It’s International Women’s Day, and we were heading out to a local organization where they were playing He Named Me Malala. Stephen was pulling around the motorbike when we heard shouting. I saw a woman running away from the community with her husband running behind her, with a machete-like knife raised over his head.
I remember shouting her name to Stephen, “It’s {name}! GO!” She’s been attacked before, and we spent a horrible evening at the hospital getting her head stitched up and helping her get the blood out of everything.
Stephen leapt off the motorbike and ran into the street, straight for the husband. I was right behind him, and as I exited the gate I saw her running, baby in arms, as he ran behind her and lifted the knife above her head. I screamed oh-so-loudly in a not-very-culturally-accceptable fashion.
Stephen grabbed him, pushed him back, and argued with him to go home, which he refused. I tried to corral all the women and children involved–two women, three children–further away. We made it in the gate and I managed to sit her down on a chair. Stephen pulled the gate shut with the husband outside.
He then dented our gate and shook it furiously while he stared over it at us.
And since it isn’t that much of a gate, we convinced them all to come inside. We shut the door behind us.
Seven of us sat inside. The young mother and her little one-year-old girl began to cry. The grandmother who lives next door had perhaps tried to help and ended up here, too, with her ten-year-old granddaughter and three-year-old grandson.
We cleaned up the wounds, which were very, very minor for what we’ve seen him do before; and for that I am thankful.
He was still shouting outside of the gate, and then made his way in to the door. We soon decided we needed something louder than the awkward silence and louder than him: enter The Lion King.
She went home later by choice. We’ve told her she could stay all night or she can come back any hour of the night, any day.
We missed He Named Me Malala, of course. We tried to crack jokes between ourselves of celebrating International Women’s Day in a much more grandiose fashion: We don’t need to watch Malala save the day when we live here!
But really, I want to cry. And I am.
This is why we have International Women’s Day. Because there are places, so many places around the world, where “just a little bit” of beating is okay. And one of those places is right here on our street.
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Earlier today I was talking with a friend in town about our work in the community. We’re over five years in and I’m still not sure how to say what we do. In some ways it’s a bit embarrassing: I feel like we do nothing. I feel like I don’t know how to put it into words.
We are present in the community, waiting for our presence to be needed.
That is an odd job description. I often feel I can’t defend it or tell you why I do it day after day.
Even tonight, as our presence was more needed than other nights, I feel a conflicting pull. A part of me wants to stay more than ever, because these are the homes that need love, presence, and hope. I am renewed in my resolve that this is worth it; this is why we’re here! Likewise, a part of me wants to throw in the towel even more now. I am suddenly aware of how small my presence truly is.
May His presence here be far greater than ours.
Praise the Lord! For it is good to sing praises to our God;
for it is pleasant, and a song of praise is fitting.
The Lord builds up Jerusalem; he gathers the outcasts of Israel.
He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.
He determines the number of the stars; he gives to all of them their names.
Great is our Lord, and abundant in power; his understanding is beyond measure.
Psalm 147:1-5