5 Inspiring Women of 2014 – Or Is That 6 with 2 at the International Space Station

Posted on December 28, 2014 by Inspired by My Mom
Samantha Cristoforetti at the ISS, December 15, 2014

Samantha Cristoforetti at the ISS, December 15, 2014

Samantha Cristoforetti was born in Milan in 1977 and has spent her life pursuing what, at times, may have seemed like an impossible dream. After being one of the first women to apply when the Italian air force opened to women, she completed the Euro-NATO Joint Jet Pilot Training and became a fighter pilot based in Istrana, Italy. In 2009, she went on to become one of six chosen from 8,000 applicants to join the ESA (European Space Agency) astronaut corps.

Italy’s first female astronaut, Captain Samantha Cristoforetti, was welcomed aboard the International Space Station on November 24th by Russian cosmonaut Elena Serova who went up in September 2014.  Elena Serova is only the fourth Russian female to go into orbit in more than five decades of human spaceflight.  In the same period, more than 100  male cosmonauts have made the trip.

This is only the second time in the space station’s 16-year history that two women have been on board the ISS at once, making the six-member crew one third female.

Inspired By My Mom admires and supports both these inspiring woman who will each spend approximately six months aboard the 260-mile-high complex, following in the footsteps of 31 other determined and illustrious women who have been at the space station.

Nobel Peace Prize 2014

Malala Yousafzai accepting the Nobel Peace Prize

In early 2009 she was already writing a blog under a pseudonym for the BBC detailing her life under Taliban occupation. The following summer, she was featured in the New York Times documentary “Class Dismissed” about her life.  As she continued to fight for the right to education,  in October 2011 Archbishop Desmond Tutu nominated Malala Yousafzai for the International Children’s Peace Prize.

In 2012, at 15 years old, she was shot in the head in an assassination attempt by a Taliban gunman.  They tried silencing her because she wanted to get an education for herself and because she advocated for the education of girls of Pakistan’s Swat Valley.  The failed attempt brought Malala’s strength and struggles to the world and her fight – for her life and for the education of girls – became everyone’s fight.

In 2014 Malala Yousafzai was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize jointly with Kailash Satyarthi “for their struggle against the suppression of children and young people and for the right of all children to education”.

Inspired By My Mom salutes Malala Yousafzai for her strength, persistence, and determination as she continues to speak up for the rights of young girls to be educated. Today, at 17 years of age, she wants everyone to understand that without access to education, a basic human right, women have no chance for equality.

Dr Stella Ameyo Adedevol

Dr Stella Ameyo Adedevol

In July 2014, a man entering Nigeria collapsed on the tarmac after getting sick and vomiting on a flight from Liberia. He told health care workers he was suffering from malaria however Dr Stella Ameyo Adadevoh was not convinced that he was telling the truth about not having come in contact with Ebola. She vehemently turned down a request by the patient’s employers to have him discharged so he could catch a flight to Calabar, a coastal city 750km from Lagos, where he had been due to attend a conference.  Her instinct and determination contained the spread of the virus.

She quarantined him, made contact with the authorities, and ensured the provision of protective materials and Ebola educational material to hospital staff. Her prompt diagnosis was impressive and protected the country from the spread of this devastating disease while putting herself at great risk. She and eleven of her colleagues did catch the virus.

Dr Stella Ameyo Adadevoh prevented the spread of Ebola in her native Nigeria but paid with her life. Her only son, Bankole Cardoso, still mourns the loss of his mother, saying it’s becoming “more and more apparent exactly what she had done” by identifying patient zero.

Inspired By My Mom recognizes her heroism and the great contribution made by Dr Stella Ameyo Adadevoh in saving Nigeria from the Ebola crisis that still rages in parts of West Africa.

Sister Lucy Kurien with members of "her family"

Sister Lucy Kurien with members of “her family”

While India marks the second anniversary of the Delhi gang rape that rocked the nation, Sister Lucy’s life was changed forever when she saw a young woman set on fire – the same terrorized woman that only one day before had been looking for refuge from an abusive husband. She held the young, pregnant woman who had been doused with kerosene and lit on fire by her husband. The woman died but Sister Lucy Kurien knew then and there that she was supposed to do something for the women of her country

Inspired By My Mom respectfully recognizes the work of Sister Lucy Kurien who, over the years following this traumatic life event, founded a shelter she named Maher or Mother’s House in Marathi, India. Since its opening in 1997, Maher has grown into a series of over 30 group homes for women and children throughout southern India which have helped thousands to escape abuse and poverty.

Tuğçe Albayrak 2

In memory of Tuğçe Albayrak

2014 was the year that a young university student’s dreams of becoming a high-school teacher came to a brutal end one weekend night.  22-year-old Tuğçe Albayrak stepped in to protect two teenage girls from harassment by three men at a fast food restaurant in central Germany.  Unfortunately her brave intervention led to a vicious attack by one of these men and the untimely end to a young life.

Inspired By My Mom mourns the death of this brave young woman who gave her life for what she believed was right.  Every day she reminds us how much there is still to be done to eliminate violence against women and every day we need to do our part in contributing to its end.

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When I Called My Stepmom “Mom”

Posted on December 17, 2014 by Inspired by My Mom

I was two years old when my stepmother Gini burst into my life like a glamorous, marauding Valkyrie set on bending me to her will. She had platinum blond hair worn in an Aqua-Net bouffant, thick black eyeliner, and a figure Jayne Mansfield would’ve killed for. At night she peeled her false eyelashes off like she was undressing her face.

Shannon Bradley-Colleary and her now-second mom, Gini

Shannon Bradley-Colleary and her now-second mom, Gini

When I arrived for weekend visits with my dad, I balked at Gini’s house rules: a bath every night, no elbows on the table, no cursing, and no shooting of weapons real or imagined.

In my mom’s world I went barefoot, sporting black feet and dirt rings around my neck, and once accidentally shot my stepdad, Nick, in the foot with his live pellet gun which I mistook for one of the fake guns my stepbrothers and I used for playing War.

It would’ve been a perfect life for this tomboy if not for the escalating fights between my mom and Nick about his “late nights.” After I went to bed on any given night there could be screaming, broken plates, broken glass. My gut twisted and churned as I lay there and worried that Nick might hurt my mom, maybe even kill her with one of his guns.

He never got the chance because early one morning in 1975, she shook me awake, tears streaking her face. “Pack a suitcase, sweetheart. I’m divorcing Nick. You’re staying with your dad, just for a while.”

The closer our car came to my dad’s house, the more panic grabbed me by the throat. Mom was leaving me long-term with a Force Of Nature Beyond My Control.

Gini.

The first morning I woke in my now semi-permanent bed, a pair of eyelashes gazed down upon me implacably.

“Shannon,” Gini said, “it’s time for church.”

Church?! I initially resented going to church when my own father, an atheist, didn’t have to go. To make matters worse, Gini had the nerve to introduce me to the bishop as her “daughter, Shannon.”

“Actually, you’re my stepmom,” I corrected. “My real mom’s looking for a job then she’ll come get me.”

Gini’s stricken look caused me a jolt of remorse, but also exasperation. Why couldn’t she just leave me alone to do my time? For the next few weeks, I disappeared into PG-rated bodice rippers, until the day my wicked stepmother discovered me binge-reading Devil’s Desire, confiscated the book, and told me it was time to “rejoin the family,” which sent me straight to my journal to curse her cruel infamy.

“Rejoining the family,” meant chores like vacuuming, scrubbing toilets, dish washing, pulling weeds. I mentally burnished the iconography of Cinderella to a fine patina, even though my stepsister, Gina, toiled right next to me. I daydreamed about my own funeral (I’d died from step-mummification). Gini would fling herself on my casket wailing, “Why did I try to parent Shannon when she already had a real mom?”

The only problem was that my real mom was struggling to pull herself up by the bootstraps (which she eventually, heroically did) and she hadn’t come back to get me yet. Before I knew it I was a seventh grader with braces and clotted sebaceous pores still living with Gini.

One night, as I slaved over dinner dishes, I felt a lurking presence. “Shannon, what’s going on? I can tell something’s bugging you.”

I turned to find Gini leveling an unflinching Lieutenant-General look at me. You could never put her off when she looked like that.

“Robert Lyle asked me to go steady,” I blurted. “He’s this really popular eighth grader? Everyone thinks I should go with him, but I really don’t want to.”

“You just tell him your mom says you’re too young to go steady,” Gini replied. Relief flooded my body.

It still annoyed me when Gini referred to herself as my “mom,” (even though she was the one who taught me how to shave my legs, hook my training bra, and affix a menstrual pad to my underwear), but I supposed I could refer to her as my “mom” to a third party if it got me out of a sticky situation. As long as she didn’t expect me to call her “Mom” to her face.

By the time I was a high school sophomore and still under Gini’s jurisdiction, my “situations” became stickier.

“Where were you yesterday afternoon, Shannon?” She loomed in my bedroom doorway, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“I was hitting tennis balls at the junior high school.”

“By yourself? You weren’t meeting a boy?”

How did she know? Was she Agatha Christie? Hercule Poirot? Bosley? I’d had a secret tryst with a boy named Chuck who I’d met over spring break with my mom. He was nineteen, smelled like sun, tasted like Corona beer, and rode a motorcycle.

“How do you know I met a boy?” I dared ask. “Did Gina tell you?”

“Gina didn’t tell me anything.”

“Then how did you know?”

We stared each other down, neither of us willing to break.

“I’m not proud of this,” she said. “And I might be wrong to have done it, but I … I read your journal.”

“I hate you!” I shouted. “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you!” Okay, I shouted it in my mind. But my eyes seared her very soul.

She grounded me for a month: no phone and no extra-curricular activities. I managed to sneak off with Chuck once after that, but he no longer seemed attractive. With his long, lank, dishwater blonde hair and sun-browned, shirtless chest, he seemed dirty, druggy, and kind of creepy.

Once I escaped to college I kept being drawn to bad boys, whom Freud might say modeled my former stepdad, Nick, until everything came to a head the night I turned thirty and discovered my then-boyfriend romancing another woman in his apartment at 2 a.m.

One hour later, I huddled in my childhood bed, sobbing into Gini’s favorite purple robe as she took my left arm and massaged it from wrist to shoulder, then took my right arm and did the same.

“From the very first moment I saw you, Shannon,” she said quietly, “I wanted you to be mine. I’m so glad I got to have you. I sure do love you, honey.”

Normally I would’ve been annoyed to hear her talk that way, but in that moment I needed to feel claimed.

It took five more years to give bad boys up for good, and no one beamed brighter than Gini when I walked down the aisle to marry a faithful, loving man.

But after the birth of my daughter, I realized something had to change between us. Sitting next to her at a family gathering, cradling my baby, I girded myself.

“Gini?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Do you … do you want me to start calling you ‘Mom’?”

The words hung between us; forced and unnatural, then something unexpected happened. Or, I should say, didn’t happen.

Gini didn’t gloat. She simply said, “Whatever you’re comfortable with, honey.”

At sixty-seven, my stepmom no longer wore thick black eyeliner or false eyelashes. Her hair was still the same shade of platinum blond, but worn short, cropped close to her head. She could still intimidate, but was somehow more vulnerable.

As she watched me with my daughter, she said, “From the very first moment I met you, Shannon, I wanted you to be mine. I’m so glad I got to have you. I sure do love you, honey.”

Unexpected tears stung my eyes. My throat thickened.

“I love you too … Mom.”

Uttering that one small word softened my heart, and I forgave her, just a little, for being the one to raise me from nine to nineteen.

And I realized that her love, no matter how I tried to push it away, saved me.

 

Contributed by Shannon Bradley-Colleary who lives in Los Angeles with her screenwriter husband Henry and her two daughters. She started her blog ‘The Woman Formerly Known as Beautiful” because she needed a reinvention and loved the idea of an entrepreneurial business and world dominion.

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How My Daughter Has Inspired Me & Changed My Life

Posted on December 11, 2014 by Inspired by My Mom

When my daughter Nichole was born, her diagnosis of Down syndrome hung over me like a heavy, wet blanket. It clung to me, robbing me from any feelings of love. My motherly instinct was nowhere to be found. I went through the motions of holding and nursing her because I had to, not because I wanted to. I cried. I cried several times a day. There was much fear in the unknown with countless questions about her future, and how her diagnosis would affect our family.

Ellen Stombo with her beautiful, inspiring daughter.

Ellen Stombo with her beautiful, inspiring daughter.

Down syndrome. I knew some things about Down syndrome back then, like the word that could be used to describe my daughter. The R-word. Retarded.

I knew that someday, someone at her school might say to her, “Hey you retard!” with many laughs to follow such a comment. Or maybe it would be used to explain her differences, rather than getting to know her and be open to the gifts and abilities she has to offer.

The word “retard” is used to describe something or someone that is stupid, ridiculous, or inadequate. It is a word used to make fun of others, to point out their flaws, or to put them down. It is a word used to destroy and to tear down.

Thankfully, it did not take long for me to discover that my daughter was not what the word “retarded” means. My daughter was and is beautiful. She is not stupid, she is not ridiculous, and she is not inadequate. She has taught me more in her lifetime than I had learned in mine. She has been the greatest teacher I have had. She has inspired me and changed my life.

My daughter has the ability to touch hearts and change lives. A quality that cannot be said of all people. She has shown me more love, joy, kindness, and gentleness than I had ever known before. Indeed, her life has great meaning, great value, and she has much to offer. She is just like you and me: a human being with feelings, ideas, gifts, talents, and capable of anything she sets her mind to.

A word that has been used to mock people with intellectual disabilities makes others like my child wake up and face a world that has deemed them unworthy and incapable. So next time you hear the R-word, next time you say it, stop and think. Think about my daughter, think about others like her that stand strong against the tide of a word that has labeled them as stupid, ridiculous, or inadequate, because that is not who they are.

As Nichole’s  family, we stand with her….stand with us!

Contributed by Ellen Stumbo,  the founder of Disability Matters. Ellen is a writer and speaker who focuses on sharing the real – sometimes beautiful and sometimes ugly – aspects of faith, church, disability, parenting, and adoption. Ellen’s writing has appeared on Focus on the Family, LifeWay, MomSense, Not Alone, Mamapedia and the Huffington Post.  Ellen blogs at ellenstumbo.com and you can also find her on twitter and Facebook.

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The Montreal Massacre of 14 Women – 25 Years Later

Posted on December 6, 2014 by Inspired by My Mom

The killing began just before 5 pm on December 6th, 1989 at the École Polytechnique – the engineering faculty of the Université de Montréal. Within less than half an hour 28 people had been shot or stabbed.  All the dead were women and they had been singled out.

By the following day we knew that the killer had separated the genders and asked the men to leave because he was targeting women.  I will not even write his name because I don’t want this person to be humanized.  He was “the killer” – he had killed 14 women, wounded numerous others and had 15 more on a hit list.

Ecole Polytechnique

The names I do want to immortalize are those of the 14 women that were brutally murdered that tragic night 25 years ago.

They need to be remembered for the dreams they never had a chance to fulfil, for the buildings they will never design, for the families they never raised, and the lives they never lived.

They also need to be recognized for the impact they had on how others are now viewing violence against women.

  • Geneviève Bergeron (born 1968), civil engineering student
  • Hélène Colgan (born 1966), mechanical engineering student
  • Nathalie Croteau (born 1966), mechanical engineering student
  • Barbara Daigneault (born 1967), mechanical engineering student
  • Anne-Marie Edward (born 1968), chemical engineering student
  • Maud Haviernick (born 1960), materials engineering student
  • Maryse Laganière (born 1964), budget clerk in the school’s finance department
  • Maryse Leclair (born 1966), materials engineering student
  • Anne-Marie Lemay (born 1967), mechanical engineering student
  • Sonia Pelletier (born 1961), mechanical engineering student
  • Michèle Richard (born 1968), materials engineering student
  • Annie St-Arneault (born 1966), mechanical engineering student
  • Annie Turcotte (born 1969), materials engineering student
  • Barbara Klucznik-Widajewicz (born 1958), nursing student

Memories of that night haunt the families, the survivors, those that were witness to the massacre and women on college and university campuses across Canada who organize memorial events annually on its anniversary.

Nathalie Provost recalls “He told us he was there because we were feminists and I just replied that we were not feminists, that we were just studying in an engineering school and that he would be able to come and study with us and then he shot (opened fire)”. She survived being hit with bullets in the forehead, both legs and a foot.

Heidi Rathjen, who was responsible for organizing the memorial for the victims and who has spent the better part of her life advocating for gun control, told The Star in 2009 that she hopes her experiences following the massacre will leave a good example for her own daughter: “She’s going to have a role model. Someone who will not take things sitting down. I dedicated a good part of my life to fight back, to trying to have something good come out of such a horrible tragedy. I suspect that’s what I’ll tell her. `You have to fight back and try to make the world a better place.'”

A quarter of a century later women in Canada and around the world are still widely subject to violence.  In Canada alone, every six days a woman is killed by an intimate partner. On any given day, more than 3,300 women and 3,000 children are forced into emergency shelters to escape domestic violence. Many more women and girls are sexually assaulted, often by “friends” or family.

The Montreal massacre was terrorism, it was violent and spurred the gun control movement in Canada.  Unfortunately, the current government abolished the long gun registry in 2012 blaming cost overruns.  The Province of Québec is still challenging this decision in court mainly due to the Montreal tragedy.

Today, after 25 years, this shooting spree is being recognized as an important day in herstory – this time as a catalyst in the dialogue and the awareness of violence against women.

Let us take a moment to remember these 14 brave women.

Betty Eitner
InspiredByMyMom.com
Founder, Editor, Blogger

If you want to encourage the next generation of female science and engineering students you can make a donation to Folie Technique, École Polytechnique’s science day camp which helps introduce young girls from disadvantaged communities to the world of science.

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What is Bravery? She is 22-year-old Tuğçe Albayrak

Posted on December 2, 2014 by Inspired by My Mom

She was a university student whose dreams of becoming a high-school teacher came to a brutal end one weekend night last month. She stepped in to protect two teenage girls from harassment by three men at a fast food restaurant in central Germany, enraging the girls’ male tormenters. One of the men has reportedly confessed to striking the young woman in the restaurant’s parking lot after confronting her when she left the restaurant. She crumpled to the ground and stopped moving.

Tuğçe Albayrak22-year-old Tuğçe Albayrak didn’t hesitate to run to the aid of two young girls aged 13 and 16 who were crying out for help, but her courageous act cost her her life   She fell into a coma following the attack two weeks ago and, on her 23rd birthday last Friday, her parents made the difficult decision to turn off her life support when doctors told them their precious daughter would never regain consciousness and was brain-dead.

“Like countless citizens, I am shocked and appalled by this terrible act.” German President Joachim Gauck wrote in a letter to Albayrak’s family, “Where other people looked the other way, Tuğçe showed exemplary courage and moral fortitude.” In so doing, he added, she had “become herself a victim of a brutal crime”.

Tuğçe Albayrak’s death on Friday has left Germany in shock. There were candle-lit vigils in Berlin and other cities honoring this brave young woman with signs written in German and Turkish praising her courage. To date, more than 100,000 people have signed a petition calling for the German President, Joachim Gauck, to posthumously award Ms Albayrak the national order of merit.

The irony is that this tragedy and many others like it are daily occurrences at the same time that the UN continues to raise awareness of aggression again females by observing the International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women and 16 Days of Activism against Gender Violence (ending on 10 December, Human Rights Day).

In her message UN Women Executive Director, Phumzile Mlambo-Ngcuka, stresses that violence against women is a human rights violation. It can and must end by addressing its root cause – gender inequality.  “Every year we are reminded how every day, women and girls experience violence in their lives. Women are beaten in their homes, harassed on the streets, bullied on the internet. Globally, one in three women will experience physical or sexual violence at some point in her life.”

Tuğçe Albayrak’s violent death at such a young age needs to anger us; to be a reminder that there is still much to be done; and that we must all believe that we can contribute to ending all violence.

The world CAN be free from violence against women — that is a woman’s inherent right.

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She Has Always Marched to the Beat of Her Own Drum

Posted on November 30, 2014 by Inspired by My Mom

As a young girl I was once asked who my hero was. Without doubt I said, “my mom.” To this day, I would give the same answer. We don’t always see the accurate picture of ourselves through our own eyes. So often that view is skewed by our experiences in life, especially if that life has been a challenging one. So momma, let me show you who you have always been to me. This is who I see through my eyes…

Sabrina Allard and Her Hero, Her Mom Carolyn

Sabrina Allard and Her Hero, Her Mom Carolyn

Artist While she may not admit it, my mom is a true artist. When I was twelve, I went through some old family boxes to find paintings she had created of all my brother’s favorite super heroes, from Ironman to the Hulk. As a baker, she’s beautifully designed an array of cakes for birthdays, weddings, anniversaries and more, even when her time was limited. Throughout the years, she has put her artistic touch into her crafts and home decor. Her style is unique, colorful and well thought out. She’s inspired me as a mother to bring art into our world.

Humanitarian  My mom has dedicated almost 40 years of her life to nursing and taking care of others. As a Hospice nurse for many years, she made the remainder of her patients’ lives comfortable, loving and worry free. My mom is a giver of the heart and no matter how many times it may have been broken by humanities struggles, her spirit has always remained kind and loving. She fights for what’s fair and integral for the human rights of others with compassion.

Adventurer When I was twelve, as a newly single mom, she took my 4 year old sister and I on a trip across the United States in an RV. It was a dream she always had and wanted to share that dream with us. She made sure to stop through each state so we could experience the culture and sights. She even remained patient with my adolescent moodiness, a feat not many could handle. No matter what our financial situation looked like at the time, she always made room for adventure. We took spontaneous trips to Maine, reggae concerts and whale watches. Her spontaneous nature taught me how to have fun in the moment and it’s a gift that I’ve learned to bring to my own family.

Trendsetter My mom has always marched to the beat of her own drum. It’s what truly sets her apart and makes her special. In my youth as I strived to fit in, I didn’t always appreciate this amazing attribute. While she probably didn’t set out to be a trendsetter, her commitment to the strength of individuality always put her in that position. Whether through thought, personal style or interests, she set trends without realizing it. Through the years, this example has given me the strength needed to find my own individuality. A gift I hope to pass onto my own kids

My Hero Mom, you are my hero. My heroine. My inspiration. I strive harder in life because I know all that you’ve sacrificed, loved and lost to make our lives better. A hero isn’t someone who’s perfect. A hero is someone to be admired for their courage, strength and integrity of character at the hardest moments in life. You are beautiful, kind giving and have been such an amazing role model for me to have. Your life is significant, because you have painted a beautiful and rich tapestry. You matter! I love you so much and am so proud to be your daughter. XOXOXO

Contributed by Sabrina Allard of Pinky’s Pen
“My sole purpose is to share life through my lens where I’m consciously creating enthusiasm. Known as being introspective, eclectic, fiery and creative, I strive towards finding ways of enhancing every day personal freedom. I continue on a mission to design life with vibrant style and joy.”

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Playing Your Part to End Violence against Women

Posted on November 25, 2014 by Inspired by My Mom

By UN Women Goodwill Ambassador Nicole Kidman

UN Women Goodwill Ambassador and Academy Award-winner Nicole Kidman raises awareness to end violence against women. With UN Women, she has travelled to countries, highlighting the challenges and solutions on the ground to end violence against women. She has worked to amplify the voices of women survivors, advocating not only for a stop to the pandemic of violence against women, but also for support services for survivors. Here, she urges members of society to play their part in ending this scourge that affects one in three women and girls globally.

At least one in three women and girls will be subjected to violence and abuse in their lifetimes– that’s more than one billion lives destroyed by trauma and injury.

Nicole KidmanOne in three – that is not a just a horrifying statistic. It means at every moment of every day, there is a woman who is suffering a brutal beating in her home, or a devastating sexual assault. It means that somewhere, a girl will lose her childhood when she is forced to marry before she turns eighteen. A young girl is in excruciating pain as her genitals are mutilated, right this minute, leaving her with a lifetime of physical and mental scars. It can be your friend, your neighbour next door, your co-worker. It can be your family member. Who is next?

One in three. As a mother of three daughters the thought is simply unbearable. It is chilling to realize how dangerous the most ordinary places can be for us women and girls. We could be beaten or raped, while simply taking a stroll in the park or on our way to visit a friend; harassed at school, or while browsing the internet. The threat is always there and most often, violence against women and girls occurs where we should be safest – at school, in our homes, with our partners.

One in three. It’s an outrage. I am also the mother of a son. I cannot and will not accept that he should have to live in a world with a distorted notion of masculinity. As long as our boys learn that manliness is equated with dominance and violence is acceptable, we are a long way from the foundation of mutual respect and equality that must inform any relationship between girls and boys, women and men. At the heart of this pandemic of violence against women is the deep rooted inequality between the sexes. We need to rethink and reshape what it means to be a boy or a girl, a man or a woman.

As a Goodwill Ambassador for UN Women, I have met with survivors and learned a lot about what works and what’s needed. I know that the law must protect women and girls to ensure their basic human right to a life free of violence and bring abusers to justice.  I have seen the urgent need for services for survivors – for safe houses, medical assistance, counselling and legal advice.

I remember vividly when the Beijing Fourth World Conference on Women happened in 1995. As a young actress, even though far from the action in Beijing, I experienced it as a moment of great hope and aspiration. Countries everywhere in the world committed to gender equality and made ending violence against women a top priority. They agreed that violence is one of the main barriers to equality, because women and girls lose opportunities to learn, work and thrive, when they experience violence. They face life-altering health consequences. The shame and marginalization can shut them away from public life. No area of women and girls’ lives goes entirely untouched by violence or the potential for it.

Since Beijing, a lot has happened. We can look back and see how a powerful momentum to stop all forms of violence against women and girls has gathered. Many more women and girls today are indeed protected by laws and services. Men and boys have joined the effort to end violence and promote equality. But more needs to be done.

It all starts with us, so don’t look away. Don’t stop the conversation.   To me, there is no greater injustice than violence against women and girls. That’s why, as UN Women’s Goodwill Ambassador, I have spoken most on this issue. As an actress and activist, I can raise my voice and help raise awareness. As a neighbour and friend, I can intervene when I see abuse happening. As a mother, I can teach my children to value and respect themselves and others. I can teach them not to condone or accept discrimination and violence against women and girls.  To make violence against women and girls an issue of the past, we have to start with the generations of today and the future.

Starting from 25 November, the International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women, to 10 December, International Human Rights Day, activists around the world will be taking action, raising their voices against gender-based violence (#16days). They will use the colour orange visibly and creatively to make it impossible for anyone to ignore the issue anymore. Take part in it. Orange YOUR neighborhood to raise awareness (#orangeurhood). Reach out to your neighbours, local stores, schools, libraries and post offices.

Imagine a world free from violence against women and girls. A world where equality and respect and justice are not just ideals, or possible for only a few women and girls, but the norm for all of us.  Each of us has a role to play to make this happen. Play your part.

Cross-posted from UN Women

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A Daughter’s Last Words to Her Mother

Posted on November 22, 2014 by Inspired by My Mom

In my post of October 2, 2014, I included the story of Reyhaneh Jabbari, a young Iranian woman who had been found guilty of murdering the man who attempted to rape her at the age of 19. At that time she had received a temporary reprieve from her execution and the world was hoping that she would be spared. Unfortunately she was hanged on Saturday, October 25, 2014 despite a global online petition and calls from Amnesty International and the United Nations to halt the execution.

The day after her executions, the National Council of the Resistance of Iran posted this English translation of Ms Jabbari’s last touching message to her mother in April.  Even then she was not thinking of how to help herself, but how she could help others – including after her death.

Her mother at Reyhaneh's grave on what would have been her 27th birthday in November

Her mother at Reyhaneh’s grave on what would have been her 27th birthday in November.

“Dear Sholeh, today I learned that it is now my turn to face Qisas (the Iranian regime’s law of retribution). I am hurt as to why you did not let me know yourself that I have reached the last page of the book of my life. Don’t you think that I should know? You know how ashamed I am that you are sad. Why did you not take the chance for me to kiss your hand and that of dad?

The world allowed me to live for 19 years. That ominous night it was I that should have been killed. My body would have been thrown in some corner of the city, and after a few days, the police would have taken you to the coroner’s office to identify my body and there you would also learn that I had been raped as well. The murderer would have never been found since we don’t have their wealth and their power. Then you would have continued your life suffering and ashamed, and a few years later you would have died of this suffering and that would have been that.

However, with that cursed blow the story changed. My body was not thrown aside, but into the grave of Evin Prison and its solitary wards, and now the grave-like prison of Shahr-e Ray. But give in to the fate and don’t complain. You know better that death is not the end of life.

You taught me that one comes to this world to gain an experience and learn a lesson and with each birth a responsibility is put on one’s shoulder. I learned that sometimes one has to fight. I do remember when you told me that the carriage man protested the man who was flogging me, but the flogger hit the lash on his head and face that ultimately led to his death. You told me that for creating a value one should persevere even if one dies.

You taught us that as we go to school one should be a lady in face of the quarrels and complaints. Do you remember how much you underlined the way we behave? Your experience was incorrect. When this incident happened, my teachings did not help me. Being presented in court made me appear as a cold-blooded murderer and a ruthless criminal. I shed no tears. I did not beg. I did not cry my head off since I trusted the law.

You taught me that one comes to this world to gain an experience and learn a lesson and with each birth a responsibility is put on one’s shoulder

But I was charged with being indifferent in face of a crime. You see, I didn’t even kill the mosquitoes and I threw away the cockroaches by taking them by their antennas. Now I have become a premeditated murderer. My treatment of the animals was interpreted as being inclined to be a boy and the judge didn’t even trouble himself to look at the fact that at the time of the incident I had long and polished nails.

How optimistic was he who expected justice from the judges! He never questioned the fact that my hands are not coarse like those of a sportswoman, especially a boxer. And this country that you planted its love in me never wanted me and no one supported me when under the blows of the interrogator I was crying out and I was hearing the most vulgar terms. When I shed the last sign of beauty from myself by shaving my hair I was rewarded: 11 days in solitary.

Dear Sholeh, don’t cry for what you are hearing. On the first day that in the police office an old unmarried agent hurt me for my nails I understood that beauty is not looked for in this era. The beauty of looks, beauty of thoughts and wishes, a beautiful handwriting, beauty of the eyes and vision, and even beauty of a nice voice.

My dear mother, my ideology has changed and you are not responsible for it. My words are unending and I gave it all to someone so that when I am executed without your presence and knowledge, it would be given to you. I left you much handwritten material as my heritage.

However, before my death I want something from you, that you have to provide for me with all your might and in any way that you can. In fact this is the only thing I want from this world, this country and you. I know you need time for this. Therefore, I am telling you part of my will sooner. Please don’t cry and listen. I want you to go to the court and tell them my request. I cannot write such a letter from inside the prison that would be approved by the head of prison; so once again you have to suffer because of me. It is the only thing that if even you beg for it I would not become upset although I have told you many times not to beg to save me from being executed.

The world did not love us. It did not want my fate. And now I am giving in to it and embrace the death.

My kind mother, dear Sholeh, the one more dear to me than my life, I don’t want to rot under the soil. I don’t want my eye or my young heart to turn into dust. Beg so that it is arranged that as soon as I am hanged my heart, kidney, eye, bones and anything that can be transplanted be taken away from my body and given to someone who needs them as a gift. I don’t want the recipient know my name, buy me a bouquet, or even pray for me. I am telling you from the bottom of my heart that I don’t want to have a grave for you to come and mourn there and suffer. I don’t want you to wear black clothing for me. Do your best to forget my difficult days. Give me to the wind to take away.

The world did not love us. It did not want my fate. And now I am giving in to it and embrace the death. Because in the court of God I will charge the inspectors, I will charge inspector Shamlou, I will charge judge, and the judges of country’s Supreme Court that beat me up when I was awake and did not refrain from harassing me. In the court of the creator I will charge Dr. Farvandi, I will charge Qassem Shabani and all those that out of ignorance or with their lies wronged me and trampled on my rights and didn’t pay heed to the fact that sometimes what appears as reality is different from it.

Dear soft-hearted Sholeh, in the other world it is you and me who are the accusers and others who are the accused. Let’s see what God wants. I wanted to embrace you until I die. I love you.”

Reyhaneh
April 1, 2014

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How I Was Inspired By an Olympian

Posted on November 18, 2014 by Inspired by My Mom

I have always been in awe of Olympic athletes. I deeply admire their dedication, determination and drive. While in Mexico in December, I met my first Olympian – Muffy Davis who has won seven Olympic medals. We met when our kids started playing together at the pool. Within five minutes of talking to Muffy Davis, I knew she was someone special. She inspired me beyond belief and taught me lessons about life, and of course leadership, that I will never forget.

Muffy Davis with 3 Gold Medals she won in London 2012

Muffy Davis with 3 Gold Medals she won in London 2012 at the Paralympic Games

But before I share the ways in which Muffy inspired me, I’d like to tell you her inspiring story. Muffy started skiing when she was three years old. By age seven she was already dreaming of Olympic gold.  At age sixteen she was poised to be part of the US National Ski Team. But one morning, while training, Muffy had a freak skiing accident that left her paralyzed from the chest down.

 After her accident, Muffy felt lost. She couldn’t imagine a fulfilling life in a wheel chair and wanted to die.  But over time she realized that her initial fears were unfounded. She realized that change is extremely difficult but it doesn’t have to be something altogether negative. So, Muffy made a decision to “SurThrive”. And SurThrive she has. While in a wheelchair she has accomplished many things that most of us just dream of doing. She has climbed mountains, been deep-sea diving, rolled across the Great Wall of China, ridden on elephants in Thailand as well as graduating from Stanford University. In 1998 she started competing in skiing at the Paralympics. In London in 2012 she achieved her dream of winning gold three times over for Handcycling.

Muffy’s amazing courage and determination has moved me in so many ways. I’d like to share with you the top two ways she has inspired me both in leadership and in life. 

1. Perseverance: Despite difficulty or delay in achieving success, don’t give up. Keep focused on your goals and don’t let any obstacles or challenges dissuade you from moving forward. 

2. Positive Mindset: Against all odds we can all achieve whatever we believe is possible. Your life may turn out differently than what you expected but with a positive mindset and winning attitude you can create great success and a tremendous amount of fulfillment.

In her inspiring TEDX Talk, Muffy mentions that her life is different but no less because of her disability.

We all have dreams for ourselves; we all struggle through challenges and difficult times. Yet with perseverance and a positive mindset, we can all accomplish great things. Sitting pool-side with Muffy, she told me about her proudest moment. She remembers, after winning her first gold medal, looking up and seeing her daughter, Elle, and knowing that she has been a positive role model. Muffy has shown Elle that against all odds you can accomplish whatever you believe is possible.  Thank you Muffy Davis for the lessons and inspiration. I’ll be cheering you on at that Pan Am Games in Toronto next year.

 

Contributed by Vanessa Judelman, President of Mosaic People Development, who has an impressive record of achievement as a certified coach working with executives and leaders at all levels.  Noted as an expert in her industry, Vanessa strives for balance in her life, often achieved in a yoga class or by regaling her two young boys with childhood tales of her early years growing up in South Africa.

 

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She Lost Both Parents, Survived Ebola and Is Now Helping Others Fight It

Posted on November 14, 2014 by Inspired by My Mom

Salome Karwah thought her life was over when she tested positive for Ebola. But after recovering at the Elwa 3 Doctors Without Borders/Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) Ebola treatment center in Monrovia, Liberia, she began working as a mental health counselor there, helping others to fight the virus. Here she tells her story.

Salome Karwah, Ebola survivor turned caretaker with MSF in Liberia. Photo credit Adolphus Mawolo1MSF

Salome Karwah, Ebola survivor turned caretaker with MSF in Liberia.
Photo credit Adolphus Mawolo MSF

“It all started with a severe headache and a fever. Then, later, I began to vomit and I got diarrhea. My father was sick and my mother too. My niece, my fiancé, and my sister had all fallen sick. We all felt helpless.

It was my uncle who first got the virus in our family. He contracted it from a woman he helped bring to hospital. He got sick and called our father for help, and our father went to him to bring him to a hospital for treatment. A few days after our father came back, he too got sick. We all cared for him and got infected too.

On August 21, I and my whole family made our way to MSF’s Ebola treatment center in Monrovia. When we arrived at the treatment unit, the nurses took my mother and me to the same tent. My fiancé, my sister, my father, and my niece were taken to separate tents. My sister was pregnant and had a miscarriage.

They took our blood and we waited for them to announce the results. After the lab test, I was confirmed positive. I thought that was the end of my world. I was afraid, because we had heard people say that if you catch Ebola, you die. The rest of my family also tested positive for the virus.

After a few days in the isolation ward, my condition became worse. My mother was also fighting for her life. She was in a terrible state. At that point, the nurses made the decision to move me to another tent. By then, I barely understood what was going on around me. I was unconscious. I was helpless. The nurses had to bathe me, change my clothes, and feed me. I was vomiting constantly and I was very weak.

I was feeling severe pains inside my body. The feeling was overpowering. Ebola is like a sickness from a different planet. It comes with so much pain. It causes so much pain that you can feel it in your bones. I’d never felt pain like this in my lifetime.

My mother and father died while I was battling for my life. I didn’t know they were dead. It was only one week later, when I had started recovering, that the nurses told me that they had passed away. I was sad, but I had to accept that it had happened. I was shocked that I had lost both my parents. But god spared my life from the disease, as well as the lives of my sister, my niece, and my fiancé.

Though I am sad at the death of my parents, I’m happy to be alive. God could not have allowed the entire family to perish. He kept us alive for a purpose.

I am grateful to the workers here for their care. They are very nice people. They really care for their patients. The care, the medication, and encouragement can help a patient to survive.

When you’re sick with Ebola, you always have to encourage yourself: take your medication; drink enough fluids—whether it’s oral rehydration solution or water or juices—but don’t keep your system empty. Even if they bring you food and you don’t have any appetite to eat, just eat the soup.

After 18 days in the treatment center, the nurses came in one morning and took my blood and carried it to the laboratory for testing. Later that evening, at around 5:00PM, I saw them return. They came and announced to me that I was ready to go home because I had tested negative.

Then I felt that my life had begun again. I went home with joy, despite having lost my parents.

I arrived back home feeling happy, but my neighbors were still afraid of me. Few of them welcomed me back; others are still afraid to be around me—they say that I still have Ebola. There was a particular group that kept calling our house “Ebola home.”

But, to my surprise, I saw one of the ladies in the group come to my house to ask me to take her mother to the treatment center because she was sick with Ebola. I did it, and I felt happy that at least she knows now that someone cannot go to a supermarket to buy Ebola. It’s a disease that anyone—any family—can get. If someone has Ebola, it isn’t good to stigmatize them, because you don’t know who is next in line to contract the virus.

Now, I am back at the treatment center, helping people who are suffering from the virus to recover. I am working as a mental health counselor. I find pleasure in helping people, and that is what brought me here. My efforts here may help other people to survive.

When I am on a shift, I counsel my patients; I talk to them and I encourage them. If a patient doesn’t want to eat, I encourage them to eat. If they are weak and are unable to bathe on their own, I help to bathe them. I help them with all my might because I understand the experience—I’ve been through the very same thing.

I feel happy in my new role. I treat my patients as if they are my children. I talk to them about my own experiences. I tell them my story to inspire them and to let them know that they too can survive. This is important, and I think it will help them.

My elder brother and my sister are happy for me to work here. They support me in this 100 percent. Even though our parents didn’t survive the virus, we can help other people to recover. ”

Originally posted on www.doctorswithoutborders.org

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