From child marriage to pursuing my dream: My journey as a community health worker

At 13, people were lining up at my wedding. Now people line up outside my house for health services. I’ve helped to save hundreds of lives.

BY NILAFUR YASMIN

The neighbors called me a woman of loose morals. My in-laws cursed me. My husband yelled at me every day. Most days it felt like the whole world was against me.

I faced a choice. I could go back to being a well-behaved, dutiful wife and mother, and spend the rest of my days as a housewife.

Or, I could take the more difficult path — of pursuing my dreams.

I decided not to behave.

The trouble began when I enrolled in a training program to become a shasthya shebika, or community health worker, in Gazipur, Bangladesh, where I lived.

I was a member of a BRAC pollishomaj, or women-led organization, at the time. I was earning a few takas raising chickens and depositing the money with the organization to build savings. My in-laws tolerated it, but only because they saw it as an income-generating activity, and that I was doing it with women. Then, one day, a BRAC staff member I knew told me about a position as a community health worker.

I jumped at the chance.

It was my dream as a child to become a doctor. But those dreams had been shattered when I was married at 13. I had only studied up to class eight. My father’s view was that girls needed to get married as soon as possible — it was boys that needed education.

Was life giving me a second chance with this opportunity? I was hesitant. I was barely 19 with two children, and hadn’t finished secondary school. Would I be able to do it? I set my fears aside and decided to take a chance. I knew I would regret it if I didn’t.

I went to the BRAC office. A staff member handed me a newspaper and asked me to read the contents out loud. He listened for a minute or two, then smiled and said I could enroll in the course.

I learned about nutrition, safe delivery, family planning, immunizations, hygiene, water and sanitation. I trained for 22 days. I felt like I was doing something I had chosen for myself for the first time in my life.

Then the whispering started.

The neighbors began to say I was doing something terrible under the guise of training. Some openly hinted I was a prostitute, leaving my young children behind every day to go to the training center.

I steeled myself and pushed on.

When the murmurs reached my in-laws, they reacted sharply. They said I could no longer go out to work. I was grounded, my husband told me. My work was bringing dishonor to the family.

For the first time in my life, I was defiant. I argued that, using the skills I had learned, I could help people in need and care for the sick while earning both money and respect. What was the harm?

My husband had outdated ideas about a woman’s role. He screamed at me. My mother-in-law told him I was out of control and would soon leave. This would further enrage him.

By that time I had finished my training. I started sneaking out to go door-to-door, measuring blood pressure, checking the weight of babies and pregnant women. I sold health products, like basic medicine, sanitary napkins, and soap, using a small loan I got from BRAC.

I unexpectedly got support from a few young women living in the area. We attended pollishomaj meetings together. Then I was elected president of the committee.

But things were going downhill at home. My husband’s abusive behavior got worse. Within four years of starting work as a community health worker, I got divorced.

Living back at my parent’s house, I flung myself into my work, walking from door to door with a cloth bag over my shoulder. I sold around BDT 500 worth of medicine every day. That was a significant amount of money for me, something I had never earned before.

I was selected for further training and went to Rajendrapur town for a six-month course. I learned about treating pneumonia, tuberculosis and other infectious diseases.

It was when I was at Rajendrapur that I took stock of my life. I was doing the work I loved. But I wanted someone to walk with me. Once again, I decided to take a chance. I told my parents I wanted to get married again.

My second husband lives in Qatar and only comes to Bangladesh occasionally. We have a son.

His parents were initially a little skeptical of my work, but I worked to win them over. One night, I helped a neighbor who was going through a difficult labor. I checked her vitals, referred her to the hospital, and then stayed with her until delivery. This impressed my in-laws. I haven’t had a problem with them since.

My husband and I have built a little house on a plot of land that my father owns. Out front is a hand-written sign that says: shasthya shebika’s house. This helps people find me. They come from near and far. I look after almost 300 households now.

I have helped deliver approximately 500 babies, and assisted thousands of people with health complications. Often people line up in front of my house early in the morning to get their blood pressure checked or to measure their blood sugar.

Many young people in my area look to me for leadership on health and social issues. I don’t see myself as a leader, just a person with some technical knowledge who wants to pass it on.

I may not have become a doctor, but I do provide health care. People rely on me. They know that if my phone rings even in the middle of the night, I will be ready.

People used to complain to my parents that I was spoiling young women, and that I was a bad daughter. The other day, I overheard one of those same people tell my father, “Your daughter is worth two sons.”

That is reward enough for me.

Nilafur Yasmin is Community Health Worker at BRAC.