FGM through the Eyes of Waris Dirie: The Story (Part 3)
Catch the First Part of the story here
Catch the Second Part of the story here
“Sit over there.” She motioned toward a flat rock. There was no conversation. She was strictly business.
Mama positioned me on the rock. She sat behind me and pulled my head against her chest, her legs straddling my body. I circled my arms around her thighs. She placed a piece of root from an old tree between my teeth. “Bite on this.”
Mama leaned over and whispered, “Try to be a good girl, baby. Be brave for Mama, and it'll go fast.”
The Cut
I peered between my legs and saw the gypsy. The old woman looked at me sternly, a dead look in her eyes, then foraged through an old carpetbag. She reached inside with her long fingers and fished out a broken razor blade. I saw dried blood on the jagged edge. She spit on it and wiped it on her dress. While she was scrubbing, my world went dark as Mama tied a blindfold over my eyes.
The next thing I felt was my flesh being cut away. I heard the blade sawing back and forth through my skin. The feeling was indescribable. I didn't move, telling myself the more I did the longer the torture would take. Unfortunately, my legs began to quiver and shake uncontrollably of their own accord, and I prayed: Please, God, let it be over quickly. Soon it was, because I passed out.
When I came to, my blindfold was off and I saw the gypsy woman had piled a stack of thorns from an acacia tree next to her. She used these to puncture holes in my skin, then poked a strong white thread through the holes to sew me up. My legs were completely numb, but the pain between them was so intense that I wished I would die.
My memory ends at that instant, until I opened my eyes and the woman was gone. My legs had been tied together with strips of cloth binding me from my ankles to my hips so I couldn't move. I turned my head toward the rock; it was drenched with blood as if an animal had been slaughtered there. Pieces of my flesh lay on top, drying in the sun.
Waves of heat beat down on my face, until my mother and elder sister, Aman, dragged me into the shade of a bush while they finished making a shelter for me. This was the tradition; a little hut was prepared under a tree, where I would rest and recuperate alone for the next few weeks.
After hours of waiting, I was dying to relieve myself. I called my sister, who rolled me over on my side and scooped out a little hole in the sand. “Go ahead,” she said.
The first drop stung as if my skin were being eaten by acid. After the gypsy sewed me up, the only opening left for urine – and later for menstrual blood – was a minuscule hole the diameter of a matchstick.
As the days dragged on and I lay in my hut, I became infected and ran a high fever. I faded in and out of consciousness. Mama brought me food and water for the next two weeks.
Lying there alone with my legs still tied, I could do nothing but wonder, why? What was it all for? At that age I didn't understand anything about sex. All I knew was that I had been butchered with my mother's permission.
I suffered as a result of my circumcision, but I was lucky. Many girls die from bleeding to death, shock, infection or tetanus. Considering the conditions in which the procedure is performed, it's surprising that any of us survive.
The Marriage
I was around 13 when my father came home one evening and called, “Come here,” in a soft voice. Normally he was very stern, so I began to feel suspicious.
He sat me on his knee. “You know,” he began, “you've been really good.” Now I knew something serious was up. “You've been working hard and have been taking good care of the animals. And I want you to know I'm going to miss you very much.”
When he said this, I thought he was afraid I was going to run away like my sister, Aman, had when he had tried to arrange her marriage.
I hugged him. “Oh, Papa, I'm not going anywhere.”
He pulled back, stared at my face and said, “Yes, you are, my darling. I found you a husband.”
“No, Papa, no!” I shook my head. “I'm not going to marry.”
I had grown into a rebel, sassy and fearless. Papa had to find me a husband while I was still a valuable commodity, because no African man wanted to be challenged by his wife. I felt sick and scared.
The next day I was milking my goats when my father called, “Come here, my darling. This is Mr.-”
I didn't hear another word. My eyes fastened onto a man sitting down, holding on to a cane. He was at least 60 years old, with a long white beard.
“Waris, say hello to Mr. Galool.” (Not his real name)
“Hello,” I said in the iciest voice I could muster.
The old fool just sat there grinning at me. I stared at him in horror. I looked at my father, and when he saw my face, he realized his best tactic was to shoo me away so I didn’t scare off my prospective husband.
“Go finish your chores,” he said.
I ran back to my goats.
To be Continued on Saturday…
Catch the Second Part of the story here
“Sit over there.” She motioned toward a flat rock. There was no conversation. She was strictly business.
Mama positioned me on the rock. She sat behind me and pulled my head against her chest, her legs straddling my body. I circled my arms around her thighs. She placed a piece of root from an old tree between my teeth. “Bite on this.”
Mama leaned over and whispered, “Try to be a good girl, baby. Be brave for Mama, and it'll go fast.”
The Cut
I peered between my legs and saw the gypsy. The old woman looked at me sternly, a dead look in her eyes, then foraged through an old carpetbag. She reached inside with her long fingers and fished out a broken razor blade. I saw dried blood on the jagged edge. She spit on it and wiped it on her dress. While she was scrubbing, my world went dark as Mama tied a blindfold over my eyes.
The next thing I felt was my flesh being cut away. I heard the blade sawing back and forth through my skin. The feeling was indescribable. I didn't move, telling myself the more I did the longer the torture would take. Unfortunately, my legs began to quiver and shake uncontrollably of their own accord, and I prayed: Please, God, let it be over quickly. Soon it was, because I passed out.
When I came to, my blindfold was off and I saw the gypsy woman had piled a stack of thorns from an acacia tree next to her. She used these to puncture holes in my skin, then poked a strong white thread through the holes to sew me up. My legs were completely numb, but the pain between them was so intense that I wished I would die.
My memory ends at that instant, until I opened my eyes and the woman was gone. My legs had been tied together with strips of cloth binding me from my ankles to my hips so I couldn't move. I turned my head toward the rock; it was drenched with blood as if an animal had been slaughtered there. Pieces of my flesh lay on top, drying in the sun.
Waves of heat beat down on my face, until my mother and elder sister, Aman, dragged me into the shade of a bush while they finished making a shelter for me. This was the tradition; a little hut was prepared under a tree, where I would rest and recuperate alone for the next few weeks.
After hours of waiting, I was dying to relieve myself. I called my sister, who rolled me over on my side and scooped out a little hole in the sand. “Go ahead,” she said.
The first drop stung as if my skin were being eaten by acid. After the gypsy sewed me up, the only opening left for urine – and later for menstrual blood – was a minuscule hole the diameter of a matchstick.
As the days dragged on and I lay in my hut, I became infected and ran a high fever. I faded in and out of consciousness. Mama brought me food and water for the next two weeks.
Lying there alone with my legs still tied, I could do nothing but wonder, why? What was it all for? At that age I didn't understand anything about sex. All I knew was that I had been butchered with my mother's permission.
I suffered as a result of my circumcision, but I was lucky. Many girls die from bleeding to death, shock, infection or tetanus. Considering the conditions in which the procedure is performed, it's surprising that any of us survive.
The Marriage
I was around 13 when my father came home one evening and called, “Come here,” in a soft voice. Normally he was very stern, so I began to feel suspicious.
He sat me on his knee. “You know,” he began, “you've been really good.” Now I knew something serious was up. “You've been working hard and have been taking good care of the animals. And I want you to know I'm going to miss you very much.”
When he said this, I thought he was afraid I was going to run away like my sister, Aman, had when he had tried to arrange her marriage.
I hugged him. “Oh, Papa, I'm not going anywhere.”
He pulled back, stared at my face and said, “Yes, you are, my darling. I found you a husband.”
“No, Papa, no!” I shook my head. “I'm not going to marry.”
I had grown into a rebel, sassy and fearless. Papa had to find me a husband while I was still a valuable commodity, because no African man wanted to be challenged by his wife. I felt sick and scared.
The next day I was milking my goats when my father called, “Come here, my darling. This is Mr.-”
I didn't hear another word. My eyes fastened onto a man sitting down, holding on to a cane. He was at least 60 years old, with a long white beard.
“Waris, say hello to Mr. Galool.” (Not his real name)
“Hello,” I said in the iciest voice I could muster.
The old fool just sat there grinning at me. I stared at him in horror. I looked at my father, and when he saw my face, he realized his best tactic was to shoo me away so I didn’t scare off my prospective husband.
“Go finish your chores,” he said.
I ran back to my goats.
To be Continued on Saturday…
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