Two months ago, I received an invitation to address a seminar hosted by Women Unlimited, a non-governmental organisation in Mbabane in the Kingdom of Eswatini. The seminar is meant to be a platform for knowledge-sharing on sexual and reproductive health rights and gender-based violence (GBV), in commemoration of the 16 Days of Activism against GBV. The international campaign runs annually from November 25.
I initially accepted the invitation but a few days ago, decided to excuse myself from the engagement. I subsequently excused myself from all engagements and have declined all invitations to address or participate in any related activities. This year, I am not participating in any activity related to GBV activism. It has taken me many months to be frank about the fact that I am emotionally and mentally exhausted of speaking, petitioning, protesting and even writing about GBV. I am tired.
Every year for the past 10 or so years, I have been engaged in some form of activism against GBV. When I matriculated in 2009, my first job was at a Cape Town NGO where we did a lot of media advocacy work on issues related to women – from structural violence to GBV. I worked in many other NGOs after that, doing work around women’s empowerment and liberation. As a student in university, I invested a lot of my time in activism. This continued even when I entered the labour market after graduating.
Just two years ago, I joined thousands of women who marched to the Union Buildings with the #TotalShutDown march that amplified calls to prioritise GBV. As a writer I have dedicated a lot of intellectual work to theorising and raising awareness of this scourge. And I do not seek to elevate myself above other feminists and activists, for they likely have done more and for a longer period. This, however, does not negate my personal subjective truth, and it is that I am tired.
Every year women in this country fight with everything we have, for our very lives. There is nothing that we have not done – from protesting to submitting all kinds of memoranda to government. We have done it all.
There is an expectation that as activists, we must not tire from doing this work, even as it is excruciatingly painful and trauma-inducing. People don’t seem to realise that for some of us, activism comes from a place of trauma. We are activists not only because we believe that the cause is just, but because we want to create a better society for our daughters than that in which we grew up. And so, every day we fight, we re-live trauma. Every day we engage in protests and activities against GBV, we remove plasters on bleeding wounds that still pain and haunt us. Our activism is not just political, it is personal. For women activists, the personal is truly political.
And yet despite how bruising it is, we continue to fight in a country where things are getting worse. Violence against women, despite all our efforts and the efforts of those before us, is getting worse. More women and children are being raped and brutalised. More women are being systematically excluded from the economy. It is a never-ending cycle of violence and brutality, and it has ramifications for our mental health which aren’t spoken about.
And so, at the risk of seeming insensitive, I am choosing my mental health. Audre Laude once said: “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”
Those words are meant for moments like these – moments when all the women in me are tired.
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