The Women Who Carried Medicine in Their Hands

The first pharmacy I ever knew did not have white walls, shelves lined with pills, or a pharmacist in a white coat. It was my grandmother's garden.

Growing up in rural Kenya, I watched in fascination as my grandmother transformed leaves, roots, bark, and seeds into medicine. Whenever one of us had a stomachache, a persistent cough, or a fever, she would quietly walk into her garden and return with healing in her hands.

One memory remains vivid in my mind. I was still a young girl when I developed a severe cough that kept me awake through the night. Instead of rushing to a clinic, my grandmother stepped outside at dawn and returned carrying leaves of mwarobaini and fresh ginger from her garden. She carefully prepared a herbal concoction over the traditional three stone fireplace. The warm, bitter drink was not pleasant to take, but within days, I began to recover. As I sat beside the fire watching her work, I realized that she possessed a wealth of knowledge that no textbook had taught her.

I remember sitting beside the fire as she boiled herbs in a black cooking pot, filling our home with an earthy aroma. She knew which leaves soothed a fever, which roots eased pain, and which plants restored strength after illness. To us, she was more than a grandmother. She was a healer, a guardian of knowledge passed down through generations of women. At the time, I thought every child grew up this way. Today, I realize how precious and endangered that knowledge is.

Across many communities in Kenya and around the world, women have long been custodians of indigenous health knowledge. Mothers, grandmothers, and traditional birth attendants have cared for families for generations, especially in places where healthcare facilities are distant, understaffed, or unaffordable. Yet the very environment that sustains this wisdom is disappearing.

Climate change, deforestation, and environmental degradation are rapidly destroying the forests, wetlands, and ecosystems that nurture medicinal plants. Trees are being cut down, indigenous plant species are vanishing, and as the land changes, so too does our ability to access traditional remedies that have supported communities for centuries. At the same time, many young people are growing disconnected from indigenous knowledge. Elders who carry this wisdom are aging, and too often, their stories and practices fade away with them.

When we lose biodiversity, we lose more than plants. We lose culture, history, and affordable pathways to healing. For women, these losses are especially profound. In many rural communities, women remain the primary caregivers. They are the ones who stay awake through the night nursing sick children, caring for aging parents, and supporting their families through illness. Indigenous medicine often serves as the first line of healthcare, bridging gaps where formal health systems cannot always reach.

Protecting our environment, therefore, is not only an environmental issue. It is a women's health issue, a cultural preservation issue, and a matter of justice. I believe that indigenous knowledge and modern medicine can coexist. One should not erase the other. Instead, we must create spaces where traditional wisdom is respected, documented, and preserved alongside scientific advancement.

My grandmother may never appear in medical journals. She may never receive awards or public recognition. Yet, like countless women across the globe, she has spent her life quietly healing others. As I reflect on the future of women's health, I think of her hands, weathered by age and stained by soil, yet carrying generations of healing. Those hands taught me a lesson I will never forget: when we protect the earth, we protect the wisdom, health, and future of women. Perhaps, in listening to our grandmothers, we may rediscover some of the medicine the world desperately needs.