Bullying dominates many discussions lately. A new movie, numerous public service announcements, and various campaigns to stop the madness have caught my attention. I feel the need to figure out how to stop it – because it is senseless violence against innocent people. All this has brought home a childhood experience related to bullying.

In the 5th grade, my family moved from Lee’s Summit, Missouri to Ruskin Heights – a suburb of Kansas City. My mother enrolled me into the Stuart Symington Elementary School. A new building, I recall and all the children looked alike. During my first recess, I noticed very quickly that there was a playground bully. Perry Sewell was a big kid that enjoyed intimidating the boys and chasing the girls. On the second day of school, he brushed by me and gave me an intimidating bump on the arm that was a warning – “Don’t mess with me.” So, I didn’t. By the fourth day, however, I could no longer ignore his comments and aggressive behavior.
That evening, as was my habit, I accompanied my father to his workshop in the garage. I told him I thought I would have to fight Perry Sewell and why. My dad, part of the “greatest generation” – the generation that fought World War II, asked me if I had any other choice. “No”, I said. “I don’t think I can beat him and he is going to beat me up.” My dad was quiet for a long time and then said, “You may not be able to beat him son, but you can stop him.” I asked how? My dad showed me a very slick move that would allow me to get Perry Sewell into a headlock and never let go. My dad said, “You must move very fast and you must surprise him. Once you have him in the headlock, squeeze tightly and when you feel him relaxing, and you feel up to it – hit him in the face with your free hand. Don’t let go!” He went on to say, “As long as you hold on son, he won’t be able to escape – Hold On!”

The next day at morning recess, without any hesitation, I walked up to Perry Sewell and wrapped my arm around his neck and squeezed as tightly as I could. I had him – he could not escape. Twice, he relaxed and twice I punched him in the face with my free hand. By the time the teachers broke us up, he was crying like a baby. I was sent to my classroom and Perry Sewell was sent to the nurse.

About a half hour later, I was summoned to the principal’s office and as I walked in I could see my mother. She had a slight grin on her face, but I knew I was in trouble. The principal said in no uncertain terms, “Jimmy, they may have allowed fighting at your previous school but we don’t allow it at Symington Elementary.” He then issued this warning, “The next time you are in a fight, you will receive five swats from this paddle.” The paddle was made of oak and had holes in it to prevent wind resistance as it moves towards your butt. “Do you understand?” he asked. “Yes sir,” I responded. “You may go back to your class.” As I moved toward the door, he said, “Jimmy, by the way, thanks.” I was a little confused, but my mom explained later that I had done him and the rest of the school a favor by silencing Perry Sewell. And silence him it did. When he saw me on the playground, he would run away. My classmates all appreciated my intervention; I never saw Perry Sewell bully another kid

While I am not proposing my solution as a model, I am suggesting that we must do more to inform and empower the children in our schools to do their own interventions. Depending on adults to solve these issues is unrealistic. To be sure, we need clear punishments, we need zero-tolerance policies, and we need interventions that remove the conditions that invite bullying. We need teen courts to adjudicate these infractions – often more severe than adult courts. However, empathic and bold action by peers when they see bullying will silence the young “thugs” that think they can get by with it. Peer pressure is an important piece of any anti-bullying campaign. Peer mediation programs, conflict resolution strategies, use self esteem building programs, and create an environment where it is simply “un-cool” to intimidate or threaten your peers. There are strategies that work and nobody should have to face this challenge alone.

Use these strategies and teach your kids that it is a good thing to side with the persecuted and abused. Tell them to collectively speak out against the bully and if all else fails – try the headlock.

1. A geographic area shared by Muslims and Christians is experiencing famine.  It is an area that has historically produced conflict among competing religious and tribal interests.  The conflict has been so intense that the Muslim majority has denied the Christian minority access to water and food. There is a climate and culture of suspicion and persecution.
2. A relief agency aligned with a Christian community sets up a food distribution center that works closely with the Muslim leadership to determine food distribution for those with the greatest need.  Many, if not most of the beneficiaries are Muslim.
3. Recognizing the generosity of the Christian community and their willingness to share their food largess with Muslims, the Muslim chief of the community declares that the Christians will never again have to beg for water.
4. The Christian relief agency responds by putting a water pump in the river to set up a sustainable agriculture project to be used by Muslims and Christians.

The net result of these actions is less conflict, greater understanding, and a willingness to share resources to meet the challenge of the famine and respond to the needs of the entire community.  The overarching need for food and water in a famine stricken area supersedes the bias and conflict that has defined the region.

This is compassion as conflict resolution.  A common enemy, in this case, hunger facilitates cooperation and collaboration to address the issue.  Recently, in Haiti, I saw a medical relief organization organize communities around the needs for general health interventions.  Working with Protestants, Catholics, Voodooists, and sectarians, they organized a broad-based community effort to build, staff, and supply a clinic to meet the needs of this rural community. This had been a community rife with conflict and antagonism.  No longer, the act of building the clinic created a climate of collaboration defined by integrity, mutual interest, and concern for their neighbor.  This was a collaborative act that produced a unified response to a common need – health.

The four legged stool of this strategy is as follows:

1. The need must transcend tribal, religious, political or ethnic definitions.  It must be universal and overarching.
2. Collaborate on the strategy to meet the need or concern and emphasize a unified approach that gives each group a defined task and responsibility.
3. Share resources and products with all beneficiaries.
4. Invite transparency and collaboration around the mutual resolution and mutually celebrate the outcomes. Establish covenants for future collaboration

Again, the net affect or outcome is less conflict and more dialogue. Acts of compassion and collaboration and the need to respond to an overarching community need moves groups beyond conflict and into conflict resolution.  Acts of compassion vs. educational strategies for conflict resolution hold the greatest promise for collaborative development.

Unfortunately, as with many things in the Church – it is a myth of convenience.  In other words, we preach it, or we use it when we talk about compassion, or speak of global outreach and evangelism.  Yet, when it comes to “doing” compassion or “doing” the outreach, we are rather parochial.  We are universal in theme but balkanized in implementation.  The cultural anthropologists and the missiologists in our community would say that is appropriate.  After all, you have to account for cultural diversity and communities of distinction based on race, geography, and gender.  All this when the entire globe has a smart phone.

The Church of the northern hemisphere must be careful not to overreach in its work with the southern hemisphere.  Or for that matter, the southern hemisphere should not overreach in its work with the north.   Language of the body of Christ disintegrates in the face of control and power discussions.  Recently, I participated in a discussion about how to limit the capacity of a community because of fear that the community might be overly influenced by “outside” thinking.  Forget the body of Christ discussion, it was who is in charge that dominated the exchange.  All of this of course is safely couched in the language of accountability.  Yet, I find accountability to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.   Authentic accountability builds capacity in a spirit of love and grace – disingenuous  accountability is about being sure you know who is in charge.

A client of mine, not from my religious tradition, was recently chastised because a donor contributed resources outside the mainstream channels of giving.  The fear of leadership was that this would circumvent accountability.  No, what it really circumvents is control.  The body of Christ would acknowledge that a gift from one of the members of the body is probably a good thing, especially if it achieves “kingdom” goals.  The reality behind that myth – it is a good gift if the institution can control it; if it is not a threat to the rest of the body; and alas, does not have cultural trappings that exerts external control.  All legitimate concerns, but understand what is at work here – not accountability but power.

The myth of the global church will move from myth to reality when we can acknowledge that it is the spirit of trust and grace that knits this body together.  Just maybe we can learn from each other and recognize that gifts are diverse and the body is made up of many parts with many roles and functions.  We must still be one body.  However, these things are difficult to change.  Colonialism is a bad thing regardless of who is exercising the power.  And by colonialism, I mean autocratic control from one source exercised over another source claiming some sort of sovereignty.    This is not about the British, the Spanish, or the Portuguese any longer.  This is about us and our need for power.  Paternalistic control is still control regardless of its source.

We should put down the reins of power and open our hands to each other as brothers and sisters working side by side in a helping community regardless of our country of origin, our race, our gender, or tradition.  For when you cling tight fisted to the reins of power and control, it is difficult to use your hands for compassion and charity.  The Global Church is the Church that recognizes that truth.

I work with youth on development and employment projects in Kenya, Swaziland, Rwanda, Uganda, and Ethiopia.  I often travel to remote villages and share milky tea and bread with villagers whose primary objective that day is to find food and water.  We work together to build capacity so the search for food and water becomes secondary to sustainable work or agriculture that will secure their families.  When I see the faces of these friends and colleagues – I cannot escape the disconnect.

I have moved beyond the white man’s guilt or burden and do not see myself as white, American, or educated.  When in the presence of my African colleagues and friends, we come along side each other as individuals and often share meals, laughter, frustration, and work.  To be sure, many of them see me as another Mzungu (Swahili for white person) who should have money.  Yet, over the past five years – it has become more than that.  Recently, the disconnect between what I am and what I have and what they are and what they have has become a source of serious reflection.  The disconnect seems to focus on “possessions” – on what I can acquire and what they would like to acquire.

I have learned over the years, that despite our country of origin or our ethnicity, there is a connection that transcends the disconnect of possessions.  It is our humanity that binds us all together – all the good and all the bad of humanity.  The basic component of the human experience connects us.   We seem to find the same things funny, sad, and frustrating. We tease each other; we pray for each other; we yell at each other; we find ways to help each other.

Yet, my disconnect over wealth and possessions continues to trouble me. I remain annoyed and perhaps more annoyed than ever over Facebook postings of my friends who complain that their pet just cost them another small fortune or they just completed another wing to their mini-mansion.  The same friends seem to be reticent to donate $10.00 so I can purchase a flashlight (torches) for women exposed to violence in refugee camps.  I know, I know, they already give to their Church or to the United Way and they never miss an opportunity to toss their change into a UNICEF container at the supermarket.  We Americans are the most benevolent people in the world – well almost anyway.

See what I mean – it is so easy to get sucked into the disconnect if you reduce it to material possessions.  As I approach Lent this year, I am looking to purge myself (by God’s Grace) of the sin of anger and disgust over our materialism.  The connect must be about the soul – it must be about our common humanity.  It must be about sitting under the stars with a Muslim colleague reflecting on the needs of our friends and families as we travel from one village to the next.  It is about our laughter; our tears; it is about our families.  When I am not with these friends, I miss them terribly.  I don’t miss the corrugated tin huts I sometimes sleep in; I don’t miss their roads; I don’t miss the goat stew they want to serve me; I miss them – their smiles, their passion for family, their joy over small changes.

I also want to believe that when they see me – the smiles on their faces are about the prospect of a good laugh, another Copple story, and more stories about my wonderful children and grandchildren.   And perhaps, them knowing that together when we flip the switch on a water well or we open a sack of grain – that together we made something happen for our brothers and sisters.

Ah, I will think of them and these experiences this spring when sitting on my sailboat on the Chesapeake and they will think of me as they sit under the stars in the great Rift Valley.   For you see, we are connected by a sovereign and merciful God that knows our name regardless of what we possess.    For that, we are all connected.

This five-hour, one way trip to several communities seemed like just one more humanitarian mission. For reasons I cannot totally explain, it became so much more.  Godare, a border community in dispute between Ethiopia and Somalia, hosts refugees while raided by rebels and terrorists alike. It is five miles from the Somali border. In just three months the camp has grown from 2,000 people to 25,000 people. Yet, international aid organizations such as UN agencies are not there. The border dispute prevents these agencies from doing their important work.

The four days we spent in eastern Ethiopia have affected me in a ways that no other journey has affected me.  In fact, I have not been able to write about it because anything I say seems premature, self-righteous, or judgmental.  The misery of famine and starvation, complicated by conflicts between faiths and political powers, washed over me and seemed to silence me. I felt broken on a rock of hopelessness that spilled any self-preserving detachment on to the ground to be soaked up by the horror of the moment. While nature caused the famine, politics and religion exacerbated it.  This suffering is preventable.

For four days I witnessed the choices made by parents and caregivers to either neglect or abandon their children because of starvation and fear. I watched human migration across barren lands in search of  food, water, or safety.  But perhaps, most disconcerting, I was a witness to the world’s neglect.  For certain, the usual suspects were present in Eastern Ethiopia – from faith-based NGOs seeking to put a finger in the dike to avert human suffering to a few global educators operating a school. There was no outrage, no anger, no urgency or call to action. People, both benefactors and beneficiaries moved through the motions of survival. There was a terrible sense of “normal.” I had seen this all before, but this time it just seemed different. It felt like I was becoming a witness to the worst in human experience.

A few days later, I came home to the hysterical debates of Congress and political campaigns during which the famine in the Horn of Africa and Kenya never received a remark.  In fact, in all the year-end reflections of 2011, nobody mentioned the famine and the number of people dying. As a witness to this horrible situation, I felt isolated and alone and every time I attempted to describe what I felt, people would simply stare. I felt like I was being a killjoy to the holiday festivities. Despite pleas by the ONE Foundation and other relief organizations with media capacity, nobody paid attention to the realities that over 30,000 children have died in the past three months. I went through my normal Christmas rituals of children and grandchildren, but I also felt lost and adrift.

I have grown stronger in recent days because of another fact associated with this experience – I was not only a witness to incredible suffering, I was also a witness to amazing courage. A group of Christians reached out to Muslims and offered them food and water. Because of religious conflict and persecution, I cannot mention their names nor their communities – but I can try to describe their acts. In this case, a small but committed Christian community worshipping underground had access to food and grains which they freely distributed to their Muslim neighbors. These Muslim neighbors told me how greatly they appreciated this act of compassion and care and how they wanted to join hands with their new friends to confront the immediate crisis of hunger and conflict. I witnessed Muslims embracing Christians and expressing gratitude for something so basic as a cup of water. I realized at that moment; I was witnessing the power of community action. Action at the community level that makes a neighbor more than an abstract concept but a person with a face, a person with a family, a person with dreams. These actions transcend religious and political conflict.

What has not been achieved in conference rooms, parliaments, or in complex negotiations is being achieved by tender acts of mercy. These acts are made possible by committed and dedicated individuals, often supported by generous donors thousands of miles away. Suddenly, I felt the bridge. Many people in the US and other parts of the developed world provide resources; courageous individuals living in remote parts of the Horn of Africa take those resources and convert them into sustainable acts of love and grace. Geopolitics aside in the global conflict between Muslim and Christian – faith based organizations and individuals go into the darkness of human suffering. They confront the noise of hate and subdue the violence with acts of charity and compassion.  Alas, I have been a witness to the worst of humanity and the best of humanity transformed by grace.

Early on in my last journey into Africa, I listened to Wintley Phipps’ interpretation of Rise Up Shepherd and Follow.  A haunting call summoning listeners to leave the familiar and to follow a star that will lead to hope and promise.  I decided in early December to make this my theme for Advent.  Rise Up Shepherd and Follow – You will forget your flocks and your herds, as the song calls us to follow him where ever he might lead.

Rise up is a call to action and if you take good heed to the Angels words, you will leave behind your sheep and lambs.   The tension between Rise Up and Leave is not easily resolved.  It certainly defies some of the sentimentality often associated with the Christmas holidays as families come together.  As I both wrestle and embrace this theme for Advent, it has produced a restlessness that is not easily calmed.  Rise Up can take on so many different expressions:

• Speak when others are silent
• Go to places where others refuse to go
• Forsake blind allegiances to things of this world whether they are political, social, economic, or religious
• Taking a stand to be on the side of the poor
• Forsaking the comfortable lives of ease we have created and begin practicing a life of compassion and action

From a myriad of interpretations, each of us must sort through the meaning of Rise Up and Follow.   But, to all of my friends and family, I urge you to ask the question – what will it mean for us in this new year, to truly respond to the star in the East and the call of the angel – Rise Up and Follow.   I think the answer for each of us will certainly be different – but it could be the difference between joy and sadness, hate and love, peace and conflict.  I urge you to listen and then to Rise Up!

We were on our way to Florida from Kansas City for a family vacation.  A few miles outside of Tupelo on a two lane asphalt road, our brown, 1958 Oldsmobile blew a tire.  In the process a lug bolt broke making it difficult to mount the spare tire.  After assessing the situation, my father, a skilled mechanic, decided to remove the wheel plate that held the tire to the axle.  He and I would walk to Tupelo to find a garage.  It was July and I could feel the heat from the road through the thin soles of my Converse tennis shoes.  It was one of those hot, humid days that allowed you no escape.

We passed cotton fields where we saw the black faces of sharecroppers against the white blossoms of cotton as they bent over plants pulling their harvest from bolls of dry shells.  Dad explained the process.

On the horizon, we could see the familiar sign of a Sinclair station.  As we approached,  we could see it was not only a filling station but a garage with a small market.  Upon entering, we hesitated, twenty sharecroppers stood between us and the counter.  Suddenly, I felt the firm grip of my father’s hand around my hand.  The gesture created more fear than security.  Why was he holding my hand, I thought.  Suddenly from the counter someone shouted, “White man.”  A path opened and we walked to the counter.

In the midst of this sea of black faces, I felt conspicuous – I felt exposed for being white.  I also felt very thirsty.  My dad caught me staring at a pop machine in the corner of the room.  He handed me a quarter and nodded as if to say, “Go ahead; get a drink.”  I walked confidently through the crowd and put my quarter in the coin box.  I lifted the lid and felt the blast of cold refrigerated air hit my face.  Before me soda bottles hung like soldiers in single file on tracks with an opening at each end.  After a few seconds, I grabbed an Orange NEHI.  I quickly thrust the top of the bottle into the chrome opener below the coin box.  As I put the round opening of the bottle onto my parched lips, I could see a boy about 5 years old staring at me.  After my initial gulp, I tilted the bottle in his direction and said confidently, “Would you like a swig?”  There was a collective gasp in the room.  The white man behind the counter shouted, “Don’t you do that boy!”  I looked at my dad as if to say, “Why not?”

Suddenly I saw a look on my dad’s face that I had seen before and it was a look that clearly telegraphed something bad was about to happen.  He grabbed the man behind the counter and slammed his face into the cash register and in a single move opened the cash register drawer.  He took out three quarters and with an underhand pitch threw them to me.  I caught two and one fell to the floor.  He lifted the bloody face of the clerk off the register and said, “He is my boy and he is going to buy that boy and the other boy by the door a soda.”  He then asked, “Do you have a problem with that?”  “No sir,” said the clerk.  Suddenly the sharecroppers moved out of the store and we followed them, me clutching desperately to my orange soda in one hand and my father with the other.  The sharecroppers formed two lines and we walked between them.

“Dad,” I asked, “what happened?”  He looked and me and said, “You have the freedom to give that boy a drink and he should have the freedom to take it.  That’s what happened.”  We walked back in silence to the car and we said nothing to mom and my brother,  Ron.  Dad mounted the spare and drove with one fewer lug bolt.

Mom asked what it cost, he said with that James Copple wry grin, “75 cents.”  That was my introduction to the price of Justice or Justice achieved with a fist.  It took some time for me to understand that lesson from a veteran of the “The Greatest Generation.”  I still think of it as I stare inequality down in remote places of the globe and wonder, what is the price or cost of justice?

On a conference call to discuss the desperate need for grief counselors in the refugee camp of Dadaab, Kenya, where there is one counsel for every 50,000 people, I asked a rather naive question of Michael, the CARE employee, “Just how bad is it really for the children?”  He paused and then said, “Let me tell you about Omar.”

Omar arrived in the camp ten days before he appeared at the CARE clinic located in the IFO expansion camp.  Omar was accompanied by his young mother whose face and complexion added thirty years to her appearance.   In front of Omar, she told a horror story not, unfortunately, all that uncommon among the recent refugees fleeing into Kenya.  Her homestead had been raided by Al Shabaab and all the men were tortured and killed, including her husband.  They warned the women they would be back in several days to confiscate all food items.  Omar’s mother was terrified and feared for her own life.

On the day they arrived, Omar’s mother, with his help buried herself deep into the sand and used a hallow reed she inserted into her mouth in order to breathe.  She instructed Omar to give the terrorists whatever they wanted but not to reveal her hiding place.  They stopped 10 feet away from her hiding place.  She could hear the exchange.  They asked Omar for the location of his mother.  He told them she had already left the homestead and was headed for Kenya.  They knew it was a lie.  They beat him and asked again.  Torture and threats were not changing Omar’s story.  His mother was gone, he shouted.

Finally, the leader changed tactics.  He offered Omar a cup of water and a biscuit.  After a long silence, Omar silently pointed to the burial shelter of his mother. He gave him his water and the biscuit.  The four terrorists dug Omar’s mother out of her hiding place and gang raped her.  When they finished, she found Omar sitting near a bush dividing up the biscuit – a piece for his sister, two pieces for his mother, and one for himself.  Since that day he has said nothing and has turned his rage and silence against his mother and sister.

Michael repeated, “For a cup of water and a biscuit a starving child chooses to surrender his mother to the men that killed his father.”  What can we expect?  Michael was angry and turned to me and asked, “How many counselors can you get me and do you have people that can train counselors?”

The answer to Michael’s question is yes.  Through African Nazarene University, we can do both.  We began organizing and soon there will be volunteer counselors in place to help.  Gender-Based Violence is a major crisis in the camps where crisis is the understatement of the year.  Women are continually under threat.  Children are in horrific pain.

When Michael asked me to help, Omar’s story became my story.  It is now your story.  Please pray for the Omars of this famine and for those of you that can do more – volunteer and donate so we can place counselors on the ground to bring healing to the soul, the mind, and the body.  We can do this; therefore, we must do this!  You can donate at www.ncm.org or at www.sai-dc.com.

My academic training is in Church History. I majored in History as an undergraduate, specialized in Medieval Church History and Historical Theology in Seminary, and did doctoral work in both Medieval Church History and American Church History. I have looked at religion from just about every approach one can take. And, to be frank – the deeper I look and the longer I look the more disgusted I become.

I came to faith through the Church of the Nazarene, which is rooted in the theological tradition of John and Charles Wesley. The Church of the Nazarene was born in the context of its concern for the poor. They have historically expressed what I have experienced in my personal faith and journey.

Seeing the recent preoccupation of the media with Republican suitors for the presidency and their focus on Governor Rick Perry and the Baptist Pastor Robert Jeffress and his attempt to drive a wedge between Romney and politically conservative voters is another troubling revelation of the fine line between truth and bigotry. Forget the media’s need to keep the story alive and focus for a few moments on the arrogance of any of us to indict Mitt Romney because he belongs to a religious tradition that is just that – a religious tradition.

To be sure, the historical views of Mormons on marriage (polygamy) and race is not only unfortunate but challenges their assumption about how they were founded by a forgiving and inclusive God. These positions have been modified over time and no longer define their tradition. But then again, most conservative communities, including my own, accepted Apartheid in South Africa and dismissed it as a cultural and political anomaly that we should not challenge. Pick up that stone, if you are worthy.

All of this is now focused on Mormons – God forbid if we were to look seriously at our “Islamaphobia” that now condemns all Muslims to the scrap heap of history. The blogs and Facebook posts that continue to lump together all Muslims with Osama Bin Laden are reprehensible, bald-faced lies contrary to the spirit of the Gospel.

The sweep of history is a sad tale of blaming another’s religion for our own inadequacies. Whether it was Isabella and Ferdinand who drove the Muslims and Jews out of Spain in 1492, or some pastor’s need to make Perry more Christian than Romney, this whole discussion of one’s personal faith and its influence on public policy is a Trojan Horse. It is nothing more than an attempt to couch our political positions into a belief system that we want God to sanction. Imagine what we could do if we took “religious tradition” off the table as an influence on the way we do policy. Palestinians would not seek to push Israel into the sea and Jews and some apocalyptic Christians would not seek to justify their existence on Old Testament theory of pre-eminence. Mormons and Evangelicals could stand shoulder – to – shoulder with their concern for the family, the poor and the unborn. They could build bridges to the broken in the Horn of Africa – mostly Muslim – that are facing political and environmental famine and its consequence – starvation.

Recently in the Dadaab Refugee Camp in Kenya, a Christian leader with tears in his eyes said, “Jim I don’t see Muslims I see women, children and men in desperate need of humanitarian assistance and we have the power to help.” Yeah, my friend has figured it out. It should be one’s personal faith that defines our life and actions not the coercion of organized religion. I am convinced that God wastes no time on our attempts to divide each other by religious traditions but looks at how we live our lives in light of his sacrifice for each and EVERYONE of us. To paraphrase one of my favorite 19th Century European philosophers, Søren Kierkegaard – a long time critic of the Church – cut through the rubbish and try love. Now there is a thought. In this current political environment we will need a very big knife.

To state the obvious, we live in a male dominated culture and world. Various cultures and societies have made progress in their treatment of women. As they earn seats in parliaments, state houses and corporate board rooms, it would seem that there is no turning back – women are equal to men.

Not so fast! In the developing world and no doubt in many places in First World, women still struggle to live a life free from male dominance, abuse and slavery. This week, I interviewed a young woman from the rural Kenyan county of Samburu – a university graduate – the first from her community.

My new friend and colleague from Samburu, Celina Arames Lepurcha from Sesia, in Samburu County Kenya, was unusually transparent with me in what was probably one of the more shocking interviews of my career.

Samburu young girls are forced by older women and tribal leaders to practice Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) as a rite of passage into marriage. Over 90 million young women in Africa between the ages of 0 and 15 undergo this ritual. Though the Kenyan government has taken steps to stop this practice, it is still very much a part of the culture and values of this community.

Young girls are victims of the sexual whims of elder men in search of another bride. Polygamy is the norm as men – older men – continue to seek younger brides often between the age of 12 and 15. Many of these child brides become widows sooner than later as their male partners die from either old age or disease.

She related the practice of older men seeking younger women as potential brides – many as young as 12. The men in the tribe or clan will have sex with these young women and if the young woman becomes pregnant and has not had the community ritual of female circumcision (cutting), then the women of the community force an abortion. Please note I said “forced abortion.” If forced abortion is not bad enough, the procedure for forcing the abortion is horrific. Celina said that the customary practice is to lay the young woman on her back staked to the ground or held down by other women in the community. At that point women jump up and down on the woman’s stomach and uterus crushing the fetus in the process. They continue to jump until they see the profusion of blood pouring from the uterus. The womb and its contents are crushed.

Celina emphasized at no point in this process is a woman given a choice. She has no choice but to have sex with the male, she has no choice about birth control, she has no choice about female circumcision and she has no choice about the abortion. The emotional and physical trauma of this experience is horrific and can be lifelong.

Celina returned to Samburu from Nairobi to work with women support groups. She focuses her attention on the young adolescent women of her community. I met with many of these woman on my trip to Samburu. They wear western clothing. They have goals and ambitions that include education and setting their own destiny for a family and career. Celina told me later that at least two of them had experienced this abortion rite.

Truly, a cultural clash looms on the horizon. Celina also meets with the elder women of the community, dressed in their costumes (shukas), to teach them how to market their skills at bead work and to create some economic independence. Celina teaches and empowers both groups to become independent. Celina tampers with centuries of oppression, cultural values and norms.

Change is happening in this remote village of Sesia led by a young woman of courage and determination. There is a glimmer of hope. Westerners are conflicted over these practices, admonishing us to avoid cultural intrusion and yet wanting us to protect and guarantee the rights of women. I am not sure we can have it both ways anymore. These practices, while not unique to Samburu or Maasai tribal communities cannot continue because they victimize half the population. As long as one woman must endure these practices, none of us should rest.

As I post this article to my blog, the Kenyan Parliament passed draft legislation prohibiting FGM and punishing individuals with a three year sentence for stigmatizing young women who refuse FGM. Development projects and emphasizing positive cultural practices that build trust is the alternative. Now, it is up to the communities to comply and the government to both enforce the draft legislation and promote development projects. The international community must work with these governments to assure that their young women are afforded the same protections that my daughters have. I would not stand for this treatment in my home, nor should I tolerate it in the global community.