Change doesn’t always happen in grandiose gestures; it is a process. And in that process, there will be moments when we question if we are strong enough for the task before us. We may question whether the very talents that gave us the confidence to recognize a need will be the talents that carry us far enough to lead. We may question if we are on the right path or if we made a mistake somewhere in our journey and we’re biding our time before our aspirations dissolve right before our tired eyes. We may question why we are the way we are or wish we were someone else in hopes that a change within us will lead to the change we wish to see. We may question our very intentions and wonder if we were benevolent frauds after all.
And all of these questions, this desperation to make positive impacts, this anxiety, it can break you. But sometimes, it takes a small moment to transform the way we see ourselves fitting in the world. For me, that happened on a field visit to Gitega, Burundi.
For years, I’d been looking forward to the bumpy ride from Bujumbura, Burundi towards Gitega province. To the left, rolling hills stood tall sprinkled with banana and eucalyptus trees, mangos, and so many riches lay bare, hinting at the incredible resources Burundi has to offer. To the right, hands remained outstretched as our team cautiously approached the many speed bumps and potholes that lay waiting for us. Street vendors desperately hawked their goods through the windows of our car to earn enough money to support themselves and their families for the week, or at least for the night. Hordes more people sat and intensely scrutinized our car as it traveled through their quiet town. I wondered what their stories were; what went through their mind at the sight of our car. The scene jerked me out of my state of nervousness and excitement as I prepared to pass through the sites of my father’s upbringing and encouraged me to breathe for the rest of this ride through Burundi, my homeland.
At this point, I’d been in Burundi for barely one month; each day filled with new questions of whether, as a diaspora Burundian that was born and raised in North America, I was fit to make a change in this country. I’d visited the country before with my family for vacations, understood Kirundi, the language of Burundi that filled my home with warmth in the States even though I, myself, could not speak it, and felt like I knew what I was getting into when I applied for my Global Health Corps fellowship with CARE International Burundi. But on my first night, in a new neighborhood, a new house, a new bed, and darkness that was darker than the electricity situation I remembered from my visit five years ago, I laid my head to try and rest, broke down, and cried. I didn’t expect Burundi not to feel like home.
And most of all, I didn’t expect to long for connection and recognition.
Each field visit I embarked on, I worried that I couldn’t connect as strongly with our program beneficiaries. So as we mounted up narrower roads, nervousness trumped my excitement, which then turned to anxiety and wound itself tighter and tighter around my heart as I prayed things would go well this time. With a screeching halt, we reached the front yard of a clay home where a circle of women was beginning to form. My co-fellow and I are were there to interview some women of Nawe Nuze, a microfinance program CARE Burundi and its partners lead to foster economic, social, and political empowerment, and the active participation of Burundian women and girls in decision-making processes. The program aims to reach 282,000 women and 40,500 young girls, aged between 18 and 50, across 27 communes of Burundi.
Women hurriedly finished some tasks for their families and traveled to the impressively large home of their fellow solidarity group members to share how Nawe Nuze had affected their lives. The sense of camaraderie was palpable as women greeted and embraced each other like lifelong friends.
“Tugire Nawe Nuze.”
Those are the words that began each woman’s moment of sharing. It translates as an invitation for one to participate.
These women looked at me deeply, genuinely, and with a sincerity that so quickly unraveled the anxiety I’d been feeling during my voyage.
With each story, these women opened up and shared that for some of them the journey of Nawe Nuze wasn’t always an easy road. One woman recalled the difficulties she had in the beginning of her journey trying to sell ndagala, delicious small fish uniquely found in Lake Tanganyika. With words that felt meant for me, she quietly reminisced how she “just kept trying.”
And with the support of her solidarity group, her and many of the women present were able to reach higher earning potentials and positively impact their families.
She beamed and said, “My husband and kids can now rely on me to help support us.”
The personal connections made possible through this program not only helped these women earn more money for themselves and their families, it created a space for them to feel recognized and to voice their fears, their dreams. Through their participation, they reminded each other that they were not alone and were there for each other always in solidarity. One person’s troubles were not the burden of one but of the whole community.
As the interviews came to a close, my co-fellow and I asked if these women considered themselves leaders. People took some time and silence to compose their thoughts. And after a few moments, a woman commented, “People turn to us for help now because they see how much we have changed.”
One woman looked around to the solidarity group, her family, and asserted, “there are women that aren’t in Nawe Nuze for their own reasons, but we think every woman should embrace programs like this.”
With a twinkle in her eye and optimism of her future in Nawe Nuze, she added, “some women may not understand what we’re doing now but one day soon, they will.”
Another woman echoed the sentiment of her friend and shared, “if I have money, I’ll hire a bicycle driver to take me where I need to go. If not, I’ll go on foot. The length of the journey is not important. What we want is to talk to as many women as we can. They need to wake up.”
We began to gather our things, my smile beaming too hard for my jaw to handle at the community I’d just witnessed, when one more of the women spoke up before we left. She asked, “So, you’ve been asking us all of these questions, but I’ve been wondering something for the longest time.” How is it possible for a Burundian to not speak Kirundi?
It shocked me that this time, without shame, I earnestly told her my story. No wound up anxiety to be seen, just pride in being able to voice my story for myself in good company. At the end, she smiled, said thank you, and let us on our way. And yet again, before we could get back to our car, another shy, lovely women eagerly gave me a note with a phone number on it. It was for a Burundian she knew who lived somewhere in the States and she wanted me to say hi to him for her. I said I would and she looked at me with eyes that held more stories than I may ever know.
We’re all born with a desire to change things around us as well as a desire to be recognized. But it is in the small moments of connection that we realize how powerful those desires can be. The process that created a community for the women of Gitega took time and it was in sharing their once untold stories with each other they realized the power of the space they had built for themselves. While we are quick to say we want change, we are often blind to how we can build the spaces we envision. But in listening to each other, being there for each other — participating — the work we’re doing allows conversations that are difficult to have to come to fruition. And that is important. That, for me, is change.