Helping Our Girls Heal

I grew up hearing this story from my siblings. Our oldest sister schooled eight hours away from home. Being the first, she had been asked to stay back and complete her school at the Government Girls College, Gajiganna. Father’s transfer from Borno to Jos had come almost unexpectedly. And being one who despised changing schools for children, except under pressing need, he compelled her to stay back in Borno to complete her school, suppressing the only fear that parents nursed then—the fear of distance.

Her coming back for holidays used to be like a return from pilgrimage; her home entry a triumphant one. A private car was always hired to pick her up in Maiduguri. Her younger ones would line the walls of their room with colorful card board papers etched with words like: welcome back sis; Jos is cold. They swept and cleaned. These they did while Mother prepared the type of meal you ate on New Year’s Day. Father and Mother anticipated her return to warm up to her. To constantly remind her that leaving her to school thousands of miles away from home wasn’t unkind. It was a belief in the school and trust in the state. My other siblings, however, wanted to see her to trade memories. Of friends they left back in Borno. Of how much grasshoppers my sister ate, and if stand storm had scooped any body’s child away. She left Gajiganna with gratitude. There, she met her best friend with whom they still hang out. Her joyful stories must have inspired Father to further send his two sons and a cousin to school at the University of Maiduguri.

I called my sister to hear her opinion when the Chibok girls were abducted. There was silence, a clear-cut one that I could hear her daughter, my little niece, giggling in the background. It was then followed by a despaired voice. A voice that spoke volumes. It could have happened to anybody, she said. I have a daughter and can only imagine it better. I hung up and wondered if we would have had the best of her had she been abducted and returned; if she would have ever had any gleeful stories to share.

The Chibok girls are sisters and daughters. While they may not have been schooling far away from home, they had people waiting on them. They had stories to tell about Chibok and friends and life. The foot path they trod to school; the boys who made them giggle; their aspirations for higher institutions. But those stories, it seem, may now be blurred by sheer callousness.

Bring back our girls is now trending, globally. The clamor amazes and inspires me. How interesting that the world is indeed watching. It gives me hope that the girls, by some mission possible, will be rescued and brought back home. But I am also worried. I am worried that the girls may not be able to unloose the terror wrapped around them by Boko Haram. This terror, like post traumatic stress disorder, may plague them to a blind, obscuring their visions of joyful past memories. Yes! They will tell stories. But I hope where these stories would emanate from would not leave them paranoid and withdrawn for a disturbing long time.

Only time heals, they say. But I also understand that we need someone, astute and patient, to constantly remind us that we are waiting to be healed by time. Chibok is a sleepy town; Borno is displaced. I doubt if such persons, discerning and settled, will be on ground to help these girls heal when they are rescued and returned home.

So when next we raise placards or hash tag bring back our girls, we should also remember that our girls will be brought back hurt. This may not be a physical injury. But it sure will be one that might take time to get healed. Are we ready, fellow activists, to take our protests off the streets and clamor off twitter to help these girls heal? They may have spent weeks in the forest. They will spend more time learning to recount better stories. Only our continued shared efforts will help them remember how beautiful the world used to be, and still is.