by Aimee Molloy
Hundreds of people stood in the courtyard, the women dressed in their most vibrantly colored boubous. Men drummed and women banged on the dried, round calabash gourds resting at their feet, and the warm welcome helped to calm Ourèye’s fear. A few young men were called to help unload her belongings: one small trunk crammed with a few articles of clothing and the bowls and pots she had brought as gifts for her mother-and sisters-in-law. Ourèye was led to the small, simple hut where she would live with her husband, at least until she became a mother, when Modou would get his own room and Ourèye would share her bed with her children. Inside, several women and girls, many of them her new in-laws, waited to greet her. They welcomed Ourèye with gifts of their own: intricate fabrics and several large cooking pots. The women remained with her until the sun rose, all of them dancing to the sound of the drumming.
It was early the next morning when Ourèye heard a man’s voice outside the hut. She felt her heart race as she caught her first glimpse of the man she guessed to be Modou. From behind her veil, which she had worn through the night, she couldn’t discern his features; all she could tell was that he was tall and many years older than she, perhaps the age of her grandfather. The women in the room laughed and cheered, knowing it was time for Modou to welcome Ourèye to his village. But first, according to their family tradition, Modou was required to give Ourèye’s friends a gift for the honor of unveiling her, and the crowd applauded and sang as he made his way around the room doling out coins. He then returned to where Ourèye stood, and without hurry, he raised the cotton veil, revealing first her neck and then her chin.
The darkness lifted, and in the soft light of early morning, the man—her husband—was smiling down at her. She was relieved to find kindness in his eyes. Years later she would find him charming and gentle, but on this day, she was a child still—just fourteen years old—and all she could do was shyly avert her gaze.
THE FOLLOWING YEAR, SHE had a son. He had shiny skin and eyes the shape of almonds, and she named him Ousmane. The next year, Ourèye’s second child arrived, and more children kept coming. By the time Ourèye was twenty-one years old, she was the mother of six. As much as she valued her role as a wife and mother, she knew before long that the time had come for her to set out to work, as she always knew she would: assuming the role of the traditional cutter. Like the women’s tradition itself, the job was bequeathed from a mother to her daughters, and for generations the women of Ourèye’s family had held this important and revered position. Knowing the job would someday be theirs, Ourèye and her sisters had begun at a very young age to accompany Kadidiatou on her visits to the surrounding villages—to observe her work and learn, just as generations of women had before them, the precautions to be taken, the prayers to be recited, and the care needed immediately following the procedure.
Ourèye was paid well for her work. Some days she might cut as many as ten girls and could earn more than forty dollars as well as bars of soap, fabric, and extra razor blades. She was proud of the money she could contribute to the household, and she savored the responsibility she held, the vital role she played in one of the most important moments of a girl’s life.
But through it all she felt an uneasiness about her work. She never admitted this aloud to anyone, but at times, while throwing scoops of feed to the chickens or on long, dusty walks back from the well, Ourèye couldn’t help but think of what had happened to her own daughter many years earlier, on the day that she was cut. Ourèye had done everything a mother was meant to do. She’d arranged for her own mother to come and do the cutting. Throughout the procedure, she’d recited all the appropriate prayers. But despite this, things did not go as planned. Her daughter bled too much, and they had trouble rousing her. For hours afterward Ourèye and her mother treated the wound, pressing it with leaves Ourèye had collected from the neem trees, known for their medicinal properties. This usually brought some relief, but her daughter’s screams only intensified, as did the amount of blood that flowed from her body, staining the straw mat and the hardened ground underneath.
As the hours passed and her daughter suffered, Ourèye considered taking her to the closest health center in the city of Mbour. But the only way there was on the back of a charette (horse-drawn cart), and her daughter was in no condition to endure that sort of travel. Instead, she kept the girl cradled in her arms, trying to soothe her with the words of a traditional lullaby:
Live little baby, so you can grow and help your family. Long life my little baby. God will make you strong so that you will help your family and your people. Live little baby.
By morning, Ourèye had been able to stop the bleeding, but her daughter remained on the mat, sick and weakened, for several days. When she was finally well enough to travel, Ourèye took her to see the local marabout. He prayed over her daughter, and when he was done, he confirmed Ourèye’s worst fears. The child had been touched by evil spirits, and it was these spirits that had caused her to fall ill.
The memory of that day never left Ourèye, and it was made worse by the fact that her daughter never seemed to fully recover. As she got older, she was often in poor health and seemed weaker and frailer than other girls her age. After she married in her teens, she had excessive hemorrhaging during childbirth. Ourèye knew these same ailments were sometimes suffered by other girls she cut. A girl might bleed too much or contract a serious infection in the months following her procedure. This happened despite the fact that Ourèye always did her best to be careful, performing the operation with reverence, and always to a mother’s liking. She did it just as Kadidiatou had taught her, one girl after another, often using the same razor blade on different girls. She had nothing with which to disinfect the blade and no medicine to help ease the pain. Instead, she relied on the girl’s aunt or grandmother—very rarely her mother, as it was often too difficult for a mother to witness her daughter’s pain—to bring neem leaves, which they would pound into a paste and apply to the wound. Afterward, Ourèye would leave the girl to the care of the elder women and move on to the next village, where more girls waited for her.
These problems troubled Ourèye, but she knew they were beyond her control: the work of evil spirits. She would never speak of the problems aloud, of course, for fear of angering these spirits. What was the point of speaking about the tradition anyway? Even if Ourèye had been able to express her misgivings, there was nothing she could do. The tradition had been an important part of being a woman for centuries and would continue to be that way forever.
At least this is what Ourèye had always understood, until a few months earlier when education had arrived in her village, through a program called Tostan. Because of this education, women were somehow finding the courage to speak about the tradition for the first time. And as she had recently come to understand, one group of women from the nearby village of Malicounda Bambara had not only begun to speak about it.
They had decided to abandon it.
17
Yoonu Diisoo (Choosing Dialogue)
Hours later, still lost in these memories, Ourèye awoke with a start to find that the bus had arrived at her childhood home. Her mother, Kadidiatou, was waiting to greet her. Exhausted and hungry, Ourèye dropped off her bag at home and went in search of Gedda. While she wanted to remain awake all night talking, Ourèye bid her friend good night early and returned to her family’s hut to sleep. After all, this trip was different, and she needed her rest.
Ourèye woke very early the next morning feeling tired and anxious. She knew it was best to hurry and do what she had come to do, lest she lose her courage. As soon as she and her sisters had finished fetching the water from the well and preparing the millet for the day, she asked her mother and her four sisters who had remained in the village—and all of whom, like her, had become cutters—to join her in a circle under the tree.
“I have to tell you something,” Ourèye said after they were all seated. She had rehearsed what she wanted to say many times, and yet she struggled to find the best
way to begin. But then her words tumbled forward before she could stop them.
“I’ve begun to participate in an education program in Nguerigne Bambara called Tostan, and I’ve learned some things I didn’t know before,” she began. She went on to explain how much she’d been awakened through her education and how much the program had helped the women of her village. Not only were they learning to read and write, but they also now understood so many things—the importance of vaccinations, how germs are transmitted, financial management, and, most important, the existence of human rights. Ourèye spoke of the protections granted to women under the law and about every woman’s right to health and freedom from all forms of violence.
“As part of this discussion, we’ve been having a long and honest dialogue about the women’s tradition,” she said, registering the flash of surprise on her mother’s face. “The women in a village not far from mine have gone through the same program and have made a brave and exciting decision as a community. They are going to stop cutting their girls. They are going to abandon the tradition.”
“Ourèye,” one of her sisters said, “be careful what you’re saying.”
“The information I’ve received has really changed my mind about things,” Ourèye continued, “and that is why I’ve come. I have made a decision, but I needed to come and talk to you about it first, before I share it with anyone else.”
She told them about the afternoon when Fatimata, the Tostan facilitator, first spoke of the tradition. Ourèye had sat as still as stone, feeling the blood drain from her face, as Fatimata told the class about the decision the women of Malicounda Bambara had made and then spoke about the potential problems associated with the tradition. When Fatimata finished her presentation, Ourèye took in a long, slow drink of dusty air, trying to recover her breath.
The other women in the class were quiet at first, stewing in their dismay and disbelief. Some eventually spoke up, voicing their anger and confusion, but Ourèye remained silent. She understood.
What Fatimata spoke about was exactly what had happened to her daughter so many years ago. She had hemorrhaged, and her wound had become infected. That was why she had suffered; why, throughout her life, she’d always had problems.
It was me, Ourèye thought. It was because of what I did.
As soon as the class was finished, Ourèye hurried from the hut to find Marièma Ndiaye, her closest friend in Nguerigne Bambara, feeling heavy under the weight of her shame. She explained to Marièma what Fatimata had said, and as she did, everything seemed to come into perfect focus. Her daughter’s problems, Kadidiatou’s inability to stop the bleeding. What had happened that day wasn’t because of evil spirits. “Marièma,” she found the courage to say to her friend one day. “I’ve witnessed the same thing happen to other girls I’ve cut myself.”
Marièma could say nothing to calm or comfort Ourèye. That night, and for the next several nights, while cooking dinner for Modou and her children, while taking advantage of the mild afternoon air after her work was complete, Ourèye was withdrawn and quiet. The money she earned cutting the girls of her region was a great help to all the members of her family, allowing her to buy shoes and clothes for the children, and her work brought her much respect from the women in her village and the surrounding communities. But if what she did possibly led to health problems, if what she did brought suffering—not peace—to people, how could she continue?
Ourèye’s mother and sisters remained quiet as Ourèye explained how afraid she’d felt since first hearing Fatimata speak of the tradition in class, afraid that she and the other women of her family had brought pain to others; and how, despite many years of believing otherwise, she’d become truly convinced that the information she’d learned was true. Since hearing about the events in Malicounda Bambara, she had spent many hours speaking to the well-respected imam in Nguerigne Bambara. He had assured her that what Fatimata had told the Tostan class was true: the Koran did not require women to practice the tradition.
As her mother and sisters kept their gazes fixed on the horizon, Ourèye explained her belief that the problems with the tradition extended far beyond the potential health consequences. “Look at how it’s led us to discriminate against others,” she said. “We would never allow our sons to marry an uncut woman, even if that was their desire. We exclude and ridicule the women from ethnic groups that do not practice the tradition. We refuse to eat their food. We call them insulting names.”
Ourèye was guilty of this herself. For so long she had believed that not being cut made a woman impure and unclean, and she had herself discriminated against women who had not had the operation. For the last few weeks she’d been especially saddened by thoughts of one woman in particular to whom she had been unkind. Her name was Atti, and she was from an ethnic group that didn’t practice the tradition, but she had married a man in Ourèye’s village. None of the other women would consent to being her friend, and Atti, in her loneliness, was very unhappy. Every time she washed any dishes or clothes, the other women would rewash them. When she walked into a circle of women, they would get up and leave. Eventually Atti decided she was miserable enough to take drastic measures. That year, when the cutter came to perform FGC on the girls of the community, she asked to be cut. She was in her thirties at the time, and while it was highly unusual to perform the operation on a woman of that age, the cutter had agreed. Atti’s procedure was very painful, and it took her weeks to recover. But afterward, she got what she had wanted: acceptance from the other women. She was asked to join in their activities and cooking, to share in the meals for the first time.
“Imagine the pain that sort of discrimination causes women,” Ourèye said, “on top of the pain of the operation itself.”
“Enough,” her mother said. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“I know, Mother,” Ourèye said. “I didn’t either. But none of us sitting here right now can say we haven’t witnessed suffering. Any cutter who tells you this is trying to hide something.”
“Those problems are not caused by our actions,” her mother said. “They are the work of the bad spirits.”
“They are the result of infection,” Ourèye said. “I learned in Tostan that there are scientific reasons for the problems that occur. I wouldn’t be saying this to you if I didn’t truly believe it myself. I know now in my heart the tradition does not reflect the values of our culture. It comes down to this: if we are truly about well-being and peace, this is not the right path.”
Kadidiatou gave her a stern look. “You have lost your mind,” she said. And with that, she got up from the circle and walked away.
Ourèye remained with her family in the Fouta for a few days, trying her best to ignore the icy way her mother and sisters spoke to her. When she returned home to Nguerigne Bambara the following week, she felt discouraged but undeterred. Meanwhile, the discussion in her Tostan class about the tradition, and the decision made by the women of Malicounda Bambara, grew increasingly intense. Ourèye knew that many of her classmates were looking to her for direction on the subject. Not only was she the coordinator of their Community Management Committee, but she was also the cutter. If she wasn’t going to support it any longer, how could they?
She knew what she had to do. Despite her family’s refusal to support her, there was no going back. After all, she’d always considered herself a woman of peace. In fact, her desire for peace was the organizing principle of her life. Life in villages like hers was not easy. The lack of drinking water, the fear of drought and disease, and the scarcity of firewood often made the mere act of survival very difficult, and Ourèye’s main priority was to help, in every way she could, to bring happiness and peace to her community. For without peace, what was life but struggle and existence? And now, if she truly was committed to the values she’d always held so dear, if she really was a woman of peace, what other choice did she have?
Carefully, and with all the respect and sensitivity she could gather, she began to appr
oach the women of her husband’s family, and then her neighbors; she was determined to speak to every woman in the village, especially those not enrolled in the Tostan classes. Marièma often accompanied her on these long walks to communities surrounding Nguerigne Bambara, and before long, others from the Tostan class also joined her. The women she spoke to were surprised. Here was the cutter herself coming to tell them of the dangers of the tradition, to educate them about what had happened in Malicounda Bambara, and to ask them to consider giving up the tradition.
Ourèye spent nearly every free moment during the course of the next month doing this work. While it was tiring and trying, she was proud of these efforts. She wished she had been able to convince her family—her mother especially—to support her decision, but perhaps that might happen in time.
Several weeks later, in November 1997, she was walking down the path in her village, lost in these thoughts, when she heard Marièma calling to her from ahead, motioning her to hurry. “Come on!” Marièma said. “She’s arrived.”
Just then, Ourèye heard the sound of Molly’s car approaching. She quickened her step to join the twenty or so other women in welcoming her.
MOLLY, DRESSED IN A beautiful light-green boubou, stepped out of the car into the sticky November heat and stopped to greet each of the women. Ourèye could sense the shared excitement among the Tostan students as the group made its way to the small, dark room used as a classroom. Everyone took a seat in a circle, the stale air inside buzzing with flies. Molly had come with a journalist from the French magazine Point de Vue who was reporting on the Malicounda Bambara declaration, which had taken place four months earlier, and who wished to talk to women in a village where the tradition was still practiced.
Molly began the meeting by asking the women to speak about their experience with Tostan. A few took turns explaining all they had learned in school, how important it was for them to finally have the chance to be educated, how they wished Tostan classes could exist in every village in Senegal. When the women had finished, Molly looked at Ourèye. “I’m especially happy you’re here today,” Molly said. “As the cutter, you can offer a unique perspective on the tradition you practice here.”
