Female Genital Mutilation through the Eyes of Waris Dirie: The Story (Part 2)
Catch the First Part of the story here
In the morning, I opened my eyes to the burning sun. I got up and continued to run. And so it went for days — days marked by hunger, thirst, fear and pain. When it grew too dark to see, I would stop. At midday I’d sit under a tree and take a siesta.
It was during one of these naps that a slight sound woke me. I opened my eyes and was staring into the face of a lion. I tried to stand, but I hadn't eaten in days, so my weak legs wobbled and folded beneath me. I slumped back against the tree that had sheltered me from the merciless African sun. My long journey across the desert had come to an end. I was unafraid, ready to die.
“Come and get me,” I said to the lion. “I’m ready.”
The big cat stared at me, and my eyes locked on his. He licked his lips and paced back and forth in front of me, elegantly, sensuously. He could crush me in an instant.
Finally he turned and walked away, no doubt deciding that I had so little flesh, I wasn't worth eating.
When I realized the lion was not going to kill me, I knew that God had something else planned; some reason to keep me alive. “What is it?” I asked myself as I struggled to my feet.
Child of the Desert
Before I ran away from home, my life had been built around nature and family. Like most Somalis, we lived the pastoral life, raising cattle, sheep and goats. On a daily level, our camels kept us alive, since the females gave milk to nourish us and quench our thirst. An enormous asset, they were, when we were far from water. For everyday sustenance, we had camel's milk for breakfast, and again for supper.
In the morning we got up with the sun. Our first chore was to head out to the pens and milk the herds. Wherever we went, we cut saplings to make pens for the animals, to keep them from straying at night.
We raised animals primarily for their milk and to trade for goods. While still a little girl, I was responsible for taking herds of about 60 to 70 sheep and goats into the desert to graze. I got my long stick and headed off alone with my herd, singing my little song to guide them.
No one owns the grazing land in Somalia, so it was up to me to discover areas with lots of plants. While the animals grazed, I watched for predators. The hyenas would sneak up and snatch a lamb or kid that had wandered off. There were also lions to worry about. They hunted in prides, but there was only one of me.
Like the rest of my family, I have no idea how old I am; I can only guess. We lived by the seasons and the sun, planning our moves around our need for rain, planning our day around the span of daylight available.
Our home was a tentlike, domed hut woven from grass and built on a framework of sticks; it was about six feet in diameter. When it came time to move, we dismantled the hut and tied it to the backs of our camels. Then when we found a spot with water and foliage, we'd setup again.
The hut provided shelter from the midday sun and storage space for fresh milk. At night we children slept outside under the stars, cuddled together on a mat. My father slept off to one side, our guardian.
Papa was very handsome, about six feet tall, slim and lighter-skinned than Mama. My mother was beautiful. Her face was like a Modigliani sculpture and her skin dark and smooth, as if perfectly chiseled from black marble.
Her demeanor was very calm, very quiet. But when she started talking, she was hysterically funny, telling jokes and saying silly little things to make us laugh.
She grew up in Mogadishu, where her family had money and power. My father, on the other hand, had always roamed the desert. When he asked permission to marry my mother, my grandmother said, “Absolutely not.” However, when Mama was about 16, she ran away and married Papa anyhow.
My mother affectionately called me Avdohol, her word for “small mouth.” But she named me Waris, the word we used for the desert flower. In my country sometimes it doesn't rain for months. Few living things can survive. But finally the water pours down and the brilliant yellow-orange blooms of the desert flower appear: a miracle of nature.
Becoming a Woman
In a nomadic culture like the one I was raised in, there is no place for an unmarried woman, so mothers feel it is their duty to ensure their daughters have the best possible opportunity to get a husband.
And since the prevailing wisdom in Somalia is that there are bad things between a girl's legs, a woman is considered dirty, oversexed and unmarriageable unless those parts – the clitoris, the labia minora, and most of the labia majora – are removed. Then the wound is stitched shut, leaving only a small opening and a scar where the genitals had been – a practice called infibulation.
Paying the gypsy woman for this circumcision is one of the greatest expenses a household will undergo, but is considered a good investment. Without it, the daughters will not make it onto the marriage market.
The actual details of the ritual cutting are never explained to the girls – it’s a mystery. You just know that something special is going to happen when your time comes. As a result, all young girls in Somalia anxiously await the ceremony that will mark their becoming a woman. Originally the process occurred when the girls reached puberty, but through time it has been performed on younger and younger girls.
One evening when I was about five, my mother said to me, “Your father ran into the gypsy woman. She should be here any day now.”
The night before my circumcision, the family made a special fuss over me and I got extra food at dinner. Mama told me not to drink too much water or milk. I lay awake with excitement, until suddenly she was standing over me, motioning. The sky was still dark. I grabbed my little blanket and sleepily stumbled along after her.
We walked out into the brush. “We'll wait here,” Mama said, and we sat on the cold ground. The day was growing lighter; soon I heard the click-click of the gypsy woman's sandals. Then, without my seeing her approach, she was right beside me.
To be continued on Friday…
In the morning, I opened my eyes to the burning sun. I got up and continued to run. And so it went for days — days marked by hunger, thirst, fear and pain. When it grew too dark to see, I would stop. At midday I’d sit under a tree and take a siesta.
It was during one of these naps that a slight sound woke me. I opened my eyes and was staring into the face of a lion. I tried to stand, but I hadn't eaten in days, so my weak legs wobbled and folded beneath me. I slumped back against the tree that had sheltered me from the merciless African sun. My long journey across the desert had come to an end. I was unafraid, ready to die.
“Come and get me,” I said to the lion. “I’m ready.”
The big cat stared at me, and my eyes locked on his. He licked his lips and paced back and forth in front of me, elegantly, sensuously. He could crush me in an instant.
Finally he turned and walked away, no doubt deciding that I had so little flesh, I wasn't worth eating.
When I realized the lion was not going to kill me, I knew that God had something else planned; some reason to keep me alive. “What is it?” I asked myself as I struggled to my feet.
Child of the Desert
Before I ran away from home, my life had been built around nature and family. Like most Somalis, we lived the pastoral life, raising cattle, sheep and goats. On a daily level, our camels kept us alive, since the females gave milk to nourish us and quench our thirst. An enormous asset, they were, when we were far from water. For everyday sustenance, we had camel's milk for breakfast, and again for supper.
In the morning we got up with the sun. Our first chore was to head out to the pens and milk the herds. Wherever we went, we cut saplings to make pens for the animals, to keep them from straying at night.
We raised animals primarily for their milk and to trade for goods. While still a little girl, I was responsible for taking herds of about 60 to 70 sheep and goats into the desert to graze. I got my long stick and headed off alone with my herd, singing my little song to guide them.
No one owns the grazing land in Somalia, so it was up to me to discover areas with lots of plants. While the animals grazed, I watched for predators. The hyenas would sneak up and snatch a lamb or kid that had wandered off. There were also lions to worry about. They hunted in prides, but there was only one of me.
Like the rest of my family, I have no idea how old I am; I can only guess. We lived by the seasons and the sun, planning our moves around our need for rain, planning our day around the span of daylight available.
Our home was a tentlike, domed hut woven from grass and built on a framework of sticks; it was about six feet in diameter. When it came time to move, we dismantled the hut and tied it to the backs of our camels. Then when we found a spot with water and foliage, we'd setup again.
The hut provided shelter from the midday sun and storage space for fresh milk. At night we children slept outside under the stars, cuddled together on a mat. My father slept off to one side, our guardian.
Papa was very handsome, about six feet tall, slim and lighter-skinned than Mama. My mother was beautiful. Her face was like a Modigliani sculpture and her skin dark and smooth, as if perfectly chiseled from black marble.
Her demeanor was very calm, very quiet. But when she started talking, she was hysterically funny, telling jokes and saying silly little things to make us laugh.
She grew up in Mogadishu, where her family had money and power. My father, on the other hand, had always roamed the desert. When he asked permission to marry my mother, my grandmother said, “Absolutely not.” However, when Mama was about 16, she ran away and married Papa anyhow.
My mother affectionately called me Avdohol, her word for “small mouth.” But she named me Waris, the word we used for the desert flower. In my country sometimes it doesn't rain for months. Few living things can survive. But finally the water pours down and the brilliant yellow-orange blooms of the desert flower appear: a miracle of nature.
Becoming a Woman
In a nomadic culture like the one I was raised in, there is no place for an unmarried woman, so mothers feel it is their duty to ensure their daughters have the best possible opportunity to get a husband.
And since the prevailing wisdom in Somalia is that there are bad things between a girl's legs, a woman is considered dirty, oversexed and unmarriageable unless those parts – the clitoris, the labia minora, and most of the labia majora – are removed. Then the wound is stitched shut, leaving only a small opening and a scar where the genitals had been – a practice called infibulation.
Paying the gypsy woman for this circumcision is one of the greatest expenses a household will undergo, but is considered a good investment. Without it, the daughters will not make it onto the marriage market.
The actual details of the ritual cutting are never explained to the girls – it’s a mystery. You just know that something special is going to happen when your time comes. As a result, all young girls in Somalia anxiously await the ceremony that will mark their becoming a woman. Originally the process occurred when the girls reached puberty, but through time it has been performed on younger and younger girls.
One evening when I was about five, my mother said to me, “Your father ran into the gypsy woman. She should be here any day now.”
The night before my circumcision, the family made a special fuss over me and I got extra food at dinner. Mama told me not to drink too much water or milk. I lay awake with excitement, until suddenly she was standing over me, motioning. The sky was still dark. I grabbed my little blanket and sleepily stumbled along after her.
We walked out into the brush. “We'll wait here,” Mama said, and we sat on the cold ground. The day was growing lighter; soon I heard the click-click of the gypsy woman's sandals. Then, without my seeing her approach, she was right beside me.
To be continued on Friday…
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