Chimamanda Adichie on World Humanitarian Day

Distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen, good evening. I’m very honored to be here.
In 1967, almost 50 years ago, my parents lived in Nsukka, a university town in Eastern Nigeria.
They had 2 small children, a house, a car, friends. A stable life. Then the Nigeria Biafra War
started.
Only days later, my parents heard the sound of shelling and gunfire. So frightening, so close, that
they had very little time to pack anything before they ran. They left almost all their belongings
behind.
They ended up in another town, a town already very crowded. They could not find a place to
stay. Even the refugee camps were full. My father was desperate. He was worried about being
out in the open, because of the possibility of air raids. He knew a man who was from that town, a
man named Emmanuel Isike. Emmanuel lived in a cramped house, that was full of people.
Members of his extended family, people whose homes the war had also smashed.
My father also knew that it would be very difficult for Emmanuel to accommodate them. Very
difficult to stretch what was already badly stretched. Still, my father knocked on Emmanuel’s
door. Emmanuel looked at my parents, holding on to their 2 small daughters, their faces
shadowed in despair. And he said, “We will make room for you.” I think often of that moment.
Because I wonder if my parents would’ve survived the war, had they not benefited from that act
of kindness?
For 3 years, my parents were refugees. And they owed a lot, not only to Emmanuel, but also to
many humanitarian workers. Those women and men, magnificent in their bravery and their
vulnerability and their commitment. But my parents were not just refugees. Nobody is ever just a
refugee. Nobody is ever just a single thing. And yet, in the public discourse today, we often
speak of people as single things. Refugee, immigrant. We dehumanize people when we reduce
them to a single thing. And this dehumanization is insidious and unconscious.
It happened to me some years ago. I was visiting Mexico from the US. And at the time, just as it
is now, the political climate in the US was tense. And there were debates going on about
immigration. And immigration was often synonymous with Mexicans. And Mexicans were all
portrayed through a singular lens of negativity. There were stories about Mexicans being arrested
at the border, stealing, fleecing the health care system, bringing disease.
I remember walking around on my first day in Guadalajara, a beautiful city. Watching people
who were going to work and school. People who are laughing. People who were buying and
selling in the market. At first I felt surprised, and then I was overwhelmed with shame. I realized
that I had been so immersed in the American media’s narrow coverage of Mexicans, that I had
forgotten their humanity. And I could not have been more ashamed of myself.
In my language Igbo, the word for love—In Igbo, the word for love is Ifunanya. And it’s literal
translation is, “To see.” So I would like to suggest today that this is a time for a new narrative. A
narrative in which we truly see those about whom we speak.
Let us tell a different story. Let us tell the story differently. Let us remember that the movement
of human beings on earth is not new. Human history is a story of movement and mingling. Let us
remember that we are not just bones and flesh, we are emotional beings. We all share a desire to
be valued, a desire to matter. Let us remember that dignity is as important as food.
When we speak of people who are in need, let us speak not only of their need, but also of what
they love. What they resent, what wounds their pride, what they aspire to. What makes them
laugh? Because if we do, then we are reminded of how similar we are in the midst of our
differences. And we are better able to imagine ourselves in the same situation as those in need.
We cannot measure our humanity, but we can act on it. Our humanity is that glowing center in
all of us. It is what makes us speak up about an injustice, even when that injustice does not
personally affect us. It is what makes us aware that we are better off if our fellow human beings
are better off. It is what made Emmanuel, in his cramped home full of relatives, still open his
door to my parents and say, “We will make room for you.”
I am not making the simplistic suggestion that all borders must be completely open. Because that
is impractical. There might not be enough room for everyone. But there is certainly room to do
more. There is room to honor more commitments. Room to bridge the divide between what has
been promised, and what has been accomplished.
Emmanuel could’ve said, “No,” to my parents. And he would’ve had understandable reasons for
saying, “No.” But he chose to say, “Yes.” And his reason for saying yes was his humanity. We
can create room for people. And today in this world that has been scarred by so much suffering,
creating room for people is not only doable, it is a moral imperative. It is the moral imperative of
our time.
And I would like to end with some words from the poet, Samuel Coleridge. “Work without hope
draws nectar in a sieve, and hope without an object cannot live.” Thank you.

Adichie at Wellesley College

Oh you’re going to make me cry. So hello class of 2015. Congratulations, and thank you for that
wonderful welcome. And thank you President Bottomly for that wonderful introduction.

I have admired Wellesley – it’s mission, it’s story, it’s successes for a long time. And I thank you
very much for inviting me. You are ridiculously lucky to be graduating from this bastion of
excellence, and on this beautiful acres. And if the goddesses and gods of the universe do the right
then, then you will also very soon be the proud alumni of the college that produced America’s
first female President. Go Hillary.

I’m truly, truly happy to be here today. I’m so happy to be here – in fact – that when I found out
your class color was yellow, I decided I would wear yellow eye shadow. But on second thoughts
– I realized that as much as I admire Wellesley, even yellow eye shadow was a bit too much of a
gesture. So I dug out this yellow – yellowish head wrap instead.

So speaking of eye shadow – I wasn’t very interested in make-up, until I was in my 20’s. Which
is when I began to wear make-up. Because of a man. A loud, unpleasant man. He was one of the
guests at a friend’s dinner party in Lagos. I was also a guest. I was about 23, but people often
told me I looked 12. The conversation at dinner, was about traditional Igbo culture. About the
custom that allows only men to break the colored knot. And the colored knot is a deeply
symbolic part of Igbo cosmology.

I argued that it would be better if that honor were based on achievement, rather than gender. And
this man looked at me, and said dismissively, “You don’t know what you’re talking about,
you’re a small girl.” I wanted him to disagree with the substance of my argument. But by looking
at me – young and female, it was easy for him to dismiss what I said. So I decided to try and look
older. And I thought lipstick might help, and eyeliner. And I’m very grateful to that man,
because I have since come to love makeup and it’s wonderful possibilities for temporary
transformation.

So I’ve not told you this anecdote as a way to illustrate my discovery of gender injustice. If
anything, it’s really just an ode to makeup. It’s really just to say that this – your graduation, is a
good time to buy some lipsticks. If makeup is your sort of thing. Because a good shade of
lipstick can always put you in a slightly better mood on dark days.

So that story is not about my discovering gender injustice. Because of course, I had discovered it
years before. From childhood, from watching the world. I already knew that the world does not
extend to women the many small courtesies that it extends to men. I also knew that victim-hood
is not a virtue. That being discriminated against, does not make you somehow morally better.

I knew that men were not inherently bad or evil. They were merely privileged. And I knew that
privilege blinds. Because it is the nature of privilege to blind. I knew this from personal
experience. From the class privilege I had of growing up in an educated family. But it sometimes
blinded me. But I was not always as alert to the nuances of people who were different from me.
And you, because you now have your beautiful Wellesley degree, have become privileged. No
matter what your background. That degree, and the experience of being here is a privilege. Don’t
let it blind you too often. Sometimes you will need to push it aside, in order to see clearly.

I bring greetings to you from my mother. She’s a big admirer of Wellesley. And she wishes she
could be here. She called me yesterday to ask how the speech writing was going. And to tell me
to remember to use a lot of lotion on my legs today, so they would not look ashy.

My mother – my mother is 73, and she retired as the first female registrar of the University of
Nigeria. Which was quite – which was quite a big deal at the time. My mother likes to tell a story
of the first university meeting she chaired. It was in a large conference room. And at the head of
the table, was a sign that said, “Chairman.” My mother was about to get seated there, when a
clerk came over, and meant to remove the sign.

All the past meetings had of course been chaired by men. And somebody had forgotten to
replace the chair man with a new sign that said, “Chairperson.” The clerk apologized – and told
my mother he would find the new sign, since she was not a Chairman. My mother said,

“No. Actually,” she said, she was a Chairman. She wanted the sign left exactly where it was. The
meeting was about to begin. She didn’t want anybody to think that what she was doing at that
meeting, at that time, on that day – was in any way different from what a Chairman would have
done.
Now, I always liked this story. And I admired what I thought of as my mother’s fiercely feminist
choice. I once told this story to a friend, a card carrying feminist. And I expected her to say,
“Bravo,” to my mother. But she was troubled by it. “Why would your mother want to be called a
Chairman – as though she needed the ‘man’ part to validate her?” My friend asked.

In some ways, I saw my friend’s point. Because if there were a standard handbook published
annually, by the secret society of certified feminists – then that handbook would certainly say
that a woman should not be called, nor wants to be called a Chairman.

But gender is always about context and circumstance. And if there’s a lesson in this anecdote –
apart from just telling you a story about my mother. To make her happy that I spoke about her
at Wellesley. Then it is this. Your standardized ideologies will not always fit your life. Because
life is messy.
When I was growing up in Nigeria, I was expected – as every student who did well was
expected, to become a doctor. Deep down, I knew that what I really wanted to do was to write
stories. But I did what I was supposed to do, and I went into medical school. I told myself, that I
would tough it out, and become a psychiatrist. And that way, I could use my patient’s stories for
my fiction.

But after one year of medical school, I fled. I realized I would be a very unhappy doctor. And I
really did not want to be responsible for the inadvertent death of my patients. Leaving medical
school was a very unusual decision. Especially in Nigeria, where it is very difficult to get into
medical school.

Later, people told me that it had been very courageous of me. But I did not feel courageous at all.
What I felt then was not courage, but a desire to make an effort. To try. I could either stay and
study something that was not right for me. Or, I could try and do something different. And so I
decided to try. I took the American exams, and I got a scholarship to come to the US. Where I
could study something that was not related to medicine.

Now it might not have worked out. I might not have been given the American scholarship. My
writing might not have ended up being successful. But the point is that I tried. We cannot always
bend the world into the shapes we want, but we can try. We can make a concerted and real and
true effort. And you are privileged that – because of your education here, you have already been
given many of the tools that you will need to try. Always just try. Because you never know.

And so – as you graduate, as you deal with your excitement and your doubts today – I urge you
to try and create the world you want to live in. Minister to the world in a way that can change it.
Minister radically – in a real, active, practical, get your hands dirty way. Wellesley will open
doors for you. Walk through those doors, and make your strides long and firm and sure.

Write television shows in which female strength is not depicted as remarkable, but as merely
normal. Teach your students to see that vulnerability is human, rather than a female trait.
Commission magazine articles that teach men how to keep a woman happy. Because there are
already too many articles that tell women how to keep man happy. And in media interviews,
make sure fathers are asked how they balance family and work.

In this age of parenting as guilt, please spread the guilt equally. Make fathers feel as bad as
mothers. Make fathers share in the glory of guilt. Campaign and agitate for paid paternity,
everywhere in America. Paid paternity leave everywhere in America. Hire more women, where
there are few. But remember that a woman you hire, doesn’t have to be exceptionally good. Like
a majority of the men who get hired, she just needs to be good enough.

Recently, a feminist organization kindly nominated me for an important prize, in a country that
will remain unnamed. I was very pleased. I’ve been fortunate to have received a few prizes so
far, and I quite like them. Especially when they come with shiny presents. So to get this prize, I
was required to talk about how important a particular European feminist woman writer had been
to me.

Now the truth was that I had never managed to finish this feminist writer’s book. It did not speak
to me. It would have been a lie to claim that she had any major influence on my thinking. The
truth is that I learned so much more about feminism from watching the women traders in the
market in Nsukka, where I grew up – than from reading any seminal, feminist text.

But I could have said that this woman had been very important to me. I could have talked the
talk. And I could’ve been giving the prize, and a shiny present. But I didn’t. Because I had begun
to ask myself what it really means to wear this feminist label so publicly. Just as I asked myself,
after excerpts of my feminism speech were used in a song by a talented musician, whom I think
some of you might know.

I thought it was a very good thing, that the word “feminist” would be introduced to a new
generation. But I was startled by how many people – many of whom were academics – saw
something troubling, even menacing in this. It was as though feminism was supposed to be an
elite little cult, with esoteric rights of membership. But it shouldn’t. Feminism–

Feminism should be an inclusive party. Feminism – feminism should be a party full of different
feminist things. And so, class of 2015 – please go out there and make feminism a big ruckus,
inclusive party.

The past 3 weeks have been the most emotionally difficult of my life. My father is 83 years old.
He’s a retired Professor of Statistics. A lovely, kind, simple man – who is full of grace. I am an
absolute daddy’s girl. 3 weeks ago, my father was kidnapped near his home in Nigeria. And for a
number of days, my family and I went through the kind of emotional pain that I have never
known in my life.

We were talking to threatening strangers on the phone, begging and negotiating for my father’s
safety. And we were not always sure if my father was alive. He was released after we paid a
ransom. He’s well. He’s in fairly good shape. And in his usual, lovely way – he’s very keen to
reassure us that he’s fine.

I’m still not sleeping well. I still wake up many times at night, and panic. Worried that something
else has gone wrong. I still cannot look at my father, without fighting tears. Without feeling this
profound relief and gratitude that he’s safe. But also rage that he had to undergo such an
indignity to his body and to his spirit.

And the experience had made me rethink many things. What truly matters and what doesn’t.
What I value and what I don’t. And as you graduate today, I urge you to think about that a little
more. Think about what really matters to you. Think about what you want to really matter to you.

I read about your rather lovely tradition of referring to the older students as big sisters, and the
younger ones as little sisters. And I read about that strange thing about being thrown in a pond. I
didn’t quite get that. But anyway – no that I didn’t get. But anyway, I would like very much to be
your honorary big sister today.

Which means – which means that I would like to give you bits of advice, as your big sister. So
all over the world, girls are raised to make themselves likable. To twist themselves into shapes
that suit other people. Please do not twist yourself into shapes to please. Don’t do it. If someone
likes that version of you, that version of you that is false and holds back – then they actually just
like a twisted shape, and not you. And the world is such a gloriously multi-faceted, diverse place
that there are people in the world who will like you – the real you, as you are.

I’m lucky that my writing has given me a platform that I choose to use to talk about things I care
about. And I have said a few things that have not been so popular with a number of people. I
have been told to shut up about certain things. Such as my position on the equal rights of gay
people on the continent of Africa. Such as my deeply held belief that men and women are
completely equal.

I don’t speak to provoke. I speak, because I think our time on earth is short. And each moment
that we are not our truest selves. Each moment we pretend to be what we are not. Each moment
we say what we do not mean, because we imagine that is what somebody wants us to say. Then
we are wasting our time on earth. I don’t mean to sound precious. But please don’t waste your
time on earth. But there’s one exception. The only acceptable way of wasting your time on earth,
is online shopping.
Okay, one last thing about my mother, bless her. My mother and I do not agree on many things
regarding gender. There are certain things my mother believes a person should do, for the simple
reason that the said person is a woman. Such as occasionally nod and smile, even when smiling
is the last thing you want to do. Such as strategically give in to certain arguments, especially
when arguing with a non-female. Such as get married and have children.

Now I can think of fairly good reasons for doing any of these. But because you are a woman is
not one of them. And so, class of 2015 – never ever accept “because you are a woman,” as a
reason for doing or not doing anything.

And finally, I would like to end with a final note on the most important thing in the world, love.
Now girls are often raised to see love as only given. Women are praised for their love, when that
love is an act of giving. But to love is to give and to take. Please love by giving and taking. Give
and be given. If you are only giving and not taking, you’ll know. You’ll know from that small
and true voice inside you, that we females are so often socialized to silence. Don’t silence that
voice. Dare to take.

Congratulations.