An Interview With Hanifa Nakiryowa
The following interview is with Hanifa Nakiryowa, Founder and President of CERESAV, an international foundation in support of acid attack gender-based violence. I met Hanifa in September of 2023, nearly two years ago, in Dallas, Texas, at the Uganda North America Association, UNAA. This is the formal association for those Ugandans who have emigrated to the United States and Canada, the diaspora. These folks meet annually to discuss matters of concern in their home country, network with each other as well as government officials, and identify investment information on matters of interest.
David: Hanifa, welcome to this interview for the July-August, WOMEN OF POWER issue. Thank you for accepting my invitation to speak with you about yourself, your advocacy, and your outlook on the future of the world. Hanifa: Thank you for this opportunity, David. I am happy to answer whatever you deem appropriate to ask. I am an open book. David: Can you walk us through the moment the acid struck in 2011… and how that sparked the transformation in you? “December 11th, 2011, is a day I’ll never forget. I had gone to pick up my daughters from my estranged husband. As I stood outside his home, a man approached and, without warning, threw acid in my face. In that moment, I felt like my soul was set on fire. My skin began to melt; my body convulsed in pain. My daughter, hearing my scream, ran toward me—and slipped into the acid that had spilled onto the ground. I lost my right eye and my nose. I spent months in the hospital undergoing countless surgeries. But it was there, in the middle of my pain and disfigurement, that something shifted. I met other survivors—faces hidden, spirits broken. I had never seen people like this before. And I thought, ‘This pain has a purpose.’ That’s when the seed for CERESAV was planted. My face may have been burned, but my will to live—my will to fight for others—only ignited.”
What made you decide, while recovering, that you wouldn’t hide, and instead, found CERESAV?
“When I looked in the mirror after the attack, I didn’t recognize myself. I saw a disfigured woman that the world might reject. And I had two choices: to hide in shame, or to turn that shame into something greater. I remembered the other survivors I met—how they spoke in whispers, how they feared going outside.
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