By Lisa J Shannon, Zainab Salbi
She created a starting place known as Run for Congo ladies, with the objective to elevate cash to sponsor 30 Congolese ladies. What begun as a solo 30-mile run has now grown right into a nationwide association in reference to ladies for girls foreign. Run for Congo girls holds fundraising runs in 4 international locations and ten states, and maintains to elevate cash and wisdom. In A Thousand Sisters, Lisa stocks firsthand money owed of her reviews vacationing the Congo, the ladies she’s helped, and the relationships she’s shaped. With compelling tales of why she continues to be dedicated to this reason, Lisa evokes her viewers to arrive out and aid besides, forming a sisterhood that transcends geographic boundaries.
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Extra resources for A thousand sisters: my journey into the worst place on earth to be a woman
That story, the story of a few individuals acting upon injustice even though they have not witnessed it firsthand has always existed, and that is the story that adds to the hope survivors share when they triumph over the evil they have witnessed. With every story of injustice, there were always those who refused to stand silent, who made a conscious choice to act, regardless of the consequences, the price, and the impact on one’s life. It was a few individuals who had never been part of the slave trade who decided to act in the late eighteenth century in London, England, leading eventually to the global abolitionist movement.
I stare at the one-foot-square, simple wooden box of ashes with my mind locked on the impossibility of the math. How can my father, who was six-four and weighed 250 pounds, fit in that little container—even reduced to ashes? What percentage of his body is this? I try to calculate. We are burying just a portion of his ashes. The rest will be displayed in bits and pieces. Some are split between three pink and green cloisonné mini-urns on my mother’s mantel. Some are in a “Granddaddy” Build-a-Bear made for my niece.
I stood my ground, squarely in front of Trevor, shielding him with the hard fact there is no social status to be gained from hitting a girl. The crowd disbanded. Later that year, I saw an ambulance in front of the school. Down the main corridor, covered in bandages, came Trevor; he was being wheeled out by paramedics. Someone had cornered him in the locker room and beaten his head against the cement floor until he collapsed, bloody. The teacher who found him called 911. A lot of us, when we were kids, couldn’t stand to see a starving stray cat.