The Elusive Virtue of Suffering in Silence

Recently, in conversations with close girl friends we have realised that our discussions have shifted. The most part of our girl talks centre around the changes in our bodies and that of our partners, the impact of those changes on our lives and the health implications. We are surprised, yes, surprised, that getting old just creeps up on you and is a very personal, often unwelcome and sometimes indescribable experience. We are aged between 48 and 58 years old, are a bunch of informed, educated, well read, travelled and cultured girls. 

Do not get me wrong, we have never been this self centred and self preservation focused before. We have been there, done that and burnt the t-shirt. We still work harder and smarter and most of us within our collective are business owners. Amongst us a few have done our version of national service - development work, in country and abroad and some continue to do that. We are also very focussed on charity work, because there is a need out there, but most importantly because we derive a lot of joy from giving. Be that as it may, increasingly, we have realised that we have been gravitating more and more into the me-myself-and I-and my girlfriends space.

Some of our mothers are still alive and we were wondering why they never suffered the same ailments that are bedevilling us, never had the operations we have had from hysterectomies, liposuctions to gastric by-passes, never had to tattoo their eye lashes, never taken Prozac, never seen a shrink or even had Botox injections for non- surgical face lifts, yet they look wonderfully young in their 70's and 80's.

We have been asking, how come we did not know that age just creeps up on you like that and in a non- negotiable, very undemocratic fashion, arrests some of your most valued freedoms - like having a tiny waistline and flat stomach and not have to worry about wearing those dreadfully awful spandex tights, we have come to call bambazonke (hold every thing in and tight) - that you have always taken for granted, locks them up and literary throws away the keys.

So two of us with mothers alive, asked, why they never told us these very important ingredients of life so that we could have been better prepared. The mothers both said, they were raised in an era where, privacy was guarded at all costs and most importantly, you were meant to suffer in silence, in fact, there was pride and dignity enshrined in silent suffering. Certainly, a tall order for our girl friend collective.

Privacy, never mind its cousin silence are little known words in the days of our times. Living in a world supposedly signalling the end of privacy and confidentiality and giving rise to a new era of full disclosure, my girlfriends and I are surprised that even with the confines of a nuclear family, when we dare share the details of the body pain, itches or twitches we are experiencing, even our young adult children, with a high propensity for sharing on Facebook, twitter, google, Instagram and you tube, would complain, "Mom, you are sharing way too much information!" It turns out, that even the generation that puts much more of the "social" in social networking is much more discerning what personal information they want to hear...particularly if it is from their mothers.

Where does that leave us, we wondered. The obvious answer is, in the same situation, the same box as those who came before us, our mothers. But, perhaps our mothers bore the silence because their generation whilst ageing at the same pace as us were healthier and better prepared to remain silent.

We resolved that we were not going to be silenced. We were going to be heard, come rain or sunshine. We were not going suffer and die in silence. For us, the dignity and pride our mothers found in that, is elusive.

An anecdote on the ugliness of our helplessness in dealing with GBV.

The word Sorry has become such a misused and exploited word. You do something knowing very well the consequences and after the deed, you apologise. It is that easy, I guess. Mistakes do happen and apologies are made. But when the same person repeats the same mistake over and over again, it becomes a choice and the apology sounding like a stuck DVD, is insincere. When fully grown adults repeat the same undesirable behaviour and say the word, sorry, one more time, I feel abused, cheated and angry. When is a promise a promise worthy of honoring? 

Five months ago in July 2012, one of the workers, M, who live and work within our compound beat his wife, G, also an employee. We had a meeting with S the Supervisor and we expressed our dislike of one human being battering another, no matter the circumstances. M said he was sorry and promised that he would never do it again. I cautioned him that violence was against my very core as a human being. 

Fast forward to Dec 2012, M, beats again G, who is now 4 months pregnant. G misses four days of work because of the beating and M, tells me that G is sick because of the pregnancy. As we were at a client's place, I advised M, that it was not an issue I wanted to discuss then and we would discuss it at a later, more suitable time.

Meanwhile, I am completely enraged and decide to cool down for some weeks whilst I decide on a plausible course of action besides firing M. 

Eventually, I muster the courage to be 'reasonable' about an unreasonable situation and I call both M and G who are both on leave but present in my quarters to come for a meeting. I ask M what happened and he says it was not a beating. G maintains it was. I remain calm, for a bit. Then all of a sudden I completely loose all my marbles. I find myself outside of my skin looking at the performance of whatever bodily remains represented myself. M realises that this is serious and he says he is Sooooorrry. Again!

I climb back into my body, trying to maintain my composure and ask the perpetrator of the abuse to explain to me what it is that a fully grown adult capable of making a woman pregnant cannot discuss verbally and resolving without resorting violence. M, remains quiet. I ask if I am talking by myself and he mutters a faint and limp no.

I advise G to assess her options as a woman and think hard about the wisdom of choosing a life of violence having made it clear to them earlier that no self respecting person causes grievous bodily harm to another person they refer to as their loved one. G, stares at me. I do not know where it was stare of disbelief or surprise or she had just had her aha moment.

I confirm then, what I have always known, what I always feared, that it is unfair and unjust to impose my will on others, particularly those in a position of less power and influence than myself. G tells me that she is still unwell. I give her money to visit the clinic for a check up. I advise the couple to pack their bags and look for alternative accommodation elsewhere because I never want to have this conversation with them again on my premises. If they still want to work, they are welcome to, but I would be damned if I were to continue to have gender based violence (GBV) taking place within my compound.

They left yesterday and are both due to report to work on the 21st. So why am I still angry and outraged? Why do I feel violated when I am not the survivor of the violence? 

I believe I know the reason. It's my sense of helplessness that ushers in the rage. There was no lasting solution to the GBV. As a person raised by men in my family who admired, cherished, affirmed and dearly and unconditionally loved the girl child, I am at odds to understand GBV. It makes my temper flare up in a manner that scares me. I am, however delighted that I am not a gun totting and panga wielding person, otherwise, I would not have been responsible for my actions, particularly, that time, when I stepped out of my skin for a bit.

I feel helpless because there are no lasting solutions for women who are survivors of GBV. I personally do not believe in half way homes for the women. When they are reintegrated back into society, the societal and familial pressures force them to go back to their abuser. He is your husband, they remind them. To many people in this part of the world, marriage is an accomplishment and an achievement that must be aspired for. Most importantly, when women are poor, vulnerable and not economical empowered enough to be self sustaining for themselves and their children, not only do they make bad decisions, the basket of choices from which they can consider various options is just not available to them. So they stay and the GBV continues unabated.

I believe I made a stand, a selfish stand. I chose not to see and entertain GBV in my compound. That is all I chose to do, for now. I do not want to deal with it. It is time wasting and emotional draining on my part. I do not want to continue footing health bills associated with the GBV including their already compromised health. GBV in my compound is a distraction for me and interrupts my social and business life. I am fully aware that the posture I have taken is as ugly as the GBV itself. I have taken this posture for my personal sanity and self-preservation. In this incident involving M and G, the GBV is likely to worsen because the forced eviction from my free accommodation and other amenities is going to lead to an erosion of their economic circumstances and therefore the fights are going to escalate. I am unable to stop it and I know third time around, the GBV incident will be presented on doorstep of my compound. When that time comes, I will terminate both their employment. I believe it is easier to deal with GBV when the perpetrator and the survivor do not have a connectedness with your social (living in my compound) and business (M works as one of my valued welders/painters and G is a valued cleaner at the lifestyle centre) life.

Yes, GBV is one of the reasons why I find the S word overused, fickle and insincere. The human race has made phenomenal advances in science and technology and yet we still do not know how to live side by side with each other peacefully as human beings. I rest my case.