{"id":291,"date":"2025-11-11T16:19:59","date_gmt":"2025-11-11T15:19:59","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/grassrootsinsolidarity.com\/?page_id=291"},"modified":"2026-05-20T09:38:47","modified_gmt":"2026-05-20T07:38:47","slug":"umoja-das-frauendorf-in-kenia","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/womeninsolidarity.org\/en\/umoja-das-frauendorf-in-kenia\/","title":{"rendered":"Umoja the Women\u2019s Village"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t

Umoja the Women\u2019s Village<\/h1>\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t

The road winds past pineapple plantations and stretches of deep red earth \u2014 soil so vivid and fertile I\u2019ve never seen anything like it before. After the pineapples come banana trees, mangoes, sweet potatoes and maize.\nWe drive by coffee plantations, fruit stalls, and flocks of sheep grazing along the roadside, while Mount Kenya looms protectively on the horizon. The journey takes me from Nairobi, through Nanyuki, and north-east towards Somalia \u2014 to a place called Archer\u2019s Post.<\/p>

The Legacy of Colonialism<\/strong><\/p>

The greater the beauty of the land, the harsher the story it tells \u2014 one of conquest, violence and humiliation. For many Kenyans, that story didn\u2019t end with independence in 1963, no matter what Western history books imply. As I travel north, I pass the faint but persistent scars of colonial continuity.<\/p>

On the pineapple plantations, my travel companion Bethi Ngari tells me, it\u2019s the American corporation Del Monte that holds power. Local people are allowed to harvest the fruits of their own soil for poor wages. Those who don\u2019t work fast enough are punished \u2014 guard dogs are set on them, or they\u2019re beaten by supervisors. The fruit is then preserved, sweetened with industrial sugar, and sold in sterile tins to supermarket chains around the world.<\/p>

It\u2019s much the same with coffee. Foreign companies still exploit Kenya\u2019s land and people, selling coffee abroad for high prices, while most Kenyans themselves drink instant coffee from Nestl\u00e9 \u2014 small plastic sachets that are cheaper than the aromatic beans grown under their own sun, in their own rich red soil.<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t

\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t

Then come the British army bases. For years, villagers nearby have protested against the toxic waste the troops leave behind and the fatal accidents caused by weapons testing. Increasingly, there are also reports of sexual violence \u2014 British soldiers assaulting Kenyan women in the surrounding communities.<\/p>

I let these images of suffering pass in silence, aware that the story of Umoja \u2014 the women\u2019s village at Archer\u2019s Post \u2014 is woven into this same troubled history.<\/p>

Rebecca Lolosoli - Founder of Umoja<\/strong><\/p>

By the banks of the Ewaso Nyiro River, which runs beside the village, I meet Rebecca Lolosoli \u2014 a Samburu woman (the Samburu are an Indigenous community in northern Kenya) and the founder of Umoja. I\u2019ve never met a queen, but sitting next to her, I think I know what it might feel like.<\/p>

Rebecca radiates wisdom and authority, even through her tiredness. She is constantly travelling \u2014 speaking at conferences, organising women, raising awareness about gender-based violence, collecting donations, and holding together a community of more than forty women* and over a hundred children, all of whom have fled violence.
To explain how Africa\u2019s first \u2014 and still only \u2014 women\u2019s village, Umoja (Swahili for \u201cunity\u201d) came to be, Rebecca takes me back to the early 1990s, when she ran a small grocery shop in Archer\u2019s Post.<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t

\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t

She opened it simply to feed her six children and herself. But soon she found she couldn\u2019t ignore the women* who sat outside her shop, destitute, clothed in rags, often with small children, and desperate to tell someone their stories. They told her about the rapes committed by British soldiers \u2014 and how their husbands and families had cast them out in shame. Abortion was illegal, so if they became pregnant, they were forced to carry the child and, once it was born, ordered to kill it. Others came to her fleeing their husbands\u2019 beatings.<\/p>

Many were sick with malaria or other diseases, their children malnourished. Rebecca gave them food and paid hospital bills out of her own meagre income. Her husband and his family warned her to stop, threatened her, argued constantly.<\/p>

Some women* tried to earn a little money by brewing and selling illegal alcohol. If the police caught them, they were imprisoned \u2014 their children left to fend for themselves. Rebecca saw toddlers lying alone in the dirt, mothers dying of illness, children sitting beside their mothers\u2019 corpses for days, thinking they were asleep until the smell became unbearable.<\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t

\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t<\/path><\/path><\/path><\/path><\/path><\/g><\/svg>\t\t\t<\/span>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\tRead On<\/span>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/span>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t<\/path><\/clippath><\/defs><\/path><\/g><\/path><\/g><\/path><\/g><\/path><\/g><\/path><\/g><\/path><\/g><\/g><\/g><\/g><\/svg>\t\t\t<\/span>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\tDonate now<\/span>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/span>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t