Nationality: USA

Ethnicity: Indian (Gujarati) 

Author: Anonymous 30-year-old

I was not more than seven years old when I recall going into a medical complex on a quiet Sunday afternoon accompanied by my mother and our family friend. My mother told me it was time for my “khatna” or circumcision. She explained it as a rite of passage, something all the little girls in our Dawoodi Bohra community had to do. I remember feeling scared, but didn’t know exactly why. I just had a feeling something terrible was about to happen to me as our friend unlocked the building with her keys and we continued into her desolate practice. We went into one of the brightly colored rooms where alphabet wallpaper bordered me in. I started crying before it even happened while she crooned, “all I’m going to do is remove a liiiitle piece of skin.” Totally exposed, I was asked to relax and read the wallpapered alphabet backwards. My mother helped hold me still while I was flat on my back and in hysterics. The snip, which took maybe half a second was followed by a sharp-shooting pain that seemed to last in that moment, for eternity. I bled for three days and then it was over.

It wasn’t until I was nineteen, the end of my freshman year in college that I stumbled upon an article from one of my classes, describing the experience of a woman who had been a victim of FGM, or female genital mutilation. After reading the article once, I was immediately reminded of that Sunday afternoon twelve years prior. There was no way the same thing could have been done to me. My seven-year old perspective of a little piece of skin being removed was analogous to that of a piece of skin from the top layer of the palm of a hand. My cousin used to stick a needle through that top layer and tell me it was magic that the needle was sticking there. She eventually revealed her secret and showed me the protective top layer that separated her hand from the skin. I guess like that layer, I always figured it would grow back. Still the feeling of uncertainty drove me to call a couple of peers and academics in my community to ask whether our “khatna” was in fact a partial removal of my clitoris. Their answer confirmed the worst of my fears. My next concern of “how much?” tormented me, and after a frantic visit to the school nurse, I got my answer: “There’s only a remnant left,” said the nurse practitioner who examined me.

***

I don’t believe my discovery was adequately addressed the first time as the rest of my college experience was consumed by bouts of grief, rage, frustration, insecurity, and depression. My feelings only grew stronger as I got older and had more encounters with the opposite sex. My overcompensating, defensive attitude permeated all aspects of my life—friends, family, work, and academics. It wasn’t until my mid-20s, when I shared with my gynecologist during a routine visit what happened to me, that I was given three names of specialized therapists in the area with whom I could speak about my concerns. My insurance provider at the time would not cover therapy. Fortunately, one of three therapists agreed to see me for a discounted out-of-pocket fee because she was interested in my case.

To this day, I am so grateful for the opportunity I had to talk through what happened to me in a safe space as such resources and treatment were unavailable to me at home or in my community. I learned it was ok to talk about sex, explore my sexuality, and sexual feelings. I was even prescribed homework to assist me in doing so. At the time of the therapy, I had been sexually active and my partner, who was incredibly supportive, was also invited to participate in one of my sessions. When growing up, I never thought I would have sex before marriage. The idea behind the circumcision was to curb any sexual appetite I might have. Ironically, once I learned this had happened, I wanted nothing more than to have sex to see what my capabilities were. While I was incredibly nervous and insecure about having sex, I was more open to losing my virginity in the context of a serious relationship, which is how it happened for me.

One of my main insecurities about sex was that I felt like I was driving without the headlights on. Often times, I didn’t know where to go or how to guide my driver. I felt like a failure. To this day, I still have not experienced orgasm. While sex is enjoyable for me and I could describe what I can achieve as a “mini-climax”, I am bothered by the fact that I may never get to experience this wonderful part of life. While it’s no secret many women who have not been “circumcised” struggle with the same issues, a part of me will always wonder if that would have been true for me had this not happened. I will never know.

A still from the film ‘ A Pinch of Skin’ which depicts the practice of Female Genital Cutting or ‘Khatna’ in India.

(The piece below is the film-maker’s exploration on filming/’framing’ the ‘Good Mother’ for a practice which she (the film-maker) felt was a violation but her protagonist thought it to be in the best interests of her daughter.)

They said ‘to be a good mother you must take your daughter through the ritual’. They said it with conviction and sincere eyes; but I found myself flinching.

Flinching, because the belief that had carried me to different cities and this stranger’s drawing room was at loggerheads with her ideas. Yet, as I ate her biscuits and drank her tea, I saw myself noticing those believing eyes with which she was opening up to a complete stranger, me.

As I sat opposite ‘the good mother’, the ‘genuine person’, I was shrinking –

‘I believe what you do is “wrong”. It is just not right.’

And as I thought of ways to tell her so, her faith shook me.  Not only the faith with which she did ‘it’, but also the faith with which she let me in on it.

Between us then, there were no secrets. She told me with candor that she got her daughter ‘cut’ in the name of a tradition called Khatna (a practice she believes her prophet endorses). It had to be done to every ‘good girl’.

Good girl is strange phrase I have found. Growing up, so many people in their solicited/unsolicited ways had made sure I knew the phrase well, especially my mother.

Going to a Christian school I knew I had to keep my hair tied and skirts long. Those pretty standard things girls are schooled in. But the conflict was, I knew myself to be a good person but I didn’t want to be a good girl. And every now and then my mother and I would fight for that contested parable-like existence – the good girl.

She, the sweet stranger, further went on to qualify the parable itself.

‘you know the good girl, who never falls in love (before marriage) and never strays out (after marriage).’

Pretty standard, I thought. The same, in fact, as my mother would have once said. ‘Boys are dangerous. Sexuality is a no-go land’.

Why, then, did I sit opposite this stranger, holding my camera, leading my gaze in her thoughts?

‘Aap  jo bologe mein waisa hi film mein dikhaungi. Kuch change nahin karungi.’

(Whatever you tell me, I will depict that in my film as it is. I will not tamper with your version.)

I found myself saying this to everyone, everywhere.

Why?  Because even then I could tell that I would be cheating them if I don’t put their standpoint further.

Truth is not absolute nor can people be. What these women held close to their heart was not just a tradition; but a belief they upheld with the best interests of their daughters in mind.

And this is where everything gets difficult to negotiate.

‘One-million strong community of Dawoodi Bohras are known to practice Type 1 of female genital cutting known as Khatna or Sunnat. A practice, they believe which serves as a rite of passage for girls born into this community. This is usually done to girls mostly at the age of seven; seven believed to be the right year, for the girl would neither forget it nor be harmed much’.

I remember my thirteenth year to be a particularly troublesome one. Everyday without fail my mother and I would lock horns with each other on something or the other. One such topic of contention – being ‘unclean’ during my periods. I wasn’t allowed to ‘touch’ god or enter god’s room. She was so stern in her beliefs as if god was checking who was bleeding who was not.

Sitting in this sweet lady’s drawing room I could hardly skip over the similarities in a few notions.

Who rolls these practices, these thoughts, which invariably contain women and anything remotely related to their sexual being? Who is checking? Who deems such notions of the good girl ? And yet, why is it that women are subjected to sexual violence of all kinds imagined? 

One lady from the documentary added,

‘Women’s sexuality needs to be moderated as they are the cause of all evil. Even the rapes.’

I was shocked, stunned, enraged.

But how is this any different from the absurd idea of me being unclean during my periods?

These are beliefs that mothers maintain to see their daughter through on the “good” path of modesty, a path of least resistance; without questioning, without challenging, without giving it any kind of fight, if at all.

 II

The lady in that drawing room became the highlight of my film. I have over the years seen and heard audience gasp, mutter, whisper among themselves as they hear what she believed (in earnest, if I may add).

Every time I saw those unknown faces in the dim light of the auditorium, I shrunk. If only I could add,

You are seeing her hands and feet. Believe me you would feel differently if you saw her eyes.

—

(Dear lady, if you ever read this – I apologize. I apologize that people see you in a monochrome, as if you are the only one indoctrinated. But I have no doubt that you are a good mother. And I will remember you all my life.)

By Priya Goswami

Read more about A Pinch of Skin here:  https://www.facebook.com/APinchofSkin/