One Hand Does Not Catch a Buffalo

by Aaron Barlow

  One day, as she was leaving the apartment, she turned more serious than I had seen her previously and asked me to assist at the circumcision of her infant son. Flattered by her request, I enthusiastically agreed to do so. Judy did not seem the least bit envious!

  The next time Aicha came, I asked her what my role would be; she found a candle and handed it to me. When the appointed day arrived, I wound my way through the souks to the humble house she had led me to on a practice run. After she made her request, I’d asked a few male friends if they remembered their own circumcisions. Without exception, each shuddered, unable to imagine why I’d want to witness one.

  Aicha was counting on me, so there I was, hoping that my hand would be steady enough, and that my squeamishness wouldn’t make me faint!

  Half a block from her house on a narrow cobblestone street, I heard lots of people in a festive mood speaking rapid-fire Arabic at her open, traditional blue door. She emerged to greet me and kissed me on both cheeks, looking beautiful with lots of kohl, freshly hennaed hair, lipstick, bracelets, and a colorful silk safsari. She led me into a small, low room, lit only by one high window and packed with her family and friends. All the furniture except one table had been removed. Aicha introduced me to her husband and her mother. She asked me to stand beside the table, handed me a candle, lit it, then disappeared to fetch her infant son, Radjeb.

  Her husband and the “circumcisionist” appeared from the shadows next to me, then Aicha and little Radjeb, whom she laid on a cushion on the table. As the knife was lifted, suddenly, three trumpets blared loudly at the back of the room, causing me to jump in shock. No doubt some candle wax dripped to the floor as I reacted to the deafening, frenetic notes, but I was riveted by the task of casting the only light on the delicate operation.

  The blade flashed; Radjeb shrieked in shock. The tiny foreskin fell from him. He continued wailing in his mother’s comforting arms as the trumpets continued, conversations started, and the women ululated.

  Over my third cup of potent sweet mint tea during the gathering afterwards, I learned that the relative darkness was meant to calm the baby boy, and the trumpets to distract him. I was proud to have brought light to this meaningful moment.

  Suzanne Meagher Owen was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Tunisia from 1964-66.

  A Morning

  Enid S. Abrahami

  This stark tale of female circumcision cries. Just cries.

  7:30 As the sun rises, a group of mothers, grandmothers and girls between the ages of one and five congregate in the compound next to mine. Each child has been meticulously washed and ritually draped in cloth of exquisite colors and intricate patterns.

  8:00 The sky is crystal blue. One by one the women walk in single file en brousse to the neighboring village of Taibatou. There are nine girls all in all. One is my niece, Bintou, five years old and the oldest of the group. The others range in age from one to four years. Wrapped in different colored pagnas, each girl is carried by her mother, Bintou by her grandmother, my village “mother.” I stay toward the back of the line.

  8:30 We reach a small compound made up of four huts. Three children squat around a fire eating breakfast. Another two chase each other around. They are laughing. We are ushered into one of the middle huts—dark and musty. The back door is slightly ajar—a strong stream of light blares through. The voices of women can be heard coming from the backyard. And then it begins. With a most piercing scream. So full of pain and anguish. All in the voice of a two-year-old child. Hidden behind the door. One can only imagine what is happening. My stomach turns.

  8:42 A girl is carried out from the back through the hut to the front. She is wrapped in a gray sheet. It drips with blood. A drop falls on my shoe. Her face in shock. And she trembles.

  8:43 Another one is carried to the back.

  8:45 The horrid screams begin again.

  8:48 She is carried out. Naked and profusely bleeding. Her young vagina resembles a piece of red meat.

  8:49 Another one is carried to the back.

  8:52 And the screams begin again.

  8:57 And she is carried out. Naked and profusely bleeding. Her young vagina resembles a piece of red meat. Raw and mutilated. She moans.

  9:10 I decide to go and see what takes place out back. With my own eyes. To witness and record. I am as ready as I ever will be.

  9:12 Maybe not.

  9:12 I step out back. A small rectangular yard, fenced and bare. There are seven women milling about. I can’t look at faces. So I look on the ground. Blood is splattered. A rusty dull knife lies near a small can of water. A strange putrid smell surveys the air and enters my nostrils. I need to sit down. Beyond the confines of this space, Africa greets me. Neighboring huts. Trees of all sorts. Dry lush brush. A crisp horizon line. So very beautiful. And so in opposition to everything happening within the borders of the crinton fence.

  9:13 A girl is dragged to where we stand. It is Bintou. She locks eyes with me, for only a second. Tears roll down her cheeks. She makes no sound. Already she looks in shock. I can turn around at any moment. Grab Bintou and leave. Put it all behind me. But I don’t. I won’t. I need to be a witness. The question is for whom and why?

  9:14 The moment has come for Bintou to be cut. Seven women move quickly and without hesitation. Bintou, legs forced open, arms outstretched, lies on her back in between the legs of another. Face up. Open to the sky above. She is strapped. Held down. She can’t move an inch. One just needs to look at her face. It tells all. The entire story.

  The woman in charge takes the knife. Forces Bintou’s legs wider. Gets a hold on a clitoris probably too small to really grasp. The thought of grabbing Bintou and escaping floods through my mind. But I am frozen. And then it begins. Knife in right hand, she begins. Like cutting a steak. Back and forth. Back and forth. Not a clean sweep. Not quick and momentary. My head spins and nausea takes hold of me. I am determined to stay, however.

  9:15 Back and forth. Back and forth. Just a piece of red raw meat. I sit on a stone.

  9:17 Bintou is placed almost in front of me. Still naked. Trembling. Bleeding. I try to comfort her with my eyes. And try to erase any sign of disgust and horror from my visage.

  9:24 More red meat sliced. More shrill screams. More. More More. Will it never end?

  9:26 My eyes, for refuge, wander out to the Africa laying beyond, stretching across. It is unchanged. Just as it was before. Except the body surveying the landscape has forever changed. Never to be the same. Silence invades me.

  9:30 There are now two sitting directly in front of me. Bintou and Khudaijaa. The oldest two. The traumatized two. Hopefully the last two.

  9:33 Nope. It’s not over yet.

  9:35 I can’t anymore. I stand up and make my way out to the front courtyard. Five trembling girls, shell-shocked and wide-eyed, sit in a circle around an open fire. I look from one to another. A disturbing thought enters my mind. If one or two of these girls should die would the door for challenge be opened? From this group of nine, who would they be?

  9:40 I turn off my senses. I feel like sour milk. Curdled and ugly.

  9:42 Women talk to me. Ask me the most trivial of questions. Are any words coming out of my mouth? I can’t tell.

  9:50 It’s over. Time to leave. Head back home. Girls are picked up. And carried. And strapped to the back. The walk begins. The march commences. And the singing starts. With a head reeling I focus on the basic task of walking. Of putting one foot in front of the other. Everything around me fades just a little. Becomes a background drop. White noise. Static.

  10:15 We arrive back in our village of Missirah Tabadian. To the same compound where just a few hours earlier everything seemed so different. All nine girls are laid down side by side, each with a colorful ribbon tied around her head. Marking her as excised. The village comes to see them. Like in a museum.

  10:25 I r
eturn to my hut. Exhausted. Tainted. My mind is a blank and at the same time flooding.

  10:30 I think I just may throw up.

  Enid Abrahami lived and worked as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Missira Tabadian, a small village located in southeast Senegal, West Africa, from 1998-2000. Upon completing her Peace Corps Service, Enid decided to become a nurse with the hope of returning some day to the developing world to provide sustainable health care and education to underserved areas. She is a proud single mom of a remarkably curious two-and-a-half year-old boy, Mika, and a gentle fox-like dog she rescued from the streets of New York. This story is one that is featured in her memoir, Rain Washes Over Me Under the Moon.

  A Brother in Need

  Genevieve Murakami

  Persistence is perhaps the most important attribute of a Peace Corps Volunteer.

  As a rural health volunteer in a very small village of Fulani farmers and herders, I spent one day per week working at a health center in a neighboring town. Although I was not a health care professional and could not provide medication, the people of my village thought I was some kind of healer and often brought their sick to me before making the trek to the health center, hoping for a quick fix, free of charge. I treated minor cuts and gave advice when I could, but most of the time I had no idea what was wrong and ended up referring them to the nurse.

  Roughly two months into my service, Diallo, a man who lived in my compound, became extremely ill, and my village family asked me to see him. I looked at his feverish puffy face and his swollen joints and the way he winced when I touched his elbow. With a weak voice, he told me all his joints hurt. I guessed he had an infection and it appeared very serious, so I suggested we go to the health center right away. My family knew I meant business; nobody goes anywhere during the midday heat in the hottest inhabited place on Earth.

  It took us an hour to transport Diallo the two miles by charrette (a donkey-drawn carriage). His friend Kamara held him in his arms to break the stress of the jolting ride on the rough, red dirt road. Kamara’s soulful eyes peered out from the turquoise fabric that encircled his head and face, looking down worriedly at his friend.

  This was but one of many acts of tenderness I would witness among these people. I too was worried and, as the sun beat down on us, I prayed we would make it to the center before the nurse closed it for lunch.

  But we were late, and I was forced to interrupt the nurse’s much-needed afternoon nap. I felt I was pressing my luck since the nurse and I were relatively new in our working relationship; we had not yet formed much of a bond. We both spoke French, but that was about all we had in common. His living quarters were attached to the health center, so people came to him day and night for treatment. There was no such thing as an appointment, so the poor man never got much of a break. Standing in his doorway, squinting at us as his eyes adjusted to the bright sun, he seemed annoyed at my request, but he groggily agreed to see “my village brother.”

  A nurse in Senegal can make medical diagnoses and prescribe medication much like a doctor, even though he receives far less training. During a consultation there is almost no communication between the nurse and the patient: the patient tells the nurse the complaint, the nurse does some examining, writes a prescription, and tells the patient how to take the medicine—but does not usually tell them the medicine’s name or explain how it works. Most of the rural people are illiterate, keeping them even more in the dark. This is why it came as no surprise to me when the nurse did a little pressing on Diallo’s joints and sent him away with a prescription.

  The nurse abruptly told me he was going back to sleep and walked off. I offered to wait until the pharmacy reopened after lunch to pick up the prescription, while Diallo was taken back to the village to rest. After I bought the medication, I read the insert to find out exactly what kind of drug it was. I expected an antibiotic, but it was a muscle relaxer! My heart fell; intuitively I knew this medication would not help him.

  I wondered: Should I just give Diallo the medication, or should I go back to the nurse and try to get the prescription changed? This would involve second-guessing a professional who I had to work with for the next two years. I had no credibility; I was not a health professional. And I had annoyed him by interrupting his nap.

  Diallo could only afford to pay half the price of the prescription, and I covered the other half, which was the equivalent of a few dollars. Drugs were fairly cheap, but money was hard to come by. I felt like we were just throwing it away on this medication.

  Finally, I went back to the nurse’s house, but he did not respond to my knocks. Due to a lack of electricity, I had to get back to the village before the sun went down, and I could not go back empty handed. I pedaled through the African bush, the cool breeze against my face, which normally made me happy, but which did nothing for the sick feeling I felt inside.

  My only choice was to give Diallo the pills. My skills in the village language were not yet strong, and I didn’t know how to tell him what I really thought. Besides, I didn’t have a back-up plan. In the villagers’ eyes, any medication is better than no medication and I figured they would have more trust in the nurse’s decision than in my opinion. Having taken this kind of drug myself in the past, I knew that at least it would make him feel good. Still, it felt wrong; I did not believe it would cure him.

  With sweat running down my back and tears on my cheeks, I watched him take the pills. It wasn’t in my job description to cure him, but I had gotten myself into this mess, and I felt a responsibility to do my best for him. I stayed up half the night scouring my health books by candlelight, but found nothing.

  The next day, although Diallo seemed more peaceful, his condition was worse. His face was getting puffier and his skin, once golden brown, had developed a gray tint. The joints in his arms and legs were getting larger and more painful. My village brother had rigged a sling made out of brightly colored African fabric, because Diallo couldn’t tolerate the pain of his arms hanging at his sides. He could barely walk, but managed to shuffle over to my hut and ask if he could hang out with me. He said my hut was cooler and he wanted some of my “special water” (I filtered it). But it was all I had to offer. I looked at him sitting on my bed, sicker than anyone I had ever seen in my life. I ached to protect him.

  Hoping that he felt better than he looked, I asked him, “A samori sedha?” (Have you healed a little?)

  “No,” he replied, and the sinking feeling in my stomach increased. His swelling made me think of circulation problems, and I had a feeling it was not going to get better.

  I had a bad feeling. This man was my age—twenty-six—and, as far as I was concerned, this was not his time to go. I was not about to chalk this one up to Allah’s will. Up to this point nobody had died in my village, and I really wanted to keep it that way. Besides, Diallo and I had lived about twenty feet away from each other for the past two months. He had grown on me. This sweet, soft-spoken man was my friend, and I had never lost a friend before.

  Feeling helpless, I told him I thought he needed to see the nurse again. He then told s me that he had decided he had an “African illness” and it needed to be treated the “African way.” This meant using traditional medicine. He told me he was going to see a traditional healer the following day. Since we were on “African time,” I knew it would probably be a few days, and I felt it might be too late by then. This African culture uses traditional healers as much, or more often, than Western medicine. Since I was fairly new to the culture, hearing him say this was unexpected, but I shouldn’t have been surprised. This is a man who wore a charm around his neck with a mirror embedded in it to ward off bad spirits.

  What I was up against here? How far should I push Western medicine on him? All I had managed to do so far was stress out his body getting him to and from the health center. Should I let it go and let him deal with the illness the African way? I knew little about their traditional medicine; ho
w was I to know if it wouldn’t be the better solution?

  This was one of many instances when Africa would humble me.

  Later that night, I kept picturing Diallo shuffling around with his arms out in front of him like a zombie. I could not bear it. How could I just lie there looking up at the stars while my friend was probably dying? And, really, what did I have better to do? I was new here and did not have much work yet. My “job” for the first six months was to learn the language and gain the trust of the people, integrating myself into this extremely different culture.

  I decided I couldn’t let this one go and picked up one of my books again. To my great surprise and by the grace of God, I came across a drawing of an African man who looked to be in the same physical condition as Diallo. He had the swollen face and the swollen painful joints. It was like someone had drawn a picture of Diallo himself and slipped it into my book. How had I missed this page before? The image was labeled Rheumatic fever, which happens when strep throat is left untreated and the bacteria progresses to the heart valves. Penicillin, an antibiotic, was listed as the medication to treat it.

  At breakfast the next morning, I asked Diallo if he had had a sore throat recently and he said yes. Things were starting to make some sense. It dawned on me why we get tested for strep in the U.S. whenever we have sore throats, and why it needs to be treated. I told Diallo I thought I might know what was wrong, but I needed to consult with the nurse first. I asked Diallo if he wanted me to do this; I did not want him to think I was totally disregarding his plans for treating his condition the African way. He said yes, and away I rode on my bike.

  Feeling a little more confident now that I had a reference, I showed my book to the nurse. The book was La, Ou Il n’y a pas de Docteur, the West African version of Where There is No Doctor. The nurse told me he used to have the same book, and I think this gave me some credibility. I showed him the picture and I told him I thought this is what “my brother” must have. I told him that the medication he prescribed was not helping, and that Diallo was, in fact, getting worse. I knew I was risking seeming disrespectful, but a life was at stake. Fortunately, the nurse did not get angry or defensive. He said he originally thought Diallo had an articulation problem of the joints, but he agreed with me that Rheumatic fever was most likely what was really going on. Since it probably would have killed Diallo to be transported to the health center again, I went out on another limb and asked the nurse if he would be kind enough to ride his motorcycle out to my village and give Diallo a shot of long-acting penicillin. He agreed to do it, and Diallo got his injection that evening.