The image is arresting; compelling. A tall, slender woman, dressed in a flowing, white toob (the traditional long, wrap-around garment worn by women in Sudan) stands on top of a white car, speaking to a dense crowd of people looking up at her. We see her in profile, but she is elegant and composed, one arm resting against her abdomen as she gestures upward with the other. The white gown contrasts powerfully with both her own dark skin and hair and the multicolored skin and clothing of the people listening to her. The gold disc earring dangling from her left ear echoes the streetlights in the background so perfectly it appears she’s harnessed the power of light itself; drawing it into herself and radiating a more powerful version of it back to the crowd.
The photo, taken during a protest aiming to oust Sudan’s strongman president Omar Al-Bashir (a feat accomplished this past week, when he resigned and was then arrested) went viral on the internet. It’s easy to see why. Some people likened woman, later identified as a 22-year-old student named Alaa Salah, to the Statue of Liberty, although the image reminds me more paintings depicting Jesus or Moses, preaching above the crowd, gold disc of holy light included.
It also could be be a textbook illustration of the power of a woman speaking up with a deeply authentic voice. An article in The New York Times compared it to other iconic images of women at the front lines of protests, including a woman protesting the killing of Alton Sterling in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and a woman enduring tear-gas attacks by police in Istanbul, Turkey.
In truth, I can’t really determine how authentic a person is being from a single, photographic image. There are leaders motivated by power or ego, and showmen (or women) who like being the center of attention. I’d have to hear her; know something of her story, to be able to better sense the source of her courage.
On the other hand, I have been to Sudan—twice. It is a tragic country, where 26 years of civil war and genocide created such a normalization of violence that speaking out, especially against governmental forces, entails a level of risk hard to grasp for those of us raised in the first-amendment-protected safety of the U.S.
I have also—one time in my life, which was more than enough for me—experienced someone pointing an automatic weapon at me and demanding I stand down. It was on a remote road in the jungles of the Congo, where we’d landed an airplane with relief supplies for a local village. I was taking pictures of the plane on the road/runway for an article I was writing, and one of the ubiquitous local soldiers (warlords still ruled several different areas of the country) leveled his gun at me and demanded I put the camera down. I knew I had permission to take the photographs, and a sense of obligation to show what conditions were like there. But it wasn’t a hard decision. I put the camera away. Having a weapon pointed at you in earnest by someone fully prepared to use it is scary enough that that moment is etched forever in my visceral memory. Granted, the stakes were low. I wasn’t fighting for my way of life, or even justice. Just my right to do my job. But it taught me just how hard it is to muster the courage to stand firm in the face of force. It even makes me wonder if I’d have the courage to stand on that car in Sudan, or calmly in the street in Baton Rouge as men in riot police armament rushed me.
What also strikes me about the images and stories of these women—as well as others, ranging from Rosa Parks to Madame Leymah Gbowee, who won the Nobel Peace Prize for rallying women to stand up to soldiers and powerful men on both sides of a civil war in Liberia—is their calm presence. The young woman in Baton Rouge isn’t even speaking, let alone yelling at the riot police descending upon her. She’s simply holding her ground; straight, dignified and, outwardly at least, unafraid. I’m sure she was inwardly terrified.
That kind of calm almost always comes from a deep, clear, and self-aware sense of conviction. Which is to say, thoughtful, authentic core knowledge and values. Even without speaking, the stance of the woman in Baton Rouge projects such authentic power that she is clearly the strongest person in that image, even with all the armament the police are wearing. They need armor; she does not.
Similarly, one of the reasons the woman on the car in Sudan is so striking is that she’s not yelling. She is gesturing with one arm raised, but the other is held, with calm restraint, across her abdomen. Her face is determined, but not angry. She appears to have that same calm but resolute strength as the young woman in Baton Rouge. As Rosa Parks. As Madame Gbowee.
There are many, many rewards to discovering, leading, and speaking with a clear and authentic voice. But one of the most remarkable is the power it gives a woman to stand tall, even when doing so requires courage, with nothing but the strength of that voice and the deep well of self-knowledge and conviction to protect her.
We all hope we’re never called on to face down armed storm troopers. But there are any number of situations in our everyday lives in which we face tough choices: stay silent or speak up; raise an important objection and risk reprisal or let the moment pass; stand by an idea or principle or cave to groupthink; stand up and defend another co-worker or leave everyone to fend for themselves. And having—and choosing to lead from—a strong sense of core values, respect for self and others, and authentic voice can have a surprisingly powerful impact on those situations, as well.
There are many ways to lead. Some rely on brute force, ambition, competition or coercion. But the truth that emerges from images like these is that a single person, leading from a deep, calm, and authentic core, and speaking or acting with a clear and authentic voice, wields a formidable kind of power that’s both effective and inspiring. What’s more, having that impact doesn’t require external status or power. Any of us can be that kind of leader. It just takes the courage not to cave to bullies or peer pressure, or the desires of power, and instead to speak up and say, “this isn’t right,” or “we can do better than this.” That’s still not easy. But the more we focus on strengthening our authentic core and voice; the clearer we get on the kind of community and world values we care about; and the more we practice acting in accordance with those values in the world, the easier that kind of leadership gets.
