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Zimbabwe’s women-only rangers
ZIMBABWE’S WOMEN - ONLY RANGERS fight poachers and poverty
By Farai Shawn Matiashe By the Thomson Reuters Foundation, the charitable arm of Thomson Reuters, that covers the lives of people around the world who struggle to live freely or fairly.
Sharai Tunhira frowns with focus as she runs through drills with her all-female patrol team – each woman armed and ready for the many men they catch poaching wildlife in their corner of northern Zimbabwe. Despite the risks of the job, she says joining the military-style unit has given her the chance to protect the wildlife she loves while also earning a decent livelihood in a rural area where many poor women struggle to make ends meet. “Here I am occupied and empowered. I do not depend on a man to survive,” said Tunhira, 25, who joined the team in 2021 after years eking out a living as a cleaner and vegetable seller. The Akashinga unit – aka ‘The Brave Ones’ in the Shona language – says it aims to change the face of conservation as the country’s first armed, all-women anti-poaching unit. One in five African rangers is female, according to a 2016 World Wildlife Fund survey of 570 rangers, though the continent has a handful of female teams including South Africa’s Black Mambas and The Lionesses rangers in Kenya. Established in 2017 by Damien Mander, an Australian ex-commando, Akashinga has since grown to a total of 200 heavily-armed rangers who patrol eight reserves in the Lower Zambezi Valley under contracts with three district councils. Military-style units such as Akashinga are controversial. Some conservationists have said armed rangers using battle tactics have harmed and intimidated local residents in wildlife areas and fail to tackle the root causes of poaching. Akashinga is part of the International Anti-Poaching Foundation (IAPF), a non-profit founded in 2009 by Mander. The IAPF says the unit focuses on protecting wildlife via community engagement, from improving sanitation to creating jobs. Mander said IAPF did initially focus on defending the area it protected but such criticism is outdated, with a shift to recognising conservation as a social issue that involves educating and empowering the community. “We used to be an organisation that was extremely law enforcement focused … We had helicopters, drones and military hardware,” he said.
“We do not have that now. This is less antagonistic.”
Having women as rangers “generally de-escalates tension”, said Mander, while teams that work in their home communities help foster productive relationships with residents. The IAPF says since 2017, Akashinga rangers have made more than 300 arrests without firing a shot and helped drive an 80% downturn in elephant poaching in the Zambezi Valley, while wildlife sightings are up by almost 400%. Its figures could not be independently verified but Ability Gandawa, lawmaker for Hurungwe North, which includes the Phundundu Wildlife Park, said animal sightings had increased. “I am impressed by their solid effort to educate the community not to hunt wildlife,” he said. “The effort has since made it possible to significantly reduce poaching in my area.” What is not in doubt is the benefit to the women rangers, who include survivors of domestic abuse, child brides, and girls who dropped out of school. Rangers earn the equivalent of between $300 and $1,500 per month, a good salary in a country where teachers earn an average of $120 per month. “I had no idea that I would work in a formal setting as most jobs are for educated people,” said Tunhira, cradling a rifle, describing how her family could not afford for her to finish school. Margaret Darawanda, 24, another ranger and a single mother to a three-year-old daughter, recalled life prepatrol when she depended on her mother, herself a poor farmer. “The opportunity of becoming a ranger came when I needed it the most,” she said. “I am now able to look after my mother, my child and my community,” she said, her sights now set on university. The IAPF aims to grow Akashinga to 1,000 rangers protecting 20 nature reserves by 2026.Some said the unit gave them a safe haven after fleeing abuse, and a sense of solidarity as they support each other. Esther Goboza, 22, applied to join the rangers to escape an abusive marriage. Her husband, in a bid to stop her from becoming a ranger, burnt her national identity card, a requirement for the job application. “They gave me the opportunity. My husband even came to the training camp to take me home but I stood my ground,” said Goboza, who is now divorced. Tracy Mukuni, 32, quit her police job to join the unit as a trainer because she wanted to support other working women. “It was about my passion to help my fellow women to achieve their goals,” said Mukuni, a sergeant instructor who trains rangers in fitness, bush survival skills and ethics. “Out there they come face to face with armed poachers who are strong … These women need to be brave and skilled to protect wildlife. They also need to look after each other.”
IS MEDICALISATION THE NEW ANTI-FGM CAMPAIGNS MENACE?
- By Caroline Mwangi
In December 2012, the United Nations General Assembly through consensus, adopted their first resolution i.e., resolution A/RES/67/146, to ban FGM worldwide. This resolution reflected the universal agreement that, FGM constitutes a violation of the human rights of girls and women, a position that has been widely supported by stakeholders that campaign against FGM.
Additionally, most literature on FGM bear the stamp of acquiescence that, whether practiced traditionally or at the hand of qualified medical practitioners, there are no health benefits of FGM. Yet, medicalisation of FGM is becoming a major concern in countries where FGM is traditionally practised and in countries of migration such as the United Kingdom, United States and Sweden. (Matanda & Lwanga,2022; Leye et al, 2019). UNICEF (2020) reports that, about 1 in 4 girls i.e., 26% or 52 million survivors who have undergone FGM worldwide, were cut by medical practitioners. The numbers are twice as high among adolescents, with 34% being adolescents between the ages of 15 and 19, compared to adult women between the ages of 45 and 49, who account for 16% of these prevalence rates. In countries where it is traditionally practised, the prevalence rates are increasing at an alarming figure, despite increased legislation against the practice. These include Egypt 38%, Sudan 67%, Kenya 15%, and Nigeria 13%, (UNICEF,2021. The prevalence rates in these countries continue to rise except Nigeria.
So, what is medicalisation of FGM?
This term has been defined by UNFPA (2018) as situations where FGM is practiced by any category of health professionals, whether in public, private, at home or elsewhere. It further includes reinfibulation (i.e., resuturing after delivery or gynaecological procedures of the scarred tissue resulting from infibulation) at any point in time of a woman’s life. Health practitioners who undertake medicalisation as highlighted by WHO (2010), may include trained traditional birth attendants (TBAs), nurses, clinical officers, midwives, gynaecologists, physicians and assistant physicians, plastic surgeons, and other personnel both in the public and private health care sectors. These medical personnel may either be undergoing training or working in the health sector or retired. Medicalisation of FGM is often promoted to minimize the health risks associated with FGM, through access to health care services. It is thus perceived as a harm reduction strategy. It also gives way for symbolic types of cutting where, severe forms of FGM are replaced with symbolic cutting. Proponents of this concept argue that increased medicalisation highlights the risks of FGM, which in turn leads to the decrease in the prevalence of FGM. They further contend that medicalisation is an intermediate step towards the long-term goal of ending FGM. Hence, they propose that, reducing FGM to a physical procedure performed at health facilities, reduces its visibility or the likelihood to elicit discussions within the community, which in turn reduces the social influence or control on community members, (Ve Nina et al, 2020). However, this proposition in my view, underestimates the significance attached to FGM as a cultural norm, by practising communities. As Leye et al (2019) correctly puts it, even though medical practitioners might be able to reduce the immediate effects of cutting such as severe pain, bleeding, and infections, it is unlikely that they would prevent the long-term consequences of FGM, particularly the mental effects FGM has on survivors, (Leye et al, 2019). There are various studies that indicate that majority of survivors of FGM/C have reported mental health problems and emotional disorders such as: post traumatic health disorder, severe depression, and anxiety, (Knipscheer et al 2015; Eisold, 2015). Further, since there is no medical justification for FGM or any perceived health benefits of the practice, medical practitioners who perform FGM violate girls’ and women’s rights which include: the right to life, the right to physical integrity, the right to health, the right to non- discrimination, the right to be free from cruel, inhuman, or degrading treatment and the right to be free from violence. Medicalised FGM may seem like an appropriate and a safe response to FGM, particularly, where it is believed that health practitioners would address the health risk associated with FGM. However, the fact remains that the practice involves the damage or removal of normal, healthy tissue and interferes with the natural functioning of girls’ and women’s bodies. More on this article, please follow this link: https:// mojatu.com/2022/11/15/is-medicalisation-the-newanti-fgm-campaigns-menace/
BRITISH NEW DIVORCE LAW IS BAD FOR AFRICAN MARRIAGES
IN THE UK- By Peter Makossah
The silence is deafening. A pair of inquisitive hazel eyes stares down at him as he fiddles idly with a strand of his dreadlocked hair dangling across his forehead. He takes a deep breath and sniffs loudly: “Oh, my God!” He curses himself as he saunters down the Upper Parliament Street past a shabby red brick building with a sooty roof. James Mashingaidze, 46, of Bulwell in Nottingham but originally from Mutare in Zimbabwe, is noticeably lost, in his mind. And on his face. His spirits are visibly low, and despite the early morning sunlight, Nottingham City Centre looks tired and unwashed. The pale sun seems only to accentuate the yellowing net curtains, cobwebby windows, and faded paintwork - a quick reminder that the legendary ‘Robinhood City’ has existed for centuries. He looks above, but the shops’ rooftops have nothing else to offer; the stucco and brickwork were scarred and scattered. His wounds, suffered in the marriage blitz, still startlingly clean and fresh in his heart. “Why can’t I be free from this bondage?” he yells at himself. Mr Mashingaidze, who is a psychologist, is aware that whatever he decides, it would lead inevitably to further decisions and actions - and most importantly some legal complications - each creating a ripple effect through his life. “Love hurts. And when it does, the best way is to move on than being a prisoner,” he considers. “Living with someone you love is sweet but being in a loveless marriage is hell.” Mr Mashingaidze complains that he is trapped in loveless marriage as the previous archaic divorce law compelled him to stay on with his wife because she has no fault in the eyes of the law. Under the previous family law, Mr Mashingaidze would have to wait for five years before divorcing his wife of ten years and mother of his three children but under the new law it will take just a short time. “I expected the court to understand that the only reason I married my wife was that, at that time, I loved her. Now, the reason I want to divorce her is that I no longer love her. It is that simple”, he claims. “If love was the reason I married her, then lack of it should be a reason enough to ‘unmarry’ her,” says Mr Mashingaidze in a matter of fact-tone. Mr Mashingaidze’s wife (name withheld) 43, is challenging the divorce arguing her husband is incapable of interpreting her needs accurately. “My husband’s neglect of me through unexplained prolonged absence from home continues to produce indescribable solitude and a sense torture. I have done nothing wrong to be divorced”, she said. She exclaims, “James told me in my face he did not want to be with me anymore. I asked him; ‘what has happened to our ‘until death do us part’ vows.’ He didn’t reply.” The Family Court district judge dismissed Mr Mashingaidze’s divorce petition because he has failed to satisfy the court with set reasonable grounds to warrant a dissolution of the marriage. However, divorce laws in England and Wales are set to change. The new divorce law, which came into effect in May this year will sweep away the legal principal that one should be at fault for adultery, unreasonable behaviour, and desertion. The reforms to change family laws in the UK follow years of campaigning by legislators, lawyers, and judges. Under new legislation, brought forward by the “Conservative” Government in 2020, a person will be able to simply walk away from their marriage, no reason given. Vitalis Ngadi, a family lawyer based in Derby says, “in an African setup, when one marries, they marry the whole family, the whole church or mosque and the whole community and, therefore, you cannot just wake up one morning and decide that you don’t want your wife or husband anymore”. Nottingham North Labour MP Alex Norris says, “I’ve listened to both arguments and firmly think a no-fault divorce is much safer and easier.”
Pastor Emmanuel Mbetewa, a senior minister at Citadel International Church in Nottingham City Centre says marriage is commissioned by God and the vows people make during wedding ceremonies, they make them with God and not the courts.
Sheikh Ibrahim Khadri Bin-Omar, a Muslim cleric based in Mapperley says, “divorce should not be made easier as this will make people walk away from their families and in the end, it will be the children who will suffer the consequences.” Please follow the link to read more: https://mojatu. com/2022/11/02/british-new-divorce-law-is-bad-forafrican-marriages-in-the-uk/
Penda did not feel worthy of a seat at the table with the fifteen religious leaders she found herself nervously sitting across from, seven of them Christian, eight of them Muslim. “I didn’t think it was possible for me to go near a church,” she recalls. “I didn’t even think that I could have a conversation with a religious leader.” Yet in 2014, Penda, a masculinepresenting lesbian, found herself in conversation with these faith leaders, all of whom believed that homosexuality is evil. But this was no ordinary conversation. At Penda’s side were three other people: a Kenyan gay man, a sex worker and someone living with HIV. None of the faith leaders knew these details. That information was held back until the right moment presented itself. The forum was part of a strategic faith engagement session organized by Persons Marginalized and Aggrieved in Kenya (PEMA Kenya), a sexual and gender minority group in the coastal city of Mombasa. In Kenya, where the LGBTQ community is a frequent target of conservative religious leaders, PEMA Kenya takes an unusual approach: it works to ‘convert’ faith leaders to the gay rights cause by introducing them to LGBTQ people, face-to-face, to build empathy, compassion and understanding. The carefully orchestrated encounters require the utmost care. “We don’t aim to ‘sensitise’ religious leaders,” says Lydia Atemba, a member of the faith engagement team. “We also prepare and equip our community to participate in dialogue with them. We try to bridge the gap on both sides.” The five-day event was ostensibly to discuss barriers to health care faced by marginalised people who have HIV. For the first three days of the forum, no explicit mention of homosexuality was uttered. “We [then] brought other queer members into the sessions and they spoke with the religious leaders,” says Pastor McOveh, a queer pastor who helps to facilitate the program. Penda was one of them. Now 44, she calmly shared her experience as a lesbian living in Mombasa. She described to them how she was verbally abused, and how she had been forced to sever ties with her spirituality because of faith leaders preaching anti-gay violence and discrimination. She says sharing her personal story was surprisingly effective. The faith leaders’ beliefs weren’t instantly transformed, but, she says, “I think I saw a lot of compassion in some of them.” She was right. One of the conservative religious leaders in attendance that day was Pastor John Kambo. A pastor at the Independent Pentecostal Church of Kenya, Kambo was well known for his public attacks on the LGBTQ community. He once declared that “the gender and sexual minorities, especially in worship places, are cursed sinners and will go to hell.” This wasn’t Kambo’s first PEMA session. The organisation had been holding discussions with him for four years, gradually drawing him onto their side. “It was just follow-up meetings – continuous engagement overtime [to] change the way [he] sees things,” recalls Ishmael Bahati, PEMA Kenya’s executive director and co-founder. During this period, Kambo began reflecting on what the Bible says about love. According to transcripts from PEMA Kenya, he ultimately said that “continuous participation in these trainings opened my mind and I realised that we are all human beings.” The meeting with Penda was his last as an outsider – afterwards, he joined PEMA Kenya as an active, dedicated member, and remained one until his death last month. In the end, Kambo became an unlikely friend to the queer community. He underwent PEMA’s Training of Trainers, which taught him how to carefully discuss LGBTQ concerns with his fellow faith leaders. But his conversion came at a price. He was excommunicated from the church for three years, and his marriage hit the skids. He continued to be an ally, however, and in 2018 he became the first religious leader to be nominated as a Human Rights Defender by the National Coalition of Human Rights Defenders. That same year, Kambo invited Pastor Benhadad Mutua Kithome to a PEMA discussion. “PEMA Kenya produced good notes, and they were helping us very much,” Kithome says of that meeting. “Some pastors were not agreeing with them – they were just agreeing with what the scriptures say. But because of this training, some pastors, especially me, came to understand.” Athumani Abdullah Mohammed, an Islamic teacher whose view of queer people changed gradually after partaking in a PEMA session in 2018, had a similar experience. “When I got a chance to engage, it was not easy because I work with conservative organisations,” he says. “The whole gospel I was hearing was against ‘these people,’ as they called them. I thank my brother Ishmael because he was so persistent. He brought me on board. The funny thing is, the first meeting we held was not a good meeting. I was so against everything they were saying, but he saw something in me which I couldn’t see by myself. And he kept on engaging me. “Now, I learned to listen and I opened myself to listen. I listen to what I want to hear — and what I don’t want to hear.”
THE GROUP TURNING RELIGIOUS LEADERS INTO LGBTQ RIGHTS CRUSADERS
By Tolu Olasoji
