by Jean Sasson
My grandfather, Abdul Aziz Al Sa’ud, was a man who was ahead of his time, and he looked for better ways in all matters. Coming from the Najd, he did not believe in the circumcision of women, or in the flaying circumcision of men, which was as terrifying as female circumcision.
In the flaying circumcision of men, the skin is removed from the navel down to the inside of a man’s legs. On witnessing such brutality, our first king forbade the practice. But in spite of my grandfather’s decree, the old ways died slowly, and people were willing to risk punishment to carry on with what they had been taught by the ones who came before them.
While some tribes forbade circumcision of their women altogether, others excised the hood of the clitoris only. The cutting of the hood of the clitoris is the least common method, and is the only procedure that is analogous to male circumcision.
Then, there were those poor women who belonged to tribes in Arabia that removed all of the clitoris, along with the labia minora. This is the most common method of female circumcision and is comparable to removing the head of a man’s penis. My own mother paid no heed to the new ruling, and three of her daughters were subjected to the cruel practice of female circumcision. The remainder of the women in our family had been spared the rite of circumcision due to the intervention of a Western physician and the insistence of my father to my mother that circumcision of females was nothing more than a pagan practice that must be stopped. Strangely enough, it is the women in Muslim countries who insist upon the circumcision of their female offspring, fearing that their daughters will otherwise be scorned for being different, resulting in husbandless futures. On this one topic regarding female sexuality, educated men have advanced beyond their women.
There is another, more atrocious and dangerous method of female circumcision, named the pharaonic circumcision. I could scarcely imagine the pain experienced by the women who received the pharaonic circumcision. This process is the most extreme, and after the rite is completed, a girl is left without a clitoris, labia minora, or labia majora. If such a procedure were done on a male, it would involve amputation of the penis and the scrotum around the testicles.
How barbarous were these old customs that still lingered in our present day! In Saudi Arabia, much had been accomplished to eradicate the tradition, and most women of my land are no longer subjected to this terrible experience. The men of my own family had forbade the pagan tradition, but still some families of African descent who lived in Arabia were prepared to risk punishment rather than forgo the rite, swearing that nothing other than the reduction of female pleasure will preserve female chastity.
I had known that the practice of female circumcision was thought to have begun along the Nile Valley, and I had speculated in my mind that the barbaric ritual might end where it had begun. Yet, many women in Egypt and throughout the continent of Africa were still subjected to this most inhumane ritual.
Over the years, as my own family no longer practiced this rite, I had been successful in pushing the thought of female mutilation from my mind.
Now Fatma tugged on my arm. Her imploring gesture brought me back into the present. With great sadness, I recalled the face of the young girl, Alhaan, for she had visited her grandmother in our villa on many occasions. She was a pretty child and had seemed bright and happy. I created a vivid mental image of the girl being led to the barber, undressed by her mother, with small legs spread before the man with the sharp razor.
I recoiled in horror. In disbelief, I wondered how the mother of that girl could condone such evil inflicted on her beautiful daughter? Yet, I knew that many mothers were allowing such intolerable practices, for it is estimated by world health organizations that female genital mutilation has affected between 80 and 100 million women worldwide. So much pain inflicted on little girls!
With hope in her voice, Fatma examined my face carefully and asked, “Mistress, can you save my granddaughter?”
I moved my head slowly and heavily. “What can I do, Fatma, that you can not? I am not of your family. My interference would be resented.”
“You are a princess. My daughter, she has respect for someone who is a princess.”
I had learned long ago that those who have no wealth believe that money has provided wisdom along with economic freedom, but this was a matter of deeply ingrained culture. Instinctively, I knew that Fatma’s daughter would not welcome my intrusion.
I waved my arms helplessly. “What can I do, Fatma? Since I reached the age of understanding, I have wanted female freedom from such practices.” My voice fell low, along with my spirits. “Now, it seems that the world is becoming darker and darker for those of our sex.”
Fatma remained silent, and a sorrowful look came into her black eyes.
“If I could, I would help your granddaughter. But I have no authority to voice my opinion.”
Fatma looked disappointed but spoke words without reproach. “I understand, mistress.” She stared at me from half-closed lids. “But I beg you to come with me. To try.”
Surprised at Fatma’s stubbornness, I felt my resolve melting away. I felt a shiver run through my body and asked in a weak voice, “Where does your daughter live?”
Fatma’s thick lips exploded with her excited reply, “Very close, not more than a short ride in an automobile. If we leave now, we can arrive before Nasser comes home from work.”
I summoned all my courage and stood. I told myself that in spite of almost certain failure, I must make an effort. I knew that I would be forced to lie to my husband, or he would forbid me to go. “Fatma, go and get your things. And say not a word to anyone of this matter.”
“Yes, mistress! I know it is God’s will that you help me!”
I watched her as she hurried away, moving faster than I could ever remember. Despite our vastly different worlds, the two of us had become comrades fighting for the same cause. By the time I combed out my hair, applied lipstick, and located my handbag, I had decided to tell Kareem that Fatma had just that morning learned her daughter was ill with a rare female disorder. But her daughter had refused treatment, saying that if it was God’s will that she die, she would not reverse his decision by accepting treatment from any man. Fatma had pleaded with me to go and convince her daughter that she must fight to live for the sake of her own children. To be more convincing, I would complain that I did not want to go, but how could I forgive myself if the woman died and I had made no effort. It was a weak scenario, but Kareem shied away from female problems and would more than likely grumble but make no move to stop me.
As it turned out, I was not forced to tell such a wild tale, for Abdullah said that his father had received a telephone call while I was speaking with Fatma. Kareem had asked Abdullah to tell me that he was going to join one of his royal cousins in a Cairo casino and would not be home until later that evening. I knew my husband wanted to put time and distance between himself and his son’s earlier request to donate millions of dollars to a failing Lebanese economy, and I had a sense that his excuse to leave our home was as dishonest as the lie I had been prepared to tell. Kareem shares a common trait with most Arabs. My husband cannot say no, but would rather speak a small lie and disappear from the sight of the one who requires an answer.
“Good!” I muttered under my breath. Kareem’s discomfort at being around his son had come at an opportune time.
After advising me of his father’s message, Abdullah turned his attention back to the television set, and I saw that he was mesmerized, watching an Egyptian soap opera that was greatly favored by Arabs from many lands. I noticed that Amani’s lips had formed a disapproving pout. My daughter was not pleased at her brother’s selection, for that particular show was not allowed in Saudi Arabia because of its many scenes that hinted of sexual impropriety.
“Abdullah, I need you to drive me to the home of Fatma’s daughter. Can you come?”
My son looked for any opportunity to drive the new white Mercedes Kareem had purchased and shipped into the country for our Cairo home.
I knew from past experience that Kareem would have taken the older Mercedes into the busy district of downtown Cairo, since he greatly feared the taxi drivers in that teeming city.
Abdullah flicked the remote button shutting off the television set and gallantly leapt to his feet. “I will get the car.”
The Cairo streets were crowded with vehicles of every description, and the traffic was almost at a standstill. Pedestrians threaded in and out of the traffic. People hung onto the sides of buses already packed with humanity; they clung precariously to the doorways or windows as if it were the most natural way in the world to travel.
As our car inched through the city streets, I gazed in amazement at the mass of people who had descended on the city of the Pharaohs and shuddered, for it was easy to see that Cairo could not continue to exist as it was.
Abdullah interrupted my thoughts, asking me the point of our errand.
I swore him to secrecy. When I told him of Fatma’s source of sorrow, a flash of anger swept over my son’s face.
Abdullah said that he had heard of such things but had thought such tales were exaggerated. “Is it really true?” he asked. “Are such things done to young girls?”
I thought to tell him about his Auntie Nura but reconsidered, for it was such a private matter, and I knew my sister would be keenly ashamed if my son knew of her mutilation. Instead, I told him the history of female circumcision.
While my son was pleased that the custom was ending in our own land, he felt sickened that so many women still suffered unnecessary pain.
We were silent the rest of the trip, each of us awash in our own thoughts of the evening’s business.
Fatma’s daughter lived in a small alley that branched off from a main shopping road in the city of Cairo. Abdullah paid a shop owner for the privilege of parking our car on the sidewalk in front of his clothing shop and promised the happy man a generous bonus if he would ensure that no damage occurred while we were away.
Abdullah guided Fatma and me, hands on our backs, as we weaved through the pedestrian traffic and entered the alleyway that led to our destination. The alley was too small for automobiles, so we walked down the middle of the stone-paved street. Strong cooking odors drifted around us as we passed a number of cafés specializing in Arabic dishes.
Abdullah and I exchanged many glances, for we had never visited the poorer sections of Cairo. The close living quarters and the poverty of the inhabitants were a shock to us both.
Fatma’s daughter lived in a three-story building at the center of the alleyway. The building faced the neighborhood mosque, which looked worn and was in urgent need of repair. The bottom floor housed a bakery, while the two top floors were rented out as apartments. Fatma pointed up and said that her daughter, Elham, lived on the top floor. Incredibly, Elham must have been looking down at the crowd from the flat-roofed building, for she recognized her mother, and began to yell Fatma’s name, which we could barely hear over the loud noise of city life.
Abdullah did not know that in this particular family women were permitted to meet men not of their family (in Egypt the custom varies from family to family) and told me that he would wait in a small café we had passed that served shawarma sandwiches, which are thin slices of lamb that has been turned and cooked on a split and placed into a piece of Arabic bread, with tomato, mint, and onion for added taste. Shawarma sandwiches were a big favorite of all my children, and Abdullah said that he was becoming hungry.
Elham and three of her four daughters met us on the stairwell, all four speaking at once, demanding to know if there had been some illness or tragedy in the family.
My first thought was that Elham looked identical to a young Fatma.
She gazed at me in fascination when Fatma introduced me as her employer, a princess from Saudi Arabia, for I had never met this particular child, even though I had met most of Fatma’s children and grandchildren. I grew extremely conscious of my showy jewelry, for in my haste, I had not remembered to remove my large diamond earrings or my opulent wedding ring, which I realized were more than conspicuous in such poor surroundings. Elham’s youngest daughter, a girl of only six, was slapped by her mother as she rubbed her small fingers across the stone in my ring.
At Elham’s insistence, we were led into her small sitting room, and she left us for a short time to go and boil water for tea. Fatma had two granddaughters in her lap and a third at her feet. Alhaan was nowhere to be seen.
I examined my surroundings and could see that Elham lived a simple life. I tried not to stare at the threadbare floor coverings and the torn slipcovers, for I did not want my attention to be misunderstood. There was an open brazier in the middle of the room, and a square table pushed against the wall was piled with religious books. A small gas lamp hung down from the ceiling, and I wondered if the apartment was not supplied with electricity. I noticed that Elham’s apartment was spotless, and it was evident that she was a proud woman who took great trouble keeping the dust and bugs out of her simple home.
Elham soon returned, serving sweet tea and small almond cookies she said she had baked herself for the family celebration they were having that evening. She mentioned to her mother that Alhaan was excited over the event and was on the rooftop, reading the Koran and quietly preparing herself for the most important day in her life.
The atmosphere remained cheerful until that moment, as Fatma brought up the topic on our minds, pleading with her daughter to cancel the planned ritual, to spare her child great pain and suffering.
Fatma talked in a rush and, seeing that she was making no dent in her daughter’s determination, pointed to me and said that if Elham would not listen to her own mother, perhaps she would pay heed to a woman who had been educated by bright minds, a woman who had learned from respected physicians that the mutilation of girls was not encouraged by our religion and was nothing more than a custom with no basis or meaning in modern life.
The tension built, and though Elham was polite and listened to my thoughts on the matter, I could see that the lines of her face were set and her eyes were glazed over with stubborn determination. Knowing from Fatma’s confidences that the family was notably religious, I shared my knowledge of religious thought, saying that nothing in the Koran spoke of such matters, and that if God had considered it a necessity for women to be circumcised, then surely He would have given that message to Prophet Mohammed when He revealed His wisdom to His messenger.
Elham admitted that while female circumcision is not mentioned in the Koran, the practice was founded upon the customs of the Prophet so that it had become Sunna, or tradition for all Muslims. She reminded me of a well-known hadith, or tradition, addressed but not recorded in the Koran. This hadith says that Prophet Mohammed one day told Um Attiya, a matron who was excising a girl, “Reduce but do not destroy.”
It was this tradition that Elham and her husband were going to follow regarding female circumcision, and nothing I could say would alter their decision.
We discussed the issue until I could see the light begin to leave the room. Sundown was approaching. I knew that Nasser would return soon, and I had no desire to confront the man of the house over such a delicate matter. I made some small mention that it was time for me to return to my children.
Fatma, sensing failure, began to wail and slap at her cheeks until her face was completely reddened.
A look of distress flickered in Elham’s eyes at her mother’s grief, but she said that the decision had been reached by her husband and that she agreed with his thinking. All four of her daughters would undergo the rite of circumcision when they reached the proper age.
I could see that Elham wished for my departure. Understanding that I could do nothing to erase the frightening shadow cast over the lives of the female children of this home, I stood and said my farewells.
With quiet self-assurance, Elham’s eyes met mine, and she politely bade me good-bye. “You have honored my home with your presence, Princess Sultana. Please, come again another day for a lon
ger visit.”
Against her daughter’s wishes, Fatma insisted upon staying for the ceremony, saying that if the evil deed was going to be done, she wanted to supervise the barber’s work to make sure he cut nothing more than the tip of her granddaughter’s clitoris.
I submitted to the inevitable, leaving Elham’s home without accomplishing my goal. My feet felt leaden as I walked down the long staircase. In an effort to give myself time to calm my nerves, I stood immobile on the steps and recited aloud a verse from the Koran, “You cannot lead aright whomever you wish, it is God who leads whomever He wishes.”
My son was waiting, sitting at a small table in the front of the café. His questioning gaze followed me as I made my way to his side.
My son peered at me expectantly. “So?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. There is nothing to be done.” Abdullah’s face clouded as I admitted my failure.
“Come,” I said, “let us return home.” I glanced over my shoulder as we left the small alley, gazing into the night. Elham’s home had melted into the darkness as though it had never existed.
When my son began to talk, I urged silence with the press of my hand against his lips.
I was unable to control my weeping. Without speaking, my son drove his sobbing mother home. As soon as I arrived back at our villa, I called out for my astonished daughters to abandon their current activities and pack their belongings. Our family would leave Cairo as soon as their father returned from the casino.
I whispered to Abdullah that the city I had loved since childhood was in danger of losing my affection, though I hoped our evening’s experience would not result in my vigorous dislike of everything Egyptian.
