Educate a Girl and you Educate a Village: Part 1
Reticulated Giraffes in Samburu Country
Unfortunately, I do not have pictures of Samburu women. The ethics of taking pictures of people is a story for another blog. I have illustrated this story with the beautiful animals that are indigenous to Northern Kenya. These species coexist with the Samburu and are as much a part of their culture as the landscape. I’m excited to report that last week’s story, Samburu Wedding, raised $1150 this week to support Reteti Elephant Sanctuary and the women who care for the orphans.
We sit under a tree with the bowl of beads between us: me, a shy 68-year-old woman from Canada and two shy Samburu girls from Northern Kenya. Our facilitator and translator is a Samburu woman who works at Sarara Camp where I am staying. (for the sake of this story I will call her Leah.) The girls push a bowl towards me, inviting me to choose some beads. Leah invites the girls to show me how to thread a line of beads on the needle. With a swift movement, suggesting ten thousand hours of expertise, they swipe their needles through the bowl and voilà, their thread is stacked with beads. I follow suit, the beads avoid my needle like captives on the run. We all laugh.
Two rescued Grevy Zebra Orphans being hand raised and ultimately released back into the wild
I was asked if I would like to learn to bead with Samburu women. I welcome any opportunity for cross-cultural exchange when I travel. The Samburu are a unique tribe that share many traditions with the Maasai I know from the south. They have their own distinctive style of beadwork and decoration, distinguished by the design, shape, and colour of their necklaces, bracelets, anklets, and headdresses. The two girls who arrive that morning for my beading lesson are barefoot and plainly dressed. The youngest, perhaps 11 or 12, wears a layer of red-brown beaded necklaces around her neck indicating she is not married. To my surprise, I learn the other girl is already married with two children.
Within minutes our curiosity trumps our shyness. What’s your name? How old are you? Are you married? Do you have children? We lob questions back and forth at each other. Leah is an excellent teacher and translator. I try to imagine how the girls process my answers. They’ve had little contact with foreigners, I know I look very different to them. The younger girl is eager to please and quietly offers to make me a bracelet. Clearly my efforts will take too long to achieve such a goal in a morning.
A Pair of Gerenuk Antelope also known as the giraffe gazelle
I’m often surprised by bold questions from young people when I travel off the beaten path. Their curiosity about me is direct and unadorned. I worry about being tactful and culturally sensitive. They are authentic and honest. It is refreshing. I join the girls in this space of openness and curiosity. When we get through the introductory level of questions about each other’s names, age, and marital status, we drop down to the next level. I ask them if they have been to school. Neither girl has been to school. They ask me: “Did you go to school?” Yes, for many years. “Do your children go to school?” Yes, they do, and so do my grandchildren. School starts at age four. There’s a pause. “Who takes care of your animals?” I don’t have animals. Now we are really outside of their realm of experience.
The conversation continues over the bowl of beads. Leah encourages the youngest girl to go to school. She replies in a quiet voice that her parents need her to take care of the goats. If she goes to school who will take care of the animals? The older girl declares boldly that she wants her children to go to school. Leah asks the youngest if she has been circumcised. It goes without saying that the married girl would have been through the rite of female genital mutilation prior to marriage. Unspoken thoughts hang in the air. The youngest says no and turns to me: “Have you been circumcised?” “No,” I say, “it is not something we do in our culture.” Leah describes in detail the health risks of female genital mutilation: infection, sepsis, conception and birth complications, risk of chronic pain and illness, and even death. I notice how Leah delivers her message. She is an excellent teacher, sharing detailed information without being strident. The girls listen in silence.
Elephant and calf leaving the waterhole at Sarara Camp
Attention swings back to me. I’m asked “Do you have more than one husband?” Samburu men can have more than one wife. “No, I only have one husband,” I reply, considering my second marriage in new light. “How many cows did your husband get when he married you?” A Samburu woman’s value is established by her dowry prior to her wedding. The more cows, goats, or sheep a family receives for their daughter indicates her worth. I laugh out loud: “No cows or sheep—he got a smart, good-looking woman with a university education and a job.” I notice how I claim my accomplishments with pride in the direct tone I’ve witnessed from the Samburu and Maasai. They are unencumbered with cultural messages not to celebrate a positive sense of self.
The girls know that access to education means they will learn to read and write—something that was not an option for their parents’ generation. Leah, herself is a model of new prospects that come with an education. The girls’ generation faces both the challenge and opportunity of bridging traditional roles with modern opportunities. Empowered with education girls can use their learning to benefit their communities on issues such as food security, environmental protection, family planning, and disease prevention.
There’s now an easy, open exchange going back and forth between the four of us. I’ve almost finished a small bracelet. The girls are on their fourth. They continue to pepper me with questions about my children, what do they do, and how many grandchildren I have. It is hard to describe a world that is so foreign to their experience. We meet on the common ground of family and creative arts. When it is time to go, Leah restates her theme: no FGM and go to school. As we say goodbye, the youngest girl slips a bracelet over my wrist and says, “I will ask my parents if I can go to school.”
