equal to that which one would desire for oneself. Women like men have emotions, intelligence, and dignity and are important to the progress of the family and of society at large.

The real man is aware that in his treatment of the woman ,even as she may be physically weaker than himself, he is making a statement to society on his personal dignity and to his family on the respect for one another. He is also acutely aware that the family must exist for the common good, and that the crushed spirit of the mother is the destruction of the entire family.

Beating your wife, even in those cultures where the singularity of the matrimonial union is not emphasised, amounts to violence against yourself. For most humans, the nurturing contact is female and it is from this female that life itself is born and cared for especially when it is at its most vulnerable. The way of nature is that the female nurtures and guides and protects. Part of this nurturing role is in guiding society and spouses to an appreciation that violence against women is immoral and impermissible.

In so doing women, especially those threatened with violence help shatter the myth of normality surrounding gender violence and crucially also protect future generations from domestic violence. Such violence is not only illegal and immoral, it is also not normal. But unless its victims demand the breaking of the cycle, whole generations of boys are being transformed into men who believe violence against women as an acceptable way to conduct family life.

© Juliet Maruru 2009 www.jmaruru.wordpress.com