Help our local partners realise their vision of hope for their communities
15 April 2015
Winning entry in the HART Prize for Human Rights Junior Creative Category
Please Note: this entry is a poem about Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) in Sudan and the content may be triggering.
PRIVATE PARTS
-Kashi Syal
Her worn battered palm
caresses my forehead,
she
hushes my wails
ignores my tears
Tradition?
Another hand, this time
cool, firm,
an aggressive
grip. Clutches my wrists and
pulls them over my head
onto the angareb.
Dignity?
More hands
More gold bangles
New voices:
Murmurs
Secretive
Whispers
Reticent
As though there is something wrong.
Something wrong with me?
“her legs, open them
wider
wider
WIDER”
Hands clench my thighs,
hers block the light,
I see the dome like roof
which is coated in mud
through the cracks and the gaps
of her fingers and thumbs.
She presses down my eyelids
yet my tears
still escape the confines
of their prison.
“Insh’Allah,” they cry
“Honour your father’s name-
your mother and sisters
were younger than you
and did not weep or kick,
ghalfa
nighsha
jabaan”
they spit.
Decency?
“Don’t be afraid,” they chorus
without faltering,
their voices synonymous
with the submissive wife.
Subjugated?
And then
fingers
invade my
private parts.
Open me to the public,
rip my nudity apart;
there is nothing left of me.
And then
A Knife?
A Shard of Broken Glass?
A Razor?
A Needle?
Fingernails?
Something sharp
pierces my flesh.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
My screams
bounce off the walls of the hut
and ring in my ears,
it is not the proper way to behave.
And then
they cut again,
bare hands, holding sharp objects
which remove
the dirt
the filth
everything which makes me unclean.
They will make me a woman.
“cut this, cut that” I hear them speak of my
private parts.
As though they
are of no relevance,
only for a man
on our wedding night.
Purity?
“Remove her clitoris”
“Cut this”
“What use is it anyway?”
“She will be the perfect wife”
And then
with a needle,
they weave
a thorn
in
and out
and in
and out
of the sides of my
private parts.
Stitching them together,
ten in total,
each a year of my life.
Time passes.
I marry.
I am pure.
He checks before we sleep.
It hurts.
I am pure.
I give birth.
It hurts.
I am pure.
I learn,
that it
is impolite
to ask a woman
about her
private parts.
And then
we are labelled:
hypersexual
undesirable
unattractive.
No acknowledgement
of our sacrifice.
“My daughter must” her father says.
Tradition.
I place her delicate body
onto the angareb.
Dignity.
She wails
and I see the tears
glistening on her cheeks.
There is something wrong.
Something wrong with me.
“Insh’Allah,” they recite
“Be brave-
your mother did not weep as you do,
ghalfa
nighsha
jabaan”
they sing.
But I watch
and say nothing,
the dutiful wife.
Subjugated.
And so
fingers
prize open her
private parts.
And so
The Knife.
The Shard of Broken Glass.
The Razor.
The Needle.
The Fingernails.
Something sharp
cuts into her
to make her clean.
Purity.
With a needle,
they weave
a thorn
in
and out
and in
and out
of the sides of her
private parts.
Stitching them together,
five in total,
each a year of her life.
And so
the cycle
continues
Disclaimer: This blog is a space for discussion and personal reflection. Any opinions expressed within the blog are those of the author and are not necessarily held by HART. Individual authors are responsible for the accuracy of statements made within the blog.