Waris becomes a Model, the pain of FGM notwithstanding: The Story Part 6

Catch the Fifth Part of the story here

I entered a store that same day and saw a tall, attractive African woman examining some sweaters. We began talking in Somali, and she was quite friendly. Her name was Halwu.

“Where do you live, Waris? What do you do?”

“Oh, you'll think I'm crazy, but I don't have any place to live because my family went back to Somalia today. My uncle was the ambassador, but now the new man is coming. So right this minute, I have no idea where I'm headed.”

She waved to silence me, as if the movement of her hand could sweep away all my problems.

“I have a room at the YMCA. You can come and stay for the night.”

Halwu and I became close friends. After a few days I took a room at the YWCA right across the way. Then I set out to find a job.

“Why don't you start by looking right here?” Halwu said, pointing to McDonald's.

"There's no way. I can't speak English or read. Besides, I don't have a work permit."

But she knew the ropes, and I began working there, in the kitchen. I washed dishes, wiped counters, scrubbed grills and mopped floors. I went home at night smelling of grease. But I didn't complain, because at least now I could support myself. I was grateful to have a job.

I began going to free language school, learning English and how to read and write. For the first time in years my days weren't only about work.

Sometimes Halwu took me to nightclubs, where the whole crowd seemed to know her. Overcoming my strict African upbringing, I chatted away, forcing myself to talk with everyone-black, white, male, female. I had to learn survival skills for this new world. My life was moving smoothly. It was about to change dramatically.

One afternoon when I got back home from McDonald's, I pulled out the photographer's card, which I'd stuck in my passport, and marched to Halwu's room. I showed her the card, explained the history and said, “I never really understood what he wanted.”

“Well, she said, “why don't you call and ask him?”

“You talk to him. My English is still not very good.”

She did, and the next day I went to inspect Mike Goss's studio. I had no idea what to expect, but when I opened the door, I stumbled into another world. Hanging everywhere in the lobby were enormous posters featuring beautiful women. “Oh!” I said, spinning. I just knew-this is it. This is my opportunity.

Mike came out and explained that as soon as he saw me, he had wanted to take my picture. I stared at him with my mouth hanging open. “That's it? A picture like this?” I waved at the posters.

“Yes,” he said, nodding emphatically. “You have the most beautiful profile.”

Two days later I returned to the studio. The makeup woman sat me down and started to work, coming at me with cotton, brushes, sponges, creams, paints, powders, poking me with her fingers and pulling my skin.

“Now”, the woman stepped back and looked at me with satisfaction, “look in the mirror.”

I stared in the glass. My face was transformed, all golden, silky, and light with makeup.

“Wow! Look at me!”

The woman led me out to Mike, who positioned me on a stool. I studied objects I'd never seen before: the camera, lights, battery packs, cords hanging like snakes.

“Okay, Waris,” he said. “Put your lips together and stare straight ahead. Chin up. That's it-beautiful!”

I heard a click, followed by a loud pop, which made me jump. The flashes went off; the lights blazing for a split second. Somehow the lights made me feel like a different person.

Waris Dirie

Mike took a piece of paper from the camera and motioned for me to walk over. He pulled off the top layer of paper. As I watched, a woman gradually emerged from the sheet as if by magic. When he handed me the Polaroid; I barely recognized myself. There was a glamorous creature like the ones posing in the lobby. They had transformed me. Instead of Waris the maid, I was Waris the model.

Welcome Surgery
Sometime later, a woman at a modeling agency who had seen that photo sent me for a job casting. I had no idea what she was talking about, but she gave me taxi money and I went to the address.

The place was crawling with professional models strutting like lionesses circling for the kill. I said hello to one of them. “What is the job?”

“Pirelli calendar.”

“Hmmm.” I nodded. “Thank you. What is that?”

The photographer, Terence Donovan, brought me tea and showed me all his work. Lying on a table was a calendar. He flipped through it; on each page was a different, stunningly gorgeous woman.

“This is last year's Pirelli calendar,” he told me. “This year it's going to be different – just African women.”

He explained the whole process to me. By that point I felt comfortable, and from then on I was a complete professional. And when the job was done, my picture wound up being selected for the cover.

My career as a model got better and better. I worked in Paris, Milan and then New York, where I immediately began running faster and making more money than ever before. I appeared in a series of commercials for a jeweller, wearing white African robes. I did makeup ads for Revlon, then later represented their new perfume, Ajee. The commercial announced, From the heart of Africa comes a fragrance to capture the heart of every woman.

I appeared in a Revlon commercial with Cindy Crawford, Claudia Schiffer and Lauren Hutton. These projects kept snowballing, and soon I was in the big fashion magazines: Elle, Glamour, Italian Vogue, and British and American Vogue.

But for all the excitement and success of my new life, I carried wounds from the old. The tiny hole the circumciser had left me only permitted urine to escape one drop at a time. It took me about ten minutes to urinate. My periods were a nightmare always. I couldn't function for several days each month; I simply went to bed and wanted to die so the suffering would stop. The problem had reached a crisis while I was living with my Uncle Mohammed.

Early one morning, carrying the tray from the kitchen to the dining-room table, I suddenly blacked out, and the dishes crashed to the floor. When I came to, Aunt Maruim said, “We have to take you to the doctor. I'll make an appointment with my doctor this afternoon.”

I didn't tell the doctor that I'd been circumcised. Since he didn't examine me, he didn't find out my secret.

“The only thing I can give you is birth-control pills. That will stop the pain.”

I began taking the pills, but they produced drastic changes in my body that seemed weird and unnatural. Deciding I'd rather deal with the pain, I stopped taking the pills. It all came right back again, fiercer than ever. Later I visited more doctors, but they too wanted to give me birth control pills. I realized I needed to do something else. I said to Auntie, “Maybe I need to see a special kind of doctor.”

She looked at me sharply. “No,” she said emphatically. "And by the way – what do you tell these men?”

“Nothing. That I just want to stop the pain, that's all.” I knew the unspoken message of her comment: circumcision is our African custom-and not something you discuss with these white men.

I began to understand, however, that this was exactly what I had to do – or suffer – and live like an invalid for one third of each month. When I went to Dr. Michael
Macrae's office, I said to him, “There's something I haven't told you. I'm from Somalia and I...I...”

It Continues…