Photos courtesy of author.
MatadorU student and contributor Linda Golden explains how the memory of a woman in Togo compels her to wake up early each Saturday.
It’s 7:20 on a Saturday morning.
Three couples huddle under the Louisville clinic’s awning, waiting for the doors to open. Across the property line, several protesters implore the clients to change their minds. “We love you.” “This is murder.” “There’s a heartbeat.” “Come with us, get a free ultrasound, look at your baby.”
Four escorts block the protesters, trying to shield the clients from camera phones and harassment. “Leave them alone.” “No one wants to listen to you.”
More protesters line the sidewalk, reciting the rosary. I wait across from the entrance, an orange-vested clinic escort in a wall of bowed heads. Praying men stand guard on either side of me, one holding a five-foot crucifix. I watch for clients.
At 7:20 two years ago, I would have just finished my morning run on Togo’s national highway. I was working on my English and health clubs, spending mornings at the local hospital and organizing a girls soccer tournament for International Women’s Day. For this last event, I had a committee of three women and three female students helping me.
This is how I met Zenabou.
In committee meetings, Zenabou spoke up, unhesitant about disagreeing with the older women. She regularly attended my clubs, including my Saturday morning running club. She showed the most promise on the soccer field. After we lost our first and only away game, she led the singing as we had consolation sodas with our victors. I hoped she would pass her middle school finishing exams and leave the village for high school, an accomplishment for any Togolese girl. For now, I was happy to have at least one strong player on the team.
It’s 7:35 and the clinic has finally opened. A group crosses the street, coming towards me. It’s a knot of orange vests, escorts and protesters posing as escorts surround the client, who blindly steers the group as she dodges unsolicited salvation through pamphlets thrust at her. I try to make eye contact, waving and smiling.
She heads left, unaware that I will move at the last moment to let her by, then do my best to shield her until she crosses the clinic’s property line. Flanked by praying protesters, my body creates too narrow a tunnel to provide much protection. This usually smooth operation devolves into a chaotic dance – the client goes one way, the escorts signal another, the protesters push, I step aside. The client gets in, but not without a lot of sidestepping and yelling.
Today, I feel weak.
A praying man who’s been inching into my space angrily tells my fellow escort to stop pushing him. A scuffle ensues, the praying man falls – a little too easily – and two older protesters stare down a female escort, trying to intimidate her with their height and masculinity. Intimidation is the game here, and I’m losing.
I fight with my face, and after the next client-escort-protester group has to force its way onto the sidewalk, I grab a replacement. There is nowhere to go to hide my tears of frustration, so I walk to the corner and stare up at the bare tree branches and gray sky, willing the tears behind my eyes.
“There are many reasons I wake up at 5:30 each week. But at least one of them is the memory of a laughing sixteen-year-old girl with her friends, kicking a soccer ball at dusk on a Togolese savannah.”
Tears in Togo are for children and the desperate, so I was happy to have a room to retreat to when my counterpart gave me the news. We were at an in-service training, and he approached me before breakfast.
“They brought Zenabou to the hospital last night, and she died.”
The news sent me back to my room, sobbing. When he told me later she’d swallowed pills to abort, I had to return to my room. Malaria, I could handle. Unknown causes. Meningitis. But self-induced abortion?
I should have known better.
Too late, I returned to my village and refocused my efforts on reproductive health education. I spoke to Zenabou’s father, who denied what I’d been told, probably because the imam had refused to say prayers for the man’s daughter. I spoke to a village elder, who said it was up to me to address the students. Others told me, “C’est la vie.”
That’s life.
Back on the corner, I take deep breaths and collect myself, then return to the sidewalk. The Hail Marys are winding down and most of the clients are inside the clinic. It’s 8:30, and I’m shaken, but I’ll be back next Saturday. And the following Saturday. There are many reasons I wake up at 5:30 each week. But at least one of them is the memory of a laughing sixteen-year-old girl with her friends, kicking a soccer ball at dusk on a Togolese savannah.
Community Connection:
How has travel changed the way you engage in your community at home? Send your stories to julie[at]matadornetwork[dot]com.
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26 Comments... join the discussion!
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What a breathtaking story!!! I have tears in my eyes…you are an inspirational person my friend.
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Thank you for this powerful story, Linda. As Leigh said, it’s honest and clear, but non-judgemental. Thank you for this piece and your courage.
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This is an incredibly powerful, brave, and provocative piece.
Thank you so much for sharing it! I look forward to reading more from you.
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This blew me away the second time reading it as much as the first. Powerful stuff.
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Thank you for sharing this, Linda. Powerful story, beautifully told.
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Wow! A great piece, brilliantly written.
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What great writing. Thank you for having the strength to put it out there. I admire your strength and conviction Linda.
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Thank you so much Linda for sharing this piece with us. Not only is it powerful as a personal story, one many can relate to from the standpoint of experiencing the unnecessary death of a loved on, but as a note about how connecting in and with the world can completely change our lives back home.
I admire you so much for your Saturday mornings.
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Powerful imagery, thanks for sharing.
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Intense and beautiful. Thank you.
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Beautifully written and thought provoking. Sometimes it’s not about agreeing with abortion, but agreeing with the fact that no one should have to make the choice between having opportunities or dying.
Also, go cards! (I’m from Louisville, too.)
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This brought tears to my eyes. Thank you for sharing.
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Thank you for your Saturday mornings and also thank you for your well written article. I wish to thank others who may read this for giving their Saturday mornings in support of the freedom of choice..
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This is so powerful, and heartbreaking, and brave. Thank you for sharing this with us.
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What a thought-provoking piece, on so many levels. The narrative’s structure, alternating between two different places, yet united by your experience, makes for compulsive reading. Thanks.
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Thanks for taking us along on this powerful ride, Linda!
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Such a beautiful and powerful piece, Linda! It had me in tears. Looking forward to reading more of your stuff.
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Very evocative and well-written piece! Thanks!
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Wow! Thanks everyone. I was nervous about first publishing this to my blog (which gets like, three hits and maybe a few more when I actually do MatU assignment), and more nervous about putting it out where there’s actually traffic. Relieved at what the response has been so far. I can do the Saturday mornings, but I can’t do the arguing that many people wish to engage in on the sidewalk (or the internet).
@Leigh – The “c’est la vie” was an incredibly frustrating response to hear, because actually, no, dying because you don’t know what to do with your pregnant self should NOT be life.
@Kate – I’ve only been in Louisville since September. I’d like it a lot more if it stopped snowing.
@Norma Boyd – I’ve directed escorts over here, so I hope they see your comment.
Finally, if anyone is interested, other escorts, some who have been doing this for years, blog at everysaturdaymorning.com.
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Of course! Your presentation of it, though, with no state judgment allowed that frustration to come through very powerfully.
Those folk who stand on their knees praying and shouting at others are an interesting bunch. I spent some time talking with and taking photos of a group of them who protested outside of a women’s clinic when I lived in Buffalo.
It amazes me how people feel that screaming and being abusive is God’s work. I suppose falling under the by any means necessary category?
By contrast, your understated actions and words ring far more clear and true.
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Wow. Linda this is an awesome piece. I’ve never seen a protest at a clinic so this was really eye opening. I can’t imagine how stressful it must be for the women who are trying to get in. I just kept thinking about how much more effective it would be for the protestors to work at crisis pregnancy centers, offer to help pregnant women financially, help arrange adoptions etc. if they actually wanted to lessen the number of abortions that happen. Statistics clearly show that abortion is more often an economic choice than a “religious” choice, and I don’t see how accosting pregnant women who are already making a difficult choice is going to prevent any abortions. Maybe the protesters scare them off, but then unfortunately they may resort to other ways.
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I pretty much agree with the other comments – powerful, intense, and moving. Thank you.
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Eye opening and beautiful writing. Thanks for this!
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When I read it on your blog I found it really moving but it’s just as powerful on the second read. Such an important story.
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Wow. This was a really powerful & moving piece. Thanks for sharing this.
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