Looking after your children in the modern age means empowering them to look after themselves. So here’s a tale of a mother-daughter outing with a difference.
“Mom, men would be more reluctant to attack women if they knew we had ninja skills.”
This from Kid 2 while we’re driving to a mother and daughter self-defence class. I’ve signed us up after hearing about it on a Facebook parenting group. I didn’t hesitate. This is essential.
A few days before the class, she’s sceptical. Why are we going? My boys, Kids 1 and 3, feel left out. What about a self-defence class for boys? Isn’t this sexist? You’ll get your chance, I tell them. This, a class for women, is important. Yes, boys get attacked too, but in South Africa, the wretched truth is that women are subjected to gender-based violence on a daily basis. And my daughter, I’m determined, will be equipped.
In response to her scepticism, I choose a private moment between the two of us, and tell her I need to tell her a story. She giggles, and says it makes her nervous when I get “all serious”. More than 20 years ago, I tell her, while I was walking along the road on a quiet morning, I was attacked by a stranger. I tell her it was a turning point, when I realised the world could be a frightening place. She says it makes her angry. Good. A little anger is good.
I say I want her to be aware of danger – not to let it dominate her thoughts, but to be alert – and that when it happens to her (I correct myself to say ‘’if” it happens to her) a class like this will teach her to defend herself, and to be strong and courageous.
When we arrive, we’re separated for an hour to listen to a presentation. Hers is for younger girls, aged 13 to 14. During mine, there are moments when I have to turn and look out of the window at the calm blue sea to compose myself. The presenter pulls no punches as she relates stories of how easily and quickly attacks happen. We’re in the right place, I remind myself. I’m equipping her.
It’s two hours of intensive training. We role play someone grabbing us from behind, grabbing our arms, pinning us to the ground. It’s during the training that I realise I’m also equipping myself. I feel triumphant as I almost knock my partner over during one of the exercises.
When Kid 2 and I are reunited after the class, her face is pink from exertion. She tells me that one of the exercises made her want to cry. Why would someone think they have a right to pin her to the ground? She tells me that when she made a mistake during one of the exercises, she apologised, and her partner told her not to, to try again. She tells me that the last exercise, punching into her partner’s protected hand, was invigorating, and made her feel strong and empowered.
On the way back, we sing along loudly and badly to Alanis Morissette songs. “You must have got very tired, fighting for that length of time,” she says, recalling my attack. I tell her I don’t remember feeling tired. All I remember thinking is “No”. No, you will not get me into that car. No, you will not drive me to a remote place to rape me. No, you will not kill me. No.
Kid 2 and I took a step that day towards developing our ninja skills and being able to say No to violence. It was a small step, but I’m confident that it was a significant one.
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