Once you have explored these questions, it is time to reach out and ask the people and groups you have identified as sahwiras. Let them know your sacred dreams journey and discuss the roles you might play in each other’s lives. Create special, dedicated time for supporting and mentoring each other. Be intentional about lifting each other up and partnering each other on the road to your sacred purpose.
We belong to a sacred web, and nurturing a sahwira relationship allows the continuation of a weaving whose thread makes us stronger. Once one thread becomes weak and pulls off, then the whole web becomes weak. Are we willing to see our shared role in the health of the web? Will we be more intentional in our strengthening of the web? This is what fortifies and bolsters the sahwira network of strong women. We are all connected and our survival is bound together with the thread of love.
You are already part of this network. Now you have to do the work of seeing those connections—and this is admittedly no easy task if you live in a culture that privileges individuality over community—and build on them. Let community and love be your refrain. Set yourself free from the need to do it on your own; reject the myth of toxic female friendships and trust in your essential connectedness.
Beloved sahwiras: writers, mystics, activists, and healers have long spoken of the need for community and connectedness. Tap into the poetry of their rhythmic song. Allow yourself to be a sahwira, and open your senses to receive the sahwira guidance that sings back to you.
Until women can come together and authentically support one another, our communities, and the world, our narratives and dreams will remain disjointed. Remember, sahwira-ship is based on deep connectedness: it sustains us, teaches us about the world around us, enriches our lives, and keeps us focused on our dreams.
Conclusion: It Is Achievable!
The world is round and the place which may seem like the end may also be only the beginning.
—IVY BAKER PRIEST, PARADE
On October 15, 2009, I defended my dissertation to a packed audience of my peers, students from other departments, and professors, including my dissertation committee at Western Michigan University. Thanks to a group of fellow students who grilled me during a mock presentation, I felt ready.
My dissertation was titled “Meta-evaluation of HIV/AIDS prevention intervention evaluations in Sub-Saharan Africa with a specific emphasis on implications for women and girls.” Throughout my studies, I worked hard to understand the spread of HIV/AIDS. As I prepared to speak, I thought about Zuda. Our time living together in America was full of tension and strife. The cultural differences in the US only heightened his anger toward me. If a male coworker from my job called using my first name to ask me to cover a shift, Zuda would become enraged.
I lived through physical and emotional abuse even while in America. I was embarrassed to tell anyone that I suffered in this way. I used every trick known to battered women to hide my situation. There were explanations for every cut and scratch on my body. I prayed that God would transform this man from a wife beater into a good father and loving husband. Though I did my best to hide the abuse, it did not take long for neighbors to complain about the noise coming from our small apartment.
Dr. Ron Beer, a constant source of support for me during my education, soon became aware of my hardship and the risk facing my children. His office and Stillwater’s domestic violence program found us temporary shelter while the authorities arrested Zuda for domestic violence. I knew I was finally and forever done with this man. At last, Zuda agreed to voluntary deportation to Zimbabwe at the end of 1999.
Later he contracted HIV/AIDS. He died from this disease in March 2002, one of the first Zimbabweans with a death certificate identifying AIDS as the cause of death and just months after Zimbabwe declared HIV/AIDS a national emergency.
I contemplated Zuda’s death as I stood there in front of my dissertation committee. I realized he was a product of his environment, as is everyone. As I found my voice to defend my dissertation, my mind took me back to the years of suffering, and I found myself silently grieving for all the pain and suffering that he brought to my life and the lives of my children as well as his own sad end. I also thought about my own experience with this horrible disease, which greatly influenced my decision to focus on the disproportionate number of women and girls infected by HIV/AIDS in sub-Saharan Africa.
I thought of the year I spent visiting the hospital every three months for more testing, the nights I spent wallowing in self-pity on the bathroom floor of my tiny university apartment. For although Zuda and I had not been intimate while in the United States, there was still a chance that I, too, had HIV. I thought of the shame and guilt that consumed me, my fear of looking in the mirror and seeing a pimple on my face, or how I panicked at every cough or tired feeling, certain that the infection had arrived.
I was lucky; all my tests came back clean. But my quest to understand female exposure to the disease (as well as methods for prevention, especially for those not yet infected) had taken me on quite a journey. Having seen firsthand the pain and resilience of women and girls who have fought and succumbed to the epidemic, these tragedies renewed my energy daily while working on the dissertation.
So much went through my head as I gathered my thoughts on that stage, waiting for my dissertation committee to ask me questions. Looking out over the crowd of students and faculty sitting there, I suddenly envisioned my late brother smiling as he shared a beautifully illustrated geography book that transported me to magical places and made me thirst for more, my first real reading experience . . . I could see my mother handing me a rusty old can in which to secure my dreams.
“Can you describe the difference between meta-evaluation and meta-analysis and how you would apply those in your work?” asked one committee member. Each question is supposed to be answered in a precise manner and within a short space of time. My dissertation adviser asked something next, and I noticed that he is asking some of the hardest questions. I feel intensity building in my body as I am asked one question and then another. I squeeze my rock to get some grounding, concentrating on my breathing as I try to look smart. Yet I feel my legs could buckle at any time.
Soothed by a strong sense of my ancestors holding me forth and the feeling of the small rock in my pocket that I carried since I buried my dreams, I got through my doctoral defense. I was told to leave the room as the committee discussed my performance. Then all there was left to do was to wait for the committee to make a decision. I passed the time in a bathroom worrying about failure rates. I was a nervous wreck. But what else could I do? It was done. I tried to remember what others had told me: Is it good or bad when the committee takes a long time?
Finally, the program coordinator came for me. Examining her for telltale signs, I saw nothing, and so I approached the room holding my breath. The room looked dark and the faces of the doctoral committee members seemed gloomy. Oh, no, I have failed! I thought to myself.
Slowly, the committee chair stood up and said, “Please join me in congratulating Dr. Tererai Trent!” Stunned, I barely noticed the tears of joy flowing down my cheeks. I achieved my fourth dream!
It took almost two decades to obtain my doctorate from the day I buried my dreams. One month later, when I walked to the podium to receive my degree, I realized that the two things that brought me to this point were hunger (in this case, for an education) and opportunity. As I was awarded the degree, I felt like a lawyer resting her case. It is achievable!
I arrived at the graduation ceremony armed with a paper containing my list of dreams because I intended to check off my fourth dream during the ceremony. Before I could do this, I discovered that the university president, Dr. John Dunn, had prepared a commencement speech based on my achievements. He agreed to check off my fourth dream during his speech. I was overwhelmed when I received a standing ovation from fellow students, faculty, and strangers. President Dunn’s words moved me deeply and made me feel like a giant. As I watched him check off my fourth dream, I
thought, “Here I am, a former cattle herder. I came to this country with nothing but a dream. What were the odds that I would one day earn the title of doctor?”
Then it was time to turn to my fifth dream, my sacred dream. My hope was to build a school in my home village to improve the lives of women and children back home. I quickly found myself with limited ideas about how to achieve it.
I desperately wanted to give back to my community, so not knowing where to begin depressed me. Remembering Jo Luck’s words, “It is achievable”—“Tinogona”—an idea began to percolate. “What if I design a T-shirt with the slogan Tinogona—It Is Achievable?” I could sell thousands and with the money, go home to rebuild my elementary school.
As an initial step, I asked a workmate from Heifer to introduce me to her brother, a creative young man who developed my first website. The logo on the splash page was a map of Africa with a wide-branched tree embedded into the map. It was beautiful. With the help of a graphic designer, the logo was transferred onto T-shirts with a mixture of bolded and unbolded letters. The word “is” in It Is Achievable looked “swooshy.” I loved the whole effect.
Add-on tabs and shopping carts were soon installed on the website, and soon I was ready to make money and start building schools! Little did I know how much more was involved in selling the T-shirts. With limited marketing skills, I only sold about twenty shirts, mostly to my friends. I started to wonder if my fifth dream could be made a reality. I sank into a deep despair.
Then I got a phone call from Harpo Studios, home of Oprah Winfrey’s show. I had previously appeared on Oprah’s show thanks to Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn’s book Half the Sky, in which my story appeared.
The first time Oprah’s people called me, I thought it was a hoax. I almost hung up on the woman on the line claiming to be from Harpo Studios. I thought the caller was a joker or telemarketer. But as the person on the other end continued to talk, I began to believe her. “We are thrilled to tell you that Oprah is sending a team to film your home village and you will get to join them.” The voice says this like it’s an everyday thing. I’m stunned. Before I could respond, the producer told me to expect another call to make final arrangements for my travels.
It had to be a dream, I thought. I will wake up in the morning and tell my children and friends and we’ll all laugh. I knew the name Oprah and had heard of her show, but still I had to Google her. I didn’t even know what to look for, I realized, and soon gave up and sat there by my window in disbelief.
Two of my children and my husband, Mark, who I’d met during my graduate studies, arrived home at the same time and found me sitting by the window. “Harpo Studios called,” I blurted out. The three of them stood frozen in their tracks. I repeated it again. My last born said, “Wow, you are kidding, right?!” And I could hear one of the kids saying, “Did you tape the call in case you did not understand the conversation?” I’m thinking, Who in the world thinks of taping a call? Mark sat down next to me and said, “Really, this is happening?” All I could do was nod.
A week after the call I received instructions to expect a car to take me to the airport. I arrived in Zimbabwe and met up with a team of producers who had traveled from Chicago to my remote village to tape a program. I was invited to appear on The Oprah Winfrey Show to tell my story, on an episode that emphasized perseverance and determination in the fight to educate and empower underprivileged women and girls. I was nervous about appearing on the show, barely sleeping for weeks in advance.
In the end, I enjoyed meeting Oprah and sharing my story. Overnight, I became known as the girl who buried her dreams for an education under a rock where she used to herd cattle. Afterward, I thought of the show as a great experience but nothing more.
This second time I received a call from Harpo Studios, I did not think it was a hoax, but I was surprised. Initially, this second call seemed like a courtesy. The producer and I chatted for a few moments about how things were going. When he invited me to reappear, I declined, as I felt there was nothing more to say since my prior appearance in 2009. I was reluctant because I didn’t want my second appearance to simply repeat the first. I didn’t want to embarrass myself on television with nothing to say!
As the discussion was coming to an end, the producer asked what I was up to and I told him about my wish to rebuild Matau Primary School. There was silence at the end of the phone, and as though he was clearing his voice, he told me that Oprah’s show was coming to an end and she was no longer interested in funding schools as she was moving into a different chapter in her life.
The only new thing I could possibly add to my previous appearance was my new mission: to rebuild my community’s school. I could not imagine what we might talk about if I was unable to mention my current project. “Then,” I said, “there is no need for me to appear again if I cannot share what’s in my heart, rebuilding my now dilapidated school.” I could hear the producer’s strained voice as he warned never to bring this dream to Oprah because it was the end of her show.
I sat there staring at the phone trying to find a way to end the discussion in a polite manner. Before I could say anything, the producer was insistent and encouraged me to attend the show. Still somewhat reluctant, I nevertheless agreed to reappear. I thought to myself that I am more than my story, and if my story encourages others, especially young women, to achieve their dreams, I can still bring meaning to their lives. At the time, I really had no clear idea how my story inspired other people around the world, or saw why Oprah would want me back on her show.
On a cold morning in February 2011, I arrived at Harpo Studios in Chicago. Not knowing what would happen, I tried to relax, but my mind kept going back and forth about what to say about my goal, if given the opportunity. My response to a producer’s enthusiastic greeting was somewhat muted. He again advised me not to bring up my wish to build a school. It saddened me to think that I could not mention what was so close to my heart.
I thought back to my childhood school. The infrastructure was falling apart. The school lacked desks, chairs, books, and skilled teachers. On average, five children shared a math textbook and four shared a seat and desk. Most children completed a seven-year cycle without access to a single textbook. Knowing that Oprah had a school in South Africa, I believed that she understood how such challenges result in poor performance. How could I not bring it up?
I wanted Oprah to know that Zimbabwe’s economic crisis has led most children to drop out of school by first grade. She would understand that girls bear the heaviest burden because so many leave school to care for sick parents or marry at a very young age. Oprah’s show may be coming to an end, but the situation at my school seemed permanent and she had the reach and the audience I needed to press forward with my mission.
If only I could explain to Oprah and her viewers all of the factors at play. Beyond the crippled economy and a difficult political situation, my country also suffered from a severe “brain drain” of teachers and other professionals who have left Zimbabwe seeking opportunities elsewhere. With little ability to feed their families, the remaining teachers are forced to seek other work to supplement their incomes. How can distracted teachers put forth their best?
Not only did I want to improve the quality of education, I wanted to find ways to increase employment, bolster the local economy, and build a community library. But I was getting too far ahead. I told myself to slow down and stay calm—if I opened my mouth and all of my racing thoughts came pouring out, the Harpo security staff would be forced to throw me off the set!
For the third time, the producer and his team warned me not to bring up the school as they prepped me for the show.
Prior to my invitation, the show ran commercials suggesting names of some people who might be Oprah Winfrey’s all-time favorite guest. I had no idea what that meant. I walked onto the stage, and saw Oprah’s big smile as she greeted me. As I inched my way toward her, I could not believe what I was hearing. Oprah was announcing that I was her “all-tim
e favorite guest.” She threw open her arms and drew me in close, in a sincere woman-to-woman embrace.
It was beyond my imagination to think that after twenty-five years and more than thirty thousand guests, Oprah Winfrey chose me for this honor. I was stunned. Everything around me blurred and I felt as if I was watching someone else’s life in a movie. Only Oprah’s warm hug and the comforting sound of her voice helped me regain my composure.
Once settled, Oprah asked, “What is your dream now?”
I knew for sure that I did not have permission to speak the words written so heavily on my heart. I paused. I thought, Well, I did not have the permission of my community when I spoke the truth of my dreams to Jo Luck, dreams that were so shocking to them at the time, and I did not have the permission of my husband when I went off to America to pursue my degree. Yet I did these things and I’d made it this far, and I did so with the conviction that bettering myself would ripple out into a broader healing.
Thus it was that I found myself on national television, telling one of the most powerful women in the world that I wanted to give back to Zimbabwe and to my community. I wanted to build a school so that young girls and adult women can have better lives. I had no external permission to do so, only the strength of my connection to my sacred purpose.
“I feel I need to give back,” I told her. “I need to build a school in my village so that the same girls that I see today,” I continued, turning my eyes away from Oprah and speaking to the women in the audience, “don’t have to go through what I went through.”
The Awakened Woman Page 21
