By AIP Yvette Balinda
In the past, society neatly divided the world of the labour force into two categories; jobs for men and jobs for women. Most professions, however, were deemed “suitable” for men, as women were rarely seen as breadwinners. Instead, their role was confined to the home—nurturing families and raising children, a task both demanding and honorable. Yet, despite its complexity, this labor was often dismissed as insignificant, and women were labeled “incapable” of much else.
It’s baffling to think how societies could look down on those who kept households running while simultaneously underestimating their potential beyond family walls.
Thankfully, the tide has turned. Today’s generation operates in a world striving to shed off gender discrimination. We no longer judge someone’s abilities based on their gender—at least, not as a rule. Women have shattered ceilings and stereotypes alike, rising to prominent positions, earning high ranks, and proving their worth across industries.
Their achievements stand as undeniable evidence that competence knows no gender. Fields once dominated by men now boast women who not only participate but also excel, driving progress and innovation. The idea that certain jobs are “for men only” has been largely debunked, and replaced by a growing consensus that capability, not gender, defines success.
Yet, despite this progress, whispers of doubt linger in some corners. There remains a tiny, stubborn place where the outdated notion of “it is not for women” persists, particularly in careers tied to security. In Rwanda, for instance, a woman in a uniform—especially as a police officer—still raises eyebrows and sparks comments from a very few that reveal lingering surprise. I know this firsthand. As a female police officer in my fourth year of service with the Rwanda National Police (RNP), I have grown accustomed to the reactions.
When people hear what I do, I am often met with side-eye glances or remarks like “Uziko utabimenya” (loosely translated as; “Can you imagine, you can’t tell”. I have yet to decipher what they expect a female officer to look like or how they imagine I should carry myself. Another common question, “Ubwo se wabitecyereje ute?” (“So, how did you think of that?”), implying my career choice to join the force was born of desperation rather than passion. Four years in, I still haven’t found the perfect response—perhaps I never will.
These reactions do not necessarily stem from malice or disdain. Rwandans, in their own way, are often just expressing curiosity or support. The side-eyeing, the questions, even the occasional hype—it is all part of the cultural tapestry. I have been on the receiving end of speeches that range from mildly amusing to deeply touching, often accompanied by phrases like, “I wanted to join too, but life happened.” It is a familiar script, one that hints at admiration tangled with disbelief.
In addition, I get it. Years ago, I was part of the “Weird Looks” team myself—not the comment brigade, mind you, but definitely among those who silently questioned how women fit into such roles. Reflecting on my old perspective feels like confessing a long-held secret.
Back then, those looks I gave were not about doubting women’s abilities. Instead, they reflected my own misconceptions. I assumed that to succeed in a security career, a woman had to shed her femininity—become “masculine” to fit the mold. In my naive imagination, it was as if the job demanded a trade: your womanhood for a badge. With every glance, a little voice in my head whispered, “Who would choose that?” I was wrong—spectacularly so. My views shifted when I got to know someone in a similar field. She was a revelation: poised, capable, and unapologetically feminine. Her career had not stripped away her identity; it complemented it. Looking back, I realize those contradictory thoughts were projections of my own fears, not reflections of reality.
That outdated mindset is not unique to me—it’s a relic some in our society still carry. But it’s baseless, and its days are numbered. The “it is not for women” idea occupies only a shrinking sliver of space, dwarfed by the strides women have made across professions. I believe there will come a day when saying “I’m a police officer” elicits the same neutral reaction as “I’m a nurse”—no raised brows, no probing questions, just acceptance. It’s a future worth anticipating.
What is most encouraging, though, is that within the RNP itself, that tiny place of doubt doesn’t exist. In my experience, the workplace is a level playing field. I’ve never felt treated differently because of my gender. There are no “men’s tasks” or “women’s tasks”—we’re all simply police officers. We undergo the same rigorous training, follow the same curriculum, and tackle the same challenges. Gender doesn’t dictate our roles; competence does. That equality is the backbone of the institution, and it’s what keeps me proud to serve.
Women make up 24% of RNP personnel today, a figure that speaks to their growing presence. For the past two decades, they’ve contributed to peacekeeping missions through bilateral and multilateral agreements, helping restore stability in conflict zones worldwide.
Closer to home, they’ve been instrumental in operations, from combating gender-based violence to supporting survivors with compassion and resolve. Their impact is undeniable, a testament to their skill and dedication.
So why does society still cling to that faint echo of surprise? I don’t have a definitive answer—perhaps no one does. Maybe it’s a vestige of tradition, a hangover from a time when roles were more rigidly defined. Or maybe it’s just human nature to marvel at the unexpected.
Whatever the reason, it’s clear the perception lags behind reality. Women in uniform aren’t anomalies; they’re trailblazers, reshaping how we view strength and service.
For me, this journey has been one of growth—both personal and professional. I’ve moved from being a bystander with misplaced assumptions to standing proudly in the ranks, challenging those same notions in others. The looks and comments no longer faze me; they’re just noise against the backdrop of purpose. And as more women step into these roles, that noise will fade entirely. The “it is not for women” idea will dissolve, not with a bang, but with the quiet certainty of progress.
In the end, it’s not about proving anyone wrong—it’s about proving what’s possible. Women in uniform aren’t here to fit someone else’s mold; they’re here to break it. And in Rwanda, where resilience is woven into our story, they’re doing just that—one badge, one mission, one step at a time. (End)