Adolescence in War and Peace – Its Seeds and Its Fruit

Chantal. I liked her name. It had a ring to it, delicate like the clinking of a spoon against a champagne glass. It sounded like 'chandelier', made me think of crystals and diamonds, like the ones that adorned the shimmering structure above my parents’ dining room table. I wouldn’t have had the language or perspective at twelve to understand these glittering associations as inappropriate or privileged, though I wasn’t entirely off the mark either.

Later I would learn about blood diamonds, wide-eyed as I read about the vast, sparkling mineral reserves embedded deep within mines throughout Chantal’s country – ‘blood’ because of the widespread bloodshed caused by illicit trade and exploitation by international corporations acting through rebel groups. I would learn how the struggle for control over mineral-rich areas had caused the death and displacement of millions and left the entire region destabilised, and I would also learn how global demand for these minerals – used in everyday electronics like smartphones and laptops – ensured that the illegal trade continues (you can learn more about conflict and our work in the DRC here.)

As I read and re-read her letter, it dawned on me that she was my age – twelve – when she became a mother. Trying to make sense of that fact was like being told that I was not, in fact, a twiggy schoolgirl, but a muscled, fearsome warrior. I surveyed my own life for anything that might be suggestive of motherhood, came up empty. At the time, our radical difference in circumstance made it seem like we were on different planets. It took some growing up to appreciate that we are more similar than different, and that that is what makes our connection one of solidarity, rather than charity. 

Chantal had included a photo with her letter. I had never seen a face like that before. Her features were elegant but worn, weary. Now, I might call it life-battered; at the time, all I knew was that she looked much older than her years. The years accumulate differently in places where suffering is dense.

The seeds had been planted, and when it was time for university they burst through the soil. I remembered Chantal and her twelve-year-old motherhood, her beautiful face worn down with the violence of blood diamonds and the greed of men. I decided to study global health and development.

Then, I was 22, looking for a job. Ten years after the discovery that set me on the path, I wound my way back to the Women for Women International website. They had rebranded. The new logo – sleek, more polished – didn’t wink at me like the previous one had. Perhaps it didn’t recognise me. But as I moved through the site and saw once again the faces of the powerful women that had initiated my adolescent self into a world much bigger than my own, a familiar warmth returned. I knew this was where I belonged.

There was a vacancy in the Marketing and Communications team, and I applied. In the four years since, I have accompanied the organisation as it rebranded its classic sponsorship model in an effort to decolonise language away from outdated notions of ‘rescuing’ and towards a more equal stance of solidarity. I have written solicitation letters like the one I intercepted from my parents over a decade ago. I have encountered countless stories like Chantal’s from all over the world and worked with dedicated colleagues to weave them into compelling cases for support, moving people from sympathy to action (you can sign up to stand with a woman survivor of war like Chantal here.) And though I have come to learn about suffering and bravery from many parts of the world, the DRC will always have my heart.

Adolescence is not just a punishment, though it can often feel that way. It’s a golden opportunity – and when girls in conflict-affected countries are supported at this critical juncture, they can not only thrive, but they can become powerful agents of change in their communities.

Chantal’s daughters have grown up now, and I like to imagine that because of the knowledge, skills and support their mother gained from the programme, they entered into adulthood on stronger footing. I like to imagine that they are out there carving very bright futures, even as violence in the DRC continues – futures that involve education, equality and empowerment.

Perhaps it is self-aggrandising to imagine that 12-year-old me made a difference that rippled into the next generation. It is easy to feel as though we have no real power as individuals, especially as the cynicism of adulthood gradually dims that hopeful, helpful quality inherent in youth, and the planet rattles with crisis after crisis. It is certainly easier to think that and do nothing than to make the effort to do what you can, however small. All I know is that after four years of working in communications at Women for Women International, the phrase “ripple effect of change” is embedded inside my skull like a tattoo, and I have heard enough stories from the countries where we work to believe it to be true.

I know now that many of the women who join our programme do go on to become powerful changemakers. I know now that the mothers among them do pass their knowledge onto their children, so that they can build their lives on a stronger foundation. And I know now that it means everything to these women to know that someone across the world – though separated by geography and circumstance – cares about them enough to invest in their future.

I go forward with well-evidenced certainty that if every person were to claim the small power they do have, this blue world – in its beauty, madness and bewildering complexity – can be transformed into a place that allows everyone to realise their potential. For that emboldening belief, I have one woman to thank.

After changing the course of my life, Chantal ended her letter with I don’t have much to say. I will always be humbled by that radiant humility; I will always remember that grace.