How Do You Teach Sexual Health to Kenyan Teenagers?

A story about expectations that are far from reality – in a good way

‘Timeea you start with grade 5 and grade 6.’ Madam Kheri’s soft tone hides a very authoritative personality. She is asking and commanding at the same time. To me, she is a bit scary when she does this, but she equally makes me smile. The definition of a strong woman in Africa I think to myself. I am standing in this school building with no electricity, no desks and no running water, and in some minutes I am going to enter a room where around 40 Kenyan girls aged 11-14 are going to lay their eyes on me, while we are going to address a topic important and undiscussed at the same time in far too many places around the world: menstruation. I am starting to feel a bit anxious and a thousand questions pop through my mind: Will I be standing in front of them? Will they be sitting? Should I be sitting? Will they understand me? What the hell am I doing here? What if they ask me things and I don’t know the answer? What if they don’t ask anything?

And, to be honest, menstruation is the easiest topic of the whole ‘curriculum’ I have prepared for the coming weeks. So, here I am – at Madago School – making one of my dreams come true – running my Learn Like a Girl Programme, which is so close to my heart. And yet, for seconds, I am numb. Or out of my mind? I am literally going to have workshops every day with Kenyan teenagers – girls and boys – on topics like menstruation, STDs, sexual health, reproduction, protection, consent – and – at this point of the story I don’t know this yet – but other topics are going to land on my agenda.

I am about to start my first workshop, for which I have obviously prepared and discussed beforehand with the adults here at Madago School, and I suddenly remember that when I was in school, everything we were told about menstruation was how to use a pad. I remember how we all felt ashamed, and boys were throwing pads around the classroom. And I know that this is something that I don’t want to happen here.

Honestly, I am expecting mothers to come over to the school tomorrow raging. I am expecting a major uprising from families after I will be talking to boys about consent and condoms. Because these have been some of the reactions in several communities in my country, which is Romania. Especially in poor and religious communities.

I am talking about ‘taboo’ topics in a country in which almost everybody goes to church and is a believer, a country in which teenage pregnancies are still often encountered, a country where sexual harassment still happens far more often that it should (it shouldn’t happen at all anywhere); a country where most men refuse to use condoms; a country in which women rarely deny sex to their partners; a country where STI numbers are high, and where most people refuse to test on HIV; a place where a lot of girls feel ashamed to go to the doctor, where some have reported to have been treated badly by doctors and made them feel more ashamed. A country where most girls lack access to basic hygiene materials and running water, where the number of girls missing out on school during their menstruation is still too high. A country where I was told by one local that ‘We are horny very often because it is hot outside’; a country where rarely all children in the family are from the same two parents. I am here, in a poor community, mostly Muslim, and I am a white woman. So, what are my odds of success? What could possibly go wrong?

I am stepping in the room. Good that Madam Winnie is with me. She is going to translate in Swahili, so we make sure everybody understands everything. She is also my safety net – if we go off beaten tracks, if I go in the ‘wrong direction’, she is there to set things straight. Her presence feels very reassuring. A round of presentations, with shy voices and a few laughs, and then we dig into the topic. ‘We are going to talk about menstruation. Does anybody know what it is?’ Silence…’Does anybody already have it?’ I am the first one to raise my hand, and after a few second some other arms are lifted in the air. ‘Ok. How does it feel?’ And the answers are starting to come…first with very shy voices, then more, girls are describing what is happening and how they are feeling during their period, how it was the first time they got it…they are sharing things about which they haven’t talked before. And not only are they sharing…they are starting to ask questions, tell their worries, their challenges. Magic is starting to happen, and I am so positively surprised that I am not even noticing how time is running.

We are diving deeper into biological explanations – I have prepared leaflets and flyers – and girls are looking into them very interested. The talk goes on about pains, hygiene, how to cope with spotting in school or public places, what they wish they could manage differently, what would be the help they would love to have. And most importantly, they mention topics they want to discuss about, including body-shaming, bullying and the fragile relationships between boys and girls in school.

I never expected this to happen. I was wrongly making assumptions about the learners of this school. Projecting my expectations on these teenagers, expectations that were far from what I had found in the dark classroom, where everybody, including me, is sitting on the red dusty floor. I have studied anthropology & gender studies. You’d suppose, if anybody, then it is me who knows what I should expect. And yet, as Kenya has shown me several times, I had been wrong again. And I could not be happier that I was wrong.

Some days later I find myself in the same room, rain pouring outside, and me feeling as if I was in front of my professors at the final exam in university. The first workshop with boys. An Eastern European woman in a room full of teenage boys in Kenya, wanting to talk to them about the changes in their body, the relationship to girls, the risks that come with unprotected sexual intercourse, how to use a condom, how important consent is, and how it is not funny to bully their female peers. At least I am not alone, a male community leader is by my side. I specifically asked for his presence, as I think that this would give me at least a minimum of credibility in front of the boys. But before both of us got in this room, we had to solve a ‘small’ challenge – this man has been telling me for the last two days that the best thing we can do is preaching abstinence. So, before convincing the young ones, I must convince him. 

‘Abstinence is ok, I have nothing against it. But just because some adult will tell teenagers to abstain, does not mean they will. I am guessing that the result of this approach would be that they would do it anyway, but hide it from the parents and adults of the community. And they would also fear telling if something went wrong. Or asking questions. Is this what we want?’ 

Seconds of silence that seemed to me like hours…’Yes, but how could they talk to their parents about this?’ he goes on ‘This is Africa, we don’t talk about this.’

‘Yet, you all do it.’ I am starting to laugh slightly nervous. ‘When you close your eyes, the world still keeps existing’ I go on…’The same with this issue. Not talking about sex does not mean nobody does it.’

Moses takes the papers with my notes, on which I have written down what I want to tell the boys. He goes through the notes and tells me: ‘You mzungus (n.a. white people) are very different. Very weird people. Europe is a strange place. I have heard you are doing very weird things there. How? Why?’ I am afraid and amused to ask about the weird things he has been hearing about, so I am keeping silent. But he is asking for a pen, and I see he is writing something on my notes. I am looking at the paper after he has finished and am searching for his notes. I burst into laughter – he has stricken through ‘use a condom’ in the sentence “The best way to stay safe and protected is to use a condom.” And he has written the word “abstain” in capital letters above the strikethrough.

I am thinking – he is not completely wrong actually. And conclude: ‘OK, we can go with both. We can say the best way is to abstain, but should they choose not to (and in my mind I continue the sentence with ‘and they won’t, teenager’s hormones are not something anyone can ignore’) we explain them the use of a condom. OK?’ We finally have a deal. He doesn’t seem to be particularly happy about this deal, but he seems to understand my argument.

The boys are coming in and sitting down on the floor. I am greeting them and trying to step into the discussion. Madam Kheri steps in the room and tells them with her firm voice that they should pay attention and be open. I appreciate her discourse, but I am not sure if it is going to work. I am trying to find a way to continue and start with the topics of the changes in our bodies during puberty. Total silence in the room…No one wants to talk about the changes they have felt on their own body. ‘Ok, I am going to tell you about the changes I have seen in my body when I was your age!’ and they start to smile and hide their faces, extremely ashamed. After my story is over, I am asking the question again. And the answers are starting to come…Two words, short sentences, hands raising slowly in the air. Time passes by and the discussions are starting to have their flow. After the workshop is over, I burst again into laughter – the packaging of the condoms is missing. And I know why – because it had an image showing how to put them on. The fact that someone is interested in this is a very good sign 😊. I am smiling and thinking that my mission has been accomplished, at least partially.

And of all the things that I had imagined could go wrong, nothing happened. Thanks to mutual sensitivity, empathy, attentive listening, ‘letting the guard down’ and involving locals in important decisions when setting the strategy.

It is said that the central task of any relationship is the management of difference. In multicultural encounters this management of difference is exactly the factor that determines whether the relationships will thrive or fail. I could count endless stories of people who have been ‘lost’ in cultural translation. Most of them are funny, when looking in retrospective. But the price we might pay because of cultural misunderstandings may be very high in some cases. It can affect interpersonal relationships but also businesses. And sometimes, even more. One good example for this is the famous crash of the Avianca flight 052, where it has been concluded that part of the reasons of the plane crash were tied to the cultural differences of the flight crew, resulting in different ways of reacting in crisis situations, combined with misunderstood communication.

In a world where contact with persons all over the world is just one click or one flight away, it is more important than ever to focus on what makes us different, how we see the word differently, and how we can use these differences as a resource. After all, this is what diversity and inclusion are all about – viewing differences as something valuable that enriches our experience, whether it is our holidays, our business relationships, our family life and any other aspect of our lives.

A lot of literature on this topic has been written and countless studies have been conducted. Irrespective of their aim and conclusions, there are some common conclusions:

• We need to acknowledge the differences, and not ignore them
• We need to be open enough to accept and try to understand these differences
• Differences are not a reason to be scared and act defensive in front of the unknown – it is rather an exercise of trying to view the world from another perspective
• Being aware of our own biases is crucial to make intercultural encounter work
• Questioning one’s own stereotypes and worldviews is an ongoing exercise
• Acknowledging that our way is neither the only way nor the smartest way is the fundamental mark of making intercultural encounter work

Irrespectively of where we come from, how we live, what dreams, values and traditions we have, how we look like, where we have been educated, whom we love – there is one common language that we all speak – the language of wanting to be understood and accepted, treated with empathy and respect. After all, in any relationship, and even more in intercultural encounters, openness, curiosity, putting yourself in the position of the others, pays off the most. Instead of a conclusion, I am leaving you with one of my favorite poems and encourage you to even go beyond this:

“Try to travel, otherwise you may become racist, and you may end up believing that your skin is the only one to be right, that your language is the most romantic and that you were the first to be the first.                                   

Travel, because if you don’t travel then your thoughts won’t be strengthened, won’t get filled with ideas. Your dreams will be born with fragile legs and then you end up believing in tv-shows, and in those who invent enemies that fit perfectly with your nightmares to make you live in terror.     

Travel, because travel teaches to say good morning to everyone regardless of which sun we come from. 

Travel, because travel teaches to say goodnight to everyone regardless of the darkness that we carry inside.                     

Travel, because traveling teaches to resist, not to depend, to accept others, not just for who they are but also for what they can never be, to know what we are capable of, to feel part of a family beyond borders, beyond traditions and culture. Traveling teaches us to be beyond. 

Travel, otherwise you end up believing that you are made only for a panorama and instead inside you there are wonderful landscapes still to visit.“

– Gio Evan