Advocacy Project Research Paper- Anecdote Version
by Susanna
Halima lay awake on her mat. Her husband
Babatunde’s heavy breathing had turned to snoring, so she resigned herself to
being awake. The sun was not yet up, but she knew morning was near. The birds
outside soared over her hut singing the world back to life. She propped herself
up on her elbow and gazed pensively at her husband. He was not unattractive,
she thought to herself, but she feared him. Behind his dark, handsome features
he hid an unbridled fierceness that only Halima saw. Around the village he was
considered a respectable and genial person. People were surprised that such a
man wanted to buy Halima, a gangly, scrawny daughter of a poor man, for his
wife. They could not have known that he was merely stingy and wanted her mostly
because she was so young. Her father could not afford to feed her and Babatunde
wanted a wife he could “mold like clay.”
She was ten years old when they were
married. She was now twelve and pregnant with her first child. When Halima did
not become pregnant within the first year of marriage Babatunde said it was
because he had been too kind to her, therefore she did not respect him enough
to bear him a son. Then the beatings began. Most days he made a ritual of
hitting her repeatedly on the face when he arrived home or throwing her on the
ground a couple times. One day, however, the worst day of her short life, he
came home in a drunken rage. He had seen
Halima’s friend Awende in the village toting her twin sons home. She tried to
explain to Babatunde that Awende was three years older than herself and had
been married since she was eight years old, but he was too drunk to hear or
care about any of that. He reached out and clutched her fragile neck and thrust
her against the wall of the hut. He grabbed a blunt, old machete and waved it
in her face, shouting hatefully at her. Silent tears streamed down her face.
She trembled in uncontrollable terror. He gripped her small face in his free
hand and snarled, “Stop crying, you worthless piece of garbage. Your life is nothing!” he spat. “But you belong to me
nonetheless, so I will try to make use of you! I will make sure you can never
leave me. I will mark you so all will know you are my property.” He ripped off
her clothes and threw her to the ground. Then, as she tried to crawl away from
him, he began carving an “X” in her lower back with the dull machete. She
screamed in agony. He kicked her repeatedly in the face, telling for her to be
silent. She couldn’t see through the blood dripping from her forehead into her
eyes. He then forsook the machete for a long, thin piece of firewood that he
began using as a bludgeon. She writhed in pain as her own blood pooled around her.
He pounded her body until he had exhausted his energy, which was some time
later. Eventually, he dropped his bludgeon and rolled her nearly
unrecognizable, emaciated frame over with his foot. He dropped to his knees,
grabbed a fist-full of her hair, and jerked her head up to an inch from his
face. He whispered, his breath rank with alcohol, “You are stupid and
worthless, woman…A waste of life. Bear me a son, or I will kill you.” He
dropped her head back onto the wet ground, then collapsed, worn out, on their
mat. Halima, too weak and in pain to even weep, prayed that she would die as
her world faded to blackness.
That was one year ago. He had broken her
nose and, she guessed, several ribs. Nearly every part of her body bore scars
from that night or various other times when he beat her violently. She could
not see the “X” on her lower back, but sometimes when she bathed she would
finger the rough scar absent-mindedly. Her nose had healed back a little
crooked and her ribs still ached from time to time. This particular morning she
hoped her husband would sleep for a few extra hours. She placed her scarred
hands on her protruding belly and whispered gently, “My Child, this world you
are being born into is even darker than your skin will be. You have a cruel father
and a stupid, worthless mother. For your sake, I at least hope you are a boy.”
She got up, slipped into her clothes, put on her head scarf, and tiptoed out of
the house. She headed towards the market. It was an hour walk one direction, so
by the time she had arrived the sun was all the way above the horizon. Halima
loved the hustle and bustle of the bazaar because she could disappear. She felt
invisible, but in a way that made her feel powerful. She preferred being
invisible to being seen and despised. She liked the vivid colors that
surrounded the various booths, and the warm yellow light from the sun as it
climbed towards its throne high in the sky. This particular morning, however,
there was an uncharacteristic type of chaos going on in the center of the
market. As she drew nearer she wondered what was going on in the middle of the
big group of children. They all chattered excitedly in Swahili. Not one to make
her own presence known, Halima stood silently on the outermost edge of the
group, craning her neck to check out the action. All of a sudden, a tall, white
woman with long blonde hair stood up. She towered over the children, beaming
kindly down at them. She wore a beautiful blue and purple skirt that swept all
the way down to her ankles, and a white t-shirt with the picture of an elephant
on the front. Many little brown hands tugged at her skirt and shirt, and
reached up to touch her soft hair. Halima liked the look of the woman, but
began backing slowly and shyly away. The woman called softly towards her in
Swahili. “Come here, Beautiful!” she said. Halima giggled at her funny accent,
and continued backing away. “Where are you going?” said the woman, locking eyes
with Halima. She was shocked, because she would never have thought the woman
would be addressing her. She had forgotten that she was not actually invisible,
and no one in her whole life had ever called her beautiful. The woman caught up
to her in a few strides and squatted down to look Halima in the eyes. “Hello,
Beautiful,” she said sweetly. Halima wanted to laugh and cry all at once. She
was terrified yet jubilant.
“My name is Lana,” said the woman. “Lana,” repeated Halima in barely more than a
whisper. “What is your name?” questioned Lana. Halima shook her head. “I bet it
is a lovely name because you are very lovely.” Halima shook her head again and
tears came into her eyes. “Well then, I will just call you ‘Lovely’ until you
are ready to tell me your name,” chuckled Lana, stroking Halima’s brown face.
“Do you go to school, Lovely?” questioned Lana. Halima shook her head once
again. Halima hardly knew what a school looked like, much less been inside one.
Lana reached inside her bag and pulled out a notebook and a pencil. She
wrinkled her eyebrows and peered at Halima. Then she began to draw. Within ten
minutes Lana had drawn a picture of a beautiful little girl, with brown skin
and a slightly crooked nose. As she finished the shading Halima clapped and
said, “It’s beautiful! Who is it?” Lana frowned slightly and said, “Have you
never seen what you look like before, Lovely?” “Of course not!” replied Halima
immediately. “But my husband assures me I should be glad I can’t see myself. He
wishes he didn’t have to.” Lana looked shocked and said, “Your husband is
wrong, Lovely. You are stunning! This is a picture of you!” Halima sat on the
ground, looked up at Lana and tears began to pour from her sparkling brown eyes.
Then she looked down at her belly and stroked it gently. Lana plopped down
beside the weeping girl and wrapped her in a strong, warm embrace. Once Halima
stopped crying she said weakly, “I am Halima.” Lana smiled her biggest smile
yet and proclaimed, “I knew it! I knew it!” “What?” asked Halima, confused.
“Your name is beautiful! Do you know
what it means?” “No,” responded Halima. “It means gentle!” said Lana delightedly. “Halima, Halima, Gentle one,” Lana
chimed in a sing-song voice. Halima did not understand this beautiful white
woman. She was the only person who had ever noticed Halima with something other
than disdain. Lana clasped both of Halima’s hands in her own and said, eyes
twinkling, “I have to show you something!” She pulled out another book and
opened to a page somewhere in the middle. All of the pages were covered in tiny
black markings that Halima could not decipher. She had seen similar markings on
signs around the village, but did not know what to make of them. “Here!” said
Lana, pointing to one particular group of markings. “That is your name.” Halima
was puzzled. “How can that be my name?” she asked. “This book is full of
letters, and letters make up words. You can write down things that are said.
People can send messages, tell stories, and go on adventures just from learning
to read,” replied Lana. “I cannot learn to read,” said Halima despondently. “Why
not?” demanded Lana. “I am stupid…” declared Halima, hanging her head in shame.
Lana stood up to her full height and looked up at the sky for a moment. She
then looked down at Halima, her face sober and filled with pain. “Did your
husband tell you that too, Halima?” she questioned. Halima was silent. Lana
leaned down and whispered in her ear, “You are smart. I can see it in your
eyes. Your child will be smart and beautiful just like you. I will teach you to
read, and you will teach your child. That way you will be able to read the
world together.” “Read the world?” said Halima. “Yes, when you can read then
the world belongs to you. You can read it.” “Read the world…” echoed Halima in
wonder. For the first time in her life, Halima felt a warm, tingling sensation
rising from her toes and permeating her entire body. She beamed at Lana,
reaching out and linking her hand with the tall, white woman with a funny
accent. This must be what hope feels like, she thought. I like it
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Afterward:
Women and little girls all over the world, especially in impoverished areas,
face the same thing that little Halima faced. They fall prey to early marriage,
abuse, oppression, rape, prejudice, human trafficking and countless other
horrors. At the root of these terrors are countless causes, such as ignorance,
poverty, corruption, war, and violence. Another issue plaguing our world and
subjecting helpless and innocent people to the horror and cruelty of reality is
lack of education. Being able to read and write, especially in a Lingua Franca
(English, French, German, etc.), opens so many doors to the oppressed that
would otherwise be closed to them.
“According to the CIA World Factbook, almost 75% of the
world's 775 million illiterate adults are concentrated in ten countries (in
descending order: India, China, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nigeria, Ethiopia, Egypt,
Brazil, Indonesia, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo). Women represent
two-thirds of all illiterate adults globally. Extremely low literacy rates are
focused in three regions: South Asia, West Asia and Sub-Saharan Africa”
