No man, except for those raised here as children, lives in Umoja village in Kenya; one has not for two decades. It is a village only of and for women, women who have been abused, raped, and forced from their homes.

No man, except for those raised here as children, lives in Umoja village in Kenya. Credit: Hannah Rubenstein/IPS

But in this remote village, located in the grasslands of Samburu district, this mantra does not ring true. In Umoja, as one female resident says, “We are our own heads.”

Umoja, which means “unity” in Swahili, holds a unique status in the country: it is a village populated solely by women. For more than two decades, no men have been permitted to reside here.

The rule is one of the requirements of a community that has fought against overwhelming odds to become a place of refuge for women. It is a sanctuary where men – who have been the cause of so many problems for these women – are simply not welcome.

In the 22 years since its founding, the village has had a significant impact not only on the women who choose to call Umoja home but within the communities that surround it. The example that Umoja has set, coupled with the outreach efforts of its residents, has touched the lives of women in the region.

Celena Green, who is the Africa programme director for an organisation called Vital Voices that works with the women of Umoja, told IPS: “The existence of Umoja has allowed women’s groups in other surrounding villages to learn from the empowerment and pride of the Umoja women.”

Women from nearby communities attend workshops in the village that are aimed at educating women and girls about human rights, gender equity, and violence prevention. When the women return home, Green explained, “they begin to change the culture, demanding a safe, violence free community where women and girls are valued and protected.”

“Ideally, no woman or girl should ever have to flee her home to come to Umoja in the first place,” she added. “But ultimately, the aim of Umoja is to provide an emergency safe haven for those women who are in distress, and more importantly to contribute toward building communities where everyone is valued and can succeed.”

Umoja’s history began in 1990, when a collective of 15 Samburu women, who called themselves the Umoja Uaso Women’s Group, began selling beadwork and other goods to raise money for themselves and their families. As the group began to grow financially lucrative, they found themselves facing increasing harassment by men in their communities who felt that economic growth was not appropriate for the women, who traditionally play a subordinate role.

In response, the women, led by matriarch Rebecca Lolosoli, decided to break away and begin their own village, in order to ensure security and cooperation for themselves out of the reach of those who sought to undermine them.

Today, Umoja is home to 48 women who have come from all over the country. Their stories vary – some were young girls fleeing forced marriages to old men, others were raped or sexually abused, and several were widows who were shunned by their communities. Moreover, several women residing in the village are Turkana, taking refuge from the tribal violence currently raging in the central region of Isiolo.

The villagers, who rely on the sale of beadwork and profits from a nearby campsite and cultural center, pool their funds as a collective to support themselves. In addition to providing food and basic necessities for village residents, profits are used to cover medical fees and the operation of a school that serves both the village’s children and its adult women who wish to learn basic skills and literacy.

Nagusi Lolemu, an older woman with delicate hands and a melodious voice, is one of the village’s original founders. Sitting in the shade, her nimble fingers string red beads deftly in one fluid, unthinking movement, as she speaks rapidly in Samburu.

Lolemu’s story echoes a recurring theme in the village: she was widowed after years of marriage and subsequently rejected by the community she called home. “There were too many single women,” she explained to IPS through a translator. Single women, who are not permitted to hold property in Samburu culture, and generally are not educated, are viewed as a financial drain on the community. When her husband passed away, she was no longer welcome in her home.

Nagusi, who has been living in Umoja for 22 years, has two grown children. She does not question her decision to leave her home for Umoja.

“My children are educated, working, and giving back to the family and the community,” she told IPS. “In a regular village, this could not happen.”

In her village – like any other traditional community – there is little opportunity for women’s education and the consequential financial benefits it brings, she explained. Her daughter would have grown up as she did, illiterate and dependent on men for all her basic needs.

“Here,” Lolemu said, matter-of-factly, “everyone is equal.”

Green echoes this statement, explaining to IPS: “In a traditional village, women may not have had the opportunity to exercise leadership, to be in control of their wealth or resources, and they would more likely experience domestic violence, female genital cutting, child marriage and other traditional practices that discriminate against and physically harm women and children.”

In addition to barring men from residing in the village, the women of Umoja live by a set of self- imposed rules, which, as Lolemu explained, are based on ensuring equality and mutual respect within the village.

Residents are required to wear the traditional clothes and intricate beadwork jewelry of their people at all times, in order to preserve and promote their cultural heritage. The practice of female genital mutilation is not permitted. And the only males allowed to sleep in the village are those who have been raised there as children.

One of the most striking aspects of Umoja is the women’s attitude towards men. In a place where men have been the root cause of so many hardships, and, in most cases, the reason the residents fled their homes, it is tempting to think that the victims want nothing more to do with them and are happy to live the rest of their lives surrounded by other women. This is not the case at all – in fact, most of the younger women in the village plan on marrying and raising families.

The difference is that they are going to do it on their own terms.

Judy, a 19-year-old resident who fled an arranged marriage to a much older, polygamous man five years ago, is planning on getting married some day. She dates – outside the confines of the village, which is not only permitted but encouraged by the older residents – and is raising a six-month-old named Ivan, who squirms and coos in her arms as she speaks. One day, she will marry and leave Umoja for her husband’s village. But, until then, she is happy here.

When asked if there is anything she misses from her previous life, any element of living in a women’s- only village that she finds lacking, she laughs.

“No. Here we have everything,” she says, and smiles.

In Umoja, women are not only their own “heads” – each is her entire body.

Ayana rises before the sun. She bathes, dresses, and leaves the house before her daughters awake.

Transferring from bus to train to taxi, she arrives at the high-rise apartment an hour later as the sky begins to lighten. She will prepare breakfast for the children, pack their lunches, see them off to school, clean the apartment, wash the laundry, pick the children up, take them to piano lessons and soccer practice, return to the apartment, bathe and dress them, prepare dinner, monitor homework, and wash the dishes.

The sky will be dark again 12 hours later when Ayana boards the departing train. When she arrives home, her daughters will be in bed. She’ll kiss them goodnight and turn off the lights.

In the next week, Ayana will spend upwards of 50 hours caring for children and a home that are not her own. For her effort, she will earn a low wage that hovers on the federal poverty line. She will not receive overtime wages, paid time off, or health insurance. She does not have a work contract. She will likely not be paid on time. With her paltry salary, she must support a household of four and send a portion of her earnings to her family back in Trinidad. She will be late on her rent payment. Again.

Ayana’s situation is not an exception to the rule. She is a composite of domestic workers in the U.S., the majority of who are immigrant women of colour being exploited for poverty wages. She is the Average Domestic Worker – one of approximately 2.5 million living and working in the United States.

Ayana is representative of the urban domestic workforce as a whole, defined as anyone employed to work in a private home by the head(s) of household, including nannies, housekeepers, elderly companions, cleaners, babysitters, baby nurses, and cooks.

Estimates of the number of domestic workers in New York City range from 200,000 to 600,000, with speculation that the population is even greater. Jill Shenker, lead organiser of the National Domestic Workers Alliance (NDWA), tells TerraViva that “one of the realities of this workforce across the world is that it isn’t very well understood or researched.”

Currently, there is no comprehensive national data available, although NDWA is planning to launch a countrywide survey in 2011 aimed at gathering statistics on the workforce.

What is known about the domestic workforce is that it is underpaid and overworked. A 2006 Domestic Workers United (DWU) report that has provided the most conclusive data on the workforce surveyed 547 domestic workers in New York from 42 countries, and found that 99 percent of domestic workers are foreign-born, 95 percent are of colour, and 93 percent are women. The majority of workers are from Latin America, the Caribbean, and the Philippines.

Not surprisingly, the domestic work industry in the U.S. has roots in slavery. Following abolition, domestic work became a predominantly African-American, female occupation. After the Civil Rights movement of the 1970s expanded work options for African-American women, the domestic workforce began to swell with immigrant women of colour seeking to escape the poverty of their birthplaces.

Because of its fraught history, domestic work – like farm work, the other traditional slave occupation in the United States – has never been subject to any legal protections. Domestic workers have been excluded from the National Labour Relations Act, Fair Labour Standards Act (FLSA), Occupational Safety and Health Act (OSHA), Civil Rights Law, Americans with Disabilities Act, and the Age Discrimination in Employment Act, either as “casual employees” not protected by the law, as with FLSA, or as “a matter of policy,” in the case of OSHA.

Groups like Domestic Workers United, and its umbrella organisation, the National Domestic Workers Alliance, have been fighting for change. Recently, by a small margin of 33- 28, the New York State Senate passed a Domestic Workers Bill of Rights ensuring workplace protection and standards for domestic workers, defeating opposition from legislators claiming that their constituents couldn’t afford to pay overtime and severance wages.

The New York State Assembly passed a similar measure last year; once the bills are reconciled, Governor David Paterson has agreed to sign the measure into law.

In other states in the U.S., such as California and Colorado, workers rights groups are campaigning for similar legislation. Shenker says the most beneficial step would be federal legislation ensuring workers rights.

“Basic protections and a basic understanding of the household as a workplace for millions of people could help us move forward at a faster rate,” she tells TerraViva.

The Domestic Workers Bill of Rights promises change. There are discrepancies between the Assembly and Senate versions of the bill, but both share a commitment to improving domestic work conditions.

Under the Domestic Bill of Rights – which many activists hope will be the blueprint for federal legislation – Ayana would be paid for overtime, or time-and-a-half, for every hour worked above 40 hours per week. She would be guaranteed one day off per week. Depending on the final version of the bill, Ayana could earn a limited number of paid vacation, holiday, and sick days; a guarantee of severance pay; protection from workplace discrimination; and inclusion in collective bargaining and disability laws.

*This story was originally published by IPS TerraViva with the support of UNIFEM and the Dutch MDG3 Fund.