Waris Dirie: Living in Stardom yet hurting inside
Catch the Sixth Part of the story here
He didn't even let me finish the sentence. “Go get changed. I want to examine you.” He saw the look of terror on my face: “It's okay.”
He called in his nurse to show me where to change, how to put the gown on, and asked her if there was someone in the hospital who could speak Somali. But when she came back, she brought a Somali man. I thought, Oh, here’s the rotten luck, to discuss this using a Somali man to translate! How much worse could it get?
Dr. Macrae said, “Explain to her that she's closed up way too much – I don't even know how she's made it this far. We need to operate on her as soon as possible.”
I could see the Somali man wasn't happy. He glared at the doctor and then said to me, “Well, if you really want it, they can open you up. But do you know this is against your culture? Does your family know you're doing this?”
“No.”
“The first thing I'd do is discuss it with them.”
I nodded. His was the response of a typical African man. Over a year went by before I was able to have the surgery. I had to overcome some practical problems and my own last-minute doubts, but Dr. Macrae did a fine job, and I've always been grateful.
He told me, “You're not alone. Women come in with this problem all the time. A lot of women from the Sudan, Egypt, Somalia. Some of them are pregnant and terrified. So, without the permission of their husbands they come to me, and I do my best.”
Within three weeks I could sit on the toilet and – whoosh! There's no way to explain what a freedom that was.
Back to Somalia
In 1995 the BBC proposed making a documentary about my life as a supermodel. I told the director, Gerry Pomeroy, I'd do it if he'd take me back to Somalia and help me find my mother. He agreed.
The BBC staff in Africa began searching diligently. We went over maps, and I tried to show them the regions where my family usually travelled. Next I had to go over all the tribal and clan names of my family.
Suddenly the desert was alive with women claiming to be my mother, but none were. Then Gerry came up with an idea. “We need some kind of secret that only your mother would know about you.”
“Well, my mother used to have a nickname for me – Avdohol.”
“Will she remember that?”
“Absolutely.”
From then on, Avdohol became the secret password. When the BBC was interviewing, the women would make it through the first couple of questions; then they'd flunk out on the nickname. But finally the BBC called me: “We think we've found her. This woman didn't remember the nickname, but she said she has a daughter named Waris who worked for the ambassador in London.”
Within days we flew to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, and chartered a small twin-engine plane to take us to Galadi, a village on the Ethiopia-Somalia border where Somali refugees had gathered to escape the fighting at home.
I smelled the hot air and the sand, and suddenly I remembered my lost childhood. Every little thing came flooding back to me, and I began to run. I touched the ground and rubbed the earth between my fingers. I touched the trees. They were dusty and dry, but I knew it was time for the rains soon, when everything would blossom.
Then we found out the woman was not my mother. We combed the village, asking everybody if they had any information about my family. An older man walked up to me and said, “Do you remember me?”
“Well, I'm Ismail; I'm from the same tribe as your father. I'm a very close friend of his.”
And then I realized who he was and felt ashamed for not recognizing him, but I hadn't seen him since I was a little girl. “I think I know where your family is. I think I can find your mother, but I'll need money for gas.”
The BBC crew agreed and gave him some cash. He hopped into his truck and took off immediately, raising a cloud of dust. Three days passed with no sign of Mama. Gerry grew more anxious by the day. “I promise you my mother will be here tomorrow evening by six o'clock,” I told him.
I don't know why I had this belief – it just came to me.
The next day Gerry jogged up at about ten minutes to six. “You're not going to believe it! The man is back and he's got a woman with him; he says it's your mother.”
Up ahead was Ismail's pickup, and a woman was climbing down from the seat. I couldn't see her face, but from the way she wore her scarf I could tell immediately that it was my mother, I ran to her. "Oh, Mama!"
At first, we just discussed little everyday things. But the gladness I felt at seeing her overcame the gap between us. Papa was off searching for water when the truck came. My mother said Papa was getting old. He would go off chasing the clouds looking for rain, but he desperately needed glasses because his eyesight was terrible.
My little brother Ali was also with her, along with one of my cousins. I kept holding Ali, and he would cry, “Get off now I'm not a baby. I'm getting married.”
“Married! How old are you?”
“I don't know but old enough to get married.”
At night Mama slept in the hut of one of the families in Galadi who had taken us in. I slept outside with Ali – just like in the old days. As we lay there at night, I felt such a state of peace and happiness.
My brother started asking me what I thought about this and that.
“Well, I don't know everything, but I've seen a lot and learned a lot I didn't know while living back in the bush.”
They didn't know whether to believe this bizarre idea, but there was one topic they felt confident I couldn't argue with. My mother started “Why aren't you married?”
“Mama, do I have to be married? Don’t you want to see me a success – strong, independent?”
“Well, I want grandchildren.” Gerry got several scenes of me with my mother. But she hated it, saying: “Get that thing out of my face.”
The cameraman asked what we were laughing about.
“Just the absurdity of it all,” I answered.
The next morning before the plane came to get us I asked my mother if she would like to come back and live with me in England or the United States.
“But what would I do?”
“That’s precisely it. I don't want you to do anything. You've done enough work. It's time to rest.”
“No. Your father's getting old and he needs me. Besides, I can't just sit around. If you want to do something, get me a place in Somalia that I can go to when I'm tired. This is my home. This is all I've ever known.”
I gave her a big hug. “I love you, Mama. I'm coming back for you, don't you forget that.”
My Mission
By now my career had taken off. I was appearing in commercials, music videos, and worked with the biggest photographers in the fashion business. My life was heavenly.
I had told Mama that I had not found the right man for me. But then one night in the fall of 1995 I discovered him in a tiny jazz club in New York. He was a shy drummer with a '70s Afro and a funky style. His name was Dana Murray, and I knew from that moment he was my man.
It Continues…
He didn't even let me finish the sentence. “Go get changed. I want to examine you.” He saw the look of terror on my face: “It's okay.”
He called in his nurse to show me where to change, how to put the gown on, and asked her if there was someone in the hospital who could speak Somali. But when she came back, she brought a Somali man. I thought, Oh, here’s the rotten luck, to discuss this using a Somali man to translate! How much worse could it get?
Dr. Macrae said, “Explain to her that she's closed up way too much – I don't even know how she's made it this far. We need to operate on her as soon as possible.”
I could see the Somali man wasn't happy. He glared at the doctor and then said to me, “Well, if you really want it, they can open you up. But do you know this is against your culture? Does your family know you're doing this?”
“No.”
“The first thing I'd do is discuss it with them.”
I nodded. His was the response of a typical African man. Over a year went by before I was able to have the surgery. I had to overcome some practical problems and my own last-minute doubts, but Dr. Macrae did a fine job, and I've always been grateful.
He told me, “You're not alone. Women come in with this problem all the time. A lot of women from the Sudan, Egypt, Somalia. Some of them are pregnant and terrified. So, without the permission of their husbands they come to me, and I do my best.”
Within three weeks I could sit on the toilet and – whoosh! There's no way to explain what a freedom that was.
Back to Somalia
In 1995 the BBC proposed making a documentary about my life as a supermodel. I told the director, Gerry Pomeroy, I'd do it if he'd take me back to Somalia and help me find my mother. He agreed.
The BBC staff in Africa began searching diligently. We went over maps, and I tried to show them the regions where my family usually travelled. Next I had to go over all the tribal and clan names of my family.
Suddenly the desert was alive with women claiming to be my mother, but none were. Then Gerry came up with an idea. “We need some kind of secret that only your mother would know about you.”
“Well, my mother used to have a nickname for me – Avdohol.”
“Will she remember that?”
“Absolutely.”
From then on, Avdohol became the secret password. When the BBC was interviewing, the women would make it through the first couple of questions; then they'd flunk out on the nickname. But finally the BBC called me: “We think we've found her. This woman didn't remember the nickname, but she said she has a daughter named Waris who worked for the ambassador in London.”
Within days we flew to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, and chartered a small twin-engine plane to take us to Galadi, a village on the Ethiopia-Somalia border where Somali refugees had gathered to escape the fighting at home.
I smelled the hot air and the sand, and suddenly I remembered my lost childhood. Every little thing came flooding back to me, and I began to run. I touched the ground and rubbed the earth between my fingers. I touched the trees. They were dusty and dry, but I knew it was time for the rains soon, when everything would blossom.
Then we found out the woman was not my mother. We combed the village, asking everybody if they had any information about my family. An older man walked up to me and said, “Do you remember me?”
“Well, I'm Ismail; I'm from the same tribe as your father. I'm a very close friend of his.”
And then I realized who he was and felt ashamed for not recognizing him, but I hadn't seen him since I was a little girl. “I think I know where your family is. I think I can find your mother, but I'll need money for gas.”
The BBC crew agreed and gave him some cash. He hopped into his truck and took off immediately, raising a cloud of dust. Three days passed with no sign of Mama. Gerry grew more anxious by the day. “I promise you my mother will be here tomorrow evening by six o'clock,” I told him.
I don't know why I had this belief – it just came to me.
The next day Gerry jogged up at about ten minutes to six. “You're not going to believe it! The man is back and he's got a woman with him; he says it's your mother.”
Up ahead was Ismail's pickup, and a woman was climbing down from the seat. I couldn't see her face, but from the way she wore her scarf I could tell immediately that it was my mother, I ran to her. "Oh, Mama!"
At first, we just discussed little everyday things. But the gladness I felt at seeing her overcame the gap between us. Papa was off searching for water when the truck came. My mother said Papa was getting old. He would go off chasing the clouds looking for rain, but he desperately needed glasses because his eyesight was terrible.
My little brother Ali was also with her, along with one of my cousins. I kept holding Ali, and he would cry, “Get off now I'm not a baby. I'm getting married.”
“Married! How old are you?”
“I don't know but old enough to get married.”
At night Mama slept in the hut of one of the families in Galadi who had taken us in. I slept outside with Ali – just like in the old days. As we lay there at night, I felt such a state of peace and happiness.
My brother started asking me what I thought about this and that.
“Well, I don't know everything, but I've seen a lot and learned a lot I didn't know while living back in the bush.”
They didn't know whether to believe this bizarre idea, but there was one topic they felt confident I couldn't argue with. My mother started “Why aren't you married?”
“Mama, do I have to be married? Don’t you want to see me a success – strong, independent?”
“Well, I want grandchildren.” Gerry got several scenes of me with my mother. But she hated it, saying: “Get that thing out of my face.”
The cameraman asked what we were laughing about.
“Just the absurdity of it all,” I answered.
The next morning before the plane came to get us I asked my mother if she would like to come back and live with me in England or the United States.
“But what would I do?”
“That’s precisely it. I don't want you to do anything. You've done enough work. It's time to rest.”
“No. Your father's getting old and he needs me. Besides, I can't just sit around. If you want to do something, get me a place in Somalia that I can go to when I'm tired. This is my home. This is all I've ever known.”
I gave her a big hug. “I love you, Mama. I'm coming back for you, don't you forget that.”
My Mission
By now my career had taken off. I was appearing in commercials, music videos, and worked with the biggest photographers in the fashion business. My life was heavenly.
I had told Mama that I had not found the right man for me. But then one night in the fall of 1995 I discovered him in a tiny jazz club in New York. He was a shy drummer with a '70s Afro and a funky style. His name was Dana Murray, and I knew from that moment he was my man.
It Continues…
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