Flora Terah

Flora Terah is a Kenyan Canadian author, a public speaker and the ambassador for ShelterBox Canada. Trained as a social worker, she has wealth of experience as HIV/AIDS trainer and women’s rights advocate in her native country of Kenya as well as her adopted home Canada. As a victim of horrible violent acts, the need for peaceful solutions is never far from her thoughts. She has combined her experience as a grassroots organizer, an educator, and a women’s right defender with experience as a survivor of violence to become a powerful role model for nonviolence and bullying in Canada and around the world. Since arriving in Canada in 2009, she has been active in a number of Canadian organizations, sharing her expertise and participating in public education campaigns on violence that women and bullying children face. She has continued this advocacy with the Stephen Lewis Foundation, Jean Sauvé Foundation, Brian Bronfman, McGill University, York University, Carlton University, and Canadian Lawyers Abroad, among others. A lot of what she has done is deemed motivational and supports her desire to end violence and bullying toward women and children, thus creating peaceful environments locally and beyond borders.

Flora’s Story

I came from Kenya, an African country where tea and coffee are grown. While tea and coffee are the main exports, Kenya’s natural resources include limestone, gypsum, soda ash, diatomite, gemstones, fluorspar and even zinc. The expansive wildlife reserves and the white sand beaches of the coast bring out the country’s beauty. It is also a land of women known for their resilience and inner strength.

My story begins here: “I cannot trust anyone; my girls and I were raped in that refugee camp and this one [pointing to a ten-year-old malnourished girl] is almost giving birth.” These are not my words. They were told to me many years ago when I worked with vulnerable women in Kenya. Every day when I went to work, I knew that I would hear a story that would break my heart. Was I dressing the wound without treating it? Yes, I was. I was moving sand with a teaspoon.

It wasn’t just this kind of violence that I encountered every day, it was also the poverty that Kenyan women suffered. There are many stories to tell, but how about I just write about the mother of four who had her children play all day as a pot of water boiled in her traditional African kitchen while she hoped that they would get tired and sleep because she had nothing to give them? Poverty in Kenya benefits the corrupt leaders who use it to profit from the business of importing maize and rice from Brazil. Poverty is a tool of the wealthy.

The government had misplaced priorities and we women had to step in to address economic marginalization and outdated cultural practices that mainly targeted women and girls. If Kenya were to have real change, we had to sponsor a bill that was favourable to women and we had to address affirmative action by bringing women to Parliament. This is how I found myself running for office as a member of Parliament. Having worked for close to nineteen years as a social worker, I had enough support so that there was no way the incumbent could have beaten me at the ballot. The opinion polls showed that I was likely to get elected. Those who were opposed to my candidature organized and arranged for me to be attacked by a gang of three men near my home. The attackers repeatedly warned me against running for the parliamentary seat. I was hospitalized for weeks by the assault and so was unable to canvass properly. I lost, but worse was to come because I had clearly stated that not even torture would stop me. As a result, my only child was brutally murdered. My case was highlighted in an Amnesty International report on the state of the world’s human rights that was released on May 28, 2008. I had to leave the country for safety.

Even after my child’s murder, I wanted to continue working and speaking out for the unheard voices: “How was it possible to speak from a country that knows so much privilege?” I asked myself as I flew into Toronto. I was aware that my education and experience might not necessarily carry the same level of importance as it did back home. I wasn’t an economic migrant in search of greener pastures, so I thought my time in Canada would be temporary. Once the situation normalized, I would head back home to serve my people. That was never to be. I am now proudly Canadian.

Even though the English language was not a barrier, I knew that cultural differences meant we process messages differently. Even so, the weather, culture, and interaction were a bit of a scare to me. It took about two weeks to settle after I arrived in December. Even though I was enjoying people’s concern for my welfare, my thoughts were fixed on Kenya, and grief was chewing at me. None of my hosts noticed that underneath my smile there was grief, worry, and pain. The story of the refugee woman back in Kenya, whose child was raped and heavily pregnant kept coming to mind as I watched Canadian friends toast my first Christmas in Ottawa. Thoughts continued to race through my head: “Soon I will have to go look for my own apartment and be on my own. What dangers will I face? Am I going to be as vulnerable as those women in my country I left back home? What opportunities do I have to continue fighting to redeem my son’s spirit?” Nobody brought up the post-traumatic stress disorder, grief and depression that come with forceful relocation. There were simply some discussions to help one integrate into the Canadian society. So I continued with my cosmetic happiness, which went on for almost four years. There were missed opportunities and lost friends along the way because of my trauma. I even thought of ending my life. I assumed that people would see my pain when I told my story. There were university, school, and church talks where I told my story. I shared platforms with world’s renowned leaders and won the hearts of many but afterwards went back home a very broken woman.

As I write this chapter, I am travelling back down the valley of darkness. I pass by the very raw wounds of desperate single mothers, past women trapped in outdated cultural practices and girls escaping female genital cutting, and finally arrive at my very own loss of my only child. This is a very heavy price to pay for liberating the women. And yet I wouldn’t have known freedom of speech and what walking without looking behind one’s back was like if I hadn’t taken the bold step to say, “For my own safety, I will leave.”

Nevertheless, my life inside was torn apart. Fleeing Kenya had sucked a substantial amount of self-confidence and self-esteem out of me. I needed help. I had to integrate into society and find meaningful employment. I was given a contract by a well-known organization that worked in Africa. This made me more comfortable financially and allowed me to meet women who were willing to listen. After my contract ended, I went to Montréal to search for work and to volunteer in a community centre. I did not speak French. It was a mistake to move to Montréal. I was vulnerable and had this mental illness that needed professional help more than employment. I got a part-time job but was unable to help myself from within. I was trapped in my own world and no one could see this. I was literally living in a glass prison. I watched and listened to people’s beautiful ideas and advice on where they wanted me to be, but the ME inside was hurting and in need of intensive care. When the psychological pain got worse, I tried easing it by cutting my wrists. I would go to work with bandages. Finally, I ended up with a serious panic attack and was hospitalized. This was the first time I had a mental health professional attend to me. After about a year in Montréal, I came to my senses and started preparing myself to relocate back to Toronto where there were familiar multicultural organizations and the benefit of being in an English-speaking province. I made this decision on my own, with the support of my friends and my medical professionals.

I had been in Canada almost three years and I swore to make it or break it. I made up my mind that I would give back to the country that had adopted me. I started volunteering at the YMCA to help newcomers to integrate into the Canadian society. Most of them spoke openly of their own struggles and finally accepted professional help. I was very happy about this because I had done the same thing. I knew I was helping fellow immigrants and refugees find themselves. I knew I was contributing in the spirit of my adopted country. I had come to realize that Canada is one big social experiment. It has blended people from all corners of the earth, from different cultures, different backgrounds, and different faiths into one family. That is the diversity that makes Canada unique. This even made me fall in love with the country. I began searching for the application forms for citizenship (the ones that I had sworn to my friends I would complete over my dead body)—I started looking for them as someone searching for oxygen. My wishes came to pass, and I became a Canadian citizen. I voted and I loved every bit of my constitutional rights. I sang “Oh Canada” loudly and proudly.

I had been speaking to students in high schools, universities, and other institutions around Canada from the time I arrived. I did not even understand the impact I was making on these communities. Year after year I started being nominated for, and receiving, awards. At some point I had a very candid discussion with my friend, Sue. She was driving me home one evening after dinner and I asked her to give me an honest opinion about the nature of these awards because I felt kind of flattered. I explained that what I had done in my motherland was much more than what I was doing in Canada and yet no one had even toasted that with a cup of tea in Kenya. Was my reception in Canada genuine?

Sue told me that Canadians were genuine. They are touched by everything that I said and have done. I had volunteered throughout the years I lived here and even the speaking engagements were part of the spirit of Canadian volunteerism. Many organizations had heard my cry for help and had started supporting grassroots organizations. This is when I understood that even though I was not physically serving my people as I had wanted, I was doing something indirectly. School children had started donating for things like boreholes. I remember a twelve-year-old named Noah who came to visit me with his grandmother to tell me that they had donated $1,000 for water in Kenya. Through my speaking engagements, I found my voice in Canada. I feel fulfilled when I speak from my heart. This is why my next goal is to run for a political office.

I hope to work on the issues affecting immigrant women and children. For example, when the Trudeau government was contemplating removing references to female genital mutilation and cutting as a harmful practice from the citizenship guide, I lobbied a couple of members of Parliament in Ottawa to speak out against this. Thankfully, they heard our voices and didn’t do it. I felt that removing FGM/C would encourage immigrants who are already taking their children abroad for this outdated act. Based on the 2011 Canadian Census and UNICEF’s statistics on the prevalence of FGM/C in the affected countries of Africa, there are probably tens of thousands of girls living in Canada who are potentially at risk.

I know women who say they would like to take their children back to Africa on a prolonged holiday when they come of age. People assume that the girls are being taken back to learn about their background and traditions. But what they do not know is that often these traditions involve the most harmful and outdated cultural practices that the newcomers have refused to unpack. The authorities will never know about it because the girls are taken through trauma and so much pain and fear that they will not report what happened to their teachers or friends. I have worked with these communities to end female genital circumcision, so I understand their coded language. Some of the women that I speak to are afraid to be sent back to Africa if they say anything in Canada. As one way of dealing with this issue I started a legacy dinner in memory of my late son. Through this dinner, I generate funds to continue working on violence against women.

I also founded an organization named the Wanawake Violence Prevention Team. I started training women in the Wellness Recovery Action Plan that had helped in my recovery. I did not have any finances to run the organization so I decided that I would embrace tiny victories and do much with little. I had been an educator on HIV/AIDS and I knew very well that discussion groups under a tree back in Africa worked and cost nothing. I decided to focus on violence against women and this is what I ran with. Many women have started speaking out and it is through this that they are getting back their voices. The more I continue advocating for change and addressing matters of violence against women, the more stories are coming out. This is a very crucial time for women’s civic education and that of girls too. The hashtag #MeToo has encouraged women to speak out about sexual violence. While living in North America I have learned that it is easier to raise this issue and increase awareness because there is sex education in schools. In Africa, talking about sex and death is a taboo. If I tried to speak about sex and violence in Africa, I would be told that I am influencing girls in a bad way and bringing Western values to young ones. However, girls everywhere are learning from social and electronic media that have become substitute parents to them.

The most fundamental issue of my relocation to Canada has been coming to terms with my mental illness, which was prolonged by my failure to seek medical help and by Canadians not knowing how to respond because of my cosmetic smiles and my confidence in moving on. The tradition of holding emotions in I inherited from my mother, who I never saw cry until the day my son’s casket was being lowered in the grave. After my son’s death and seeing her cry, I literally sat on her lap and wept uncontrollably. That was when I felt the real pain my mother was going through. After seeking professional help, I could not understand why I was still depressed even though I was taking medication. I later joined a variety of recovery programs that provided me with fundamental ways of dealing with my condition. This has made a tremendous difference to my mental health. I even started talking to my friends who had their loved ones living with mental illness. I have become a volunteer peer support specialist who works with those with a mental illness, and I passionately love what I do. I want to continue advocating for people living with mental illness and their families because I discovered that shutting in pain and wearing cosmetic smiles and exhibiting false confidence only destroys you in the end. We need to understand that the suitcases newcomers come with are not just physical ones. They have other pieces of baggage that no one sees. I had post-traumatic stress disorder. Hugs, words of support, and comfort were not enough. I needed medical attention.

Finally, I want to say something about the role of Canadian organizations that work in Africa. While I have worked and volunteered with quite a few grassroots organizations, I find it hard to understand why they never use the immigrants and those that come from a particular region to monitor and evaluate their funded programs. Canadians without any background in Kenya are being sent to my motherland to evaluate and monitor programs. They need interpreters in order to do their work. Similarly, we would be much better off if African governments were held accountable by their development partners. Foreign governments should fund grassroots and other not-for-profits because the millions of dollars sent to governments end up in the hands of a few individuals.

Since I left the country of my birth, Kenyan women leaders have changed the dynamics of political engagement. More and more women are open to leading in all spheres. Thankfully, they operate under a new constitution with more openness to women’s participation. Because of mentorship and a free sanitary towel program, teenage girls attend school all the time, which wasn’t the case before. Change is not easy, and many people are afraid of it. However empowering women around the world is an idea whose time has come. It was my choice to relocate to Canada and I am glad Canada accepted me. Now I am rebuilding my entire life while remaining an advocate for women’s rights.

Terah, F. (2021). From Scars to Stars. In G. Melnyk & C. Parker (Eds). Finding Refuge in Canada: Narratives of Dislocation. Edmonton: Athabasca University Press.