Female Circumcision or FGM?

When I first moved to Kenya about 25 years ago someone told me about female circumcision. I was perplexed (remember this was before what is now often referred to as “female genital mutilation” was something people were talking about). What’s to circumcise on a female, I asked? Most readers will know the answer to that question. The procedure can involve anything from a nick on the clitoral hood to removal of everything recognizable as a female sexual organ. In the most radical version, known as infibulation, the girl is sewn back together leaving only a small hole for passing urine and menstrual blood. A straw placed in the gap during healing keeps the final opening from scarring over. Health effects can include recurrent infection, cysts, pain at intercourse and childbirth, complications during pregnancy, and even death. There are no health benefits.

Let me quickly say this blog post is not a diatribe against female circumcision, although I am certainly opposed to the practice, and I hope it completely disappears. This post is about my objections to the international community’s approach to its eradication. 

First, some background. In many sub-Saharan African cultures the foreskin of boys is cut as a rite of passage. In  a swath of countries across sub-Saharan Africa, of which Kenya and Uganda are at the southeastern edge, some (by no means all) ethnic groups have also traditionally cut the clitoris as a rite of passage for girls. This can happen at various ages, but in east Africa it’s usually sometime between 13 and 18. Boys are circumcised and they become men; girls are circumcised and they become women. 

European and African Americans maybe don’t relate too well to the idea of formal rites of passage. We realize that Jewish boys and girls among us go through bar and bat mitzvah around age 13, and in recent years as the Latino/a population in the U.S. has grown non-Latino Americans have become more familiar with Quinceañera. But many Americans have nothing like that of our own. I can remember a Kenyan friend asking incredulously, “But don’t you have any kind of formal rite of passage for your children? What about getting a drivers’ license? Or prom, maybe? How do you mark the point at which a boy becomes a man?” Um. We don’t. Not really. Their 18th birthday cake? The thing is, circumcision was more than an individual surgery. It has traditionally been done in groups, with all of the young people who were circumcised taken out to the bush together for days of training about their role as new adults as they healed. When they returned to the community they found expectations of them in terms of responsibility and maturity had noticeably changed. In these ethnic groups no self-respecting girl would marry an uncircumcised guy and no guy would marry an uncircumcised girl.

 (Aside #1: Evidence that male circumcision is a strong protective factor for HIV has made uncircumcised men less plentiful than they used to be.)

(Aside #2: Our children, having grown up in Africa, understood this concept from a young age. On one occasion when we were back in the U.S. visiting our extended family, my then 8-year-old daughter was heard arguing with her male cousins. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re probably not even circumcised.” The adults in the room were nearly rolling on the floor with laughter but unfortunately for Joanna her cousins were oblivious to the insult.)

So what happened when the international community latched onto this issue?—and here I grow a bit heated, sorry—the renaming says it all. With a single rhetorical stroke they reduced a rich tradition to a biological horror. From “female circumcision” or the vernacular equivalent, the practice was now “female genital mutilation.” As some anthropologists have pointed out, African parents who wanted to follow cultural practices could now be labeled mutilators of their own children. In recent years the more descriptive term “female genital cutting” has been introduced in some circles, which is an improvement, but it still doesn’t capture the fact that in most cultural groups the practice was in parallel to male circumcision. It wasn't designed specifically to subjugate women. Therefore “female circumcision” is the term I prefer.

I am not arguing that Kenyan and Ugandan communities that practice female circumcision should continue to do so. For example, the daughter of some dear Masai friends of ours, Neema Ntalel (see photo and website below), was the first girl in her village not to be circumcised. She has shared this publicly so I am not breaking a confidence here. It is a beautiful milestone. I am arguing that Westerners need to take a step back from issues like this and be sure to understand and respect before we attempt to import change from the outside. If we import change from the outside. I don't throw this term around lightly, but I think we Westerners are frequently guilty of health neo-colonialism. Feminist theorist Obioma Nnaemeka, herself a vehement opponent of the practice, observes that in the term "female genital mutilation" there is "a subtext of barbaric African and Muslim cultures and the West's relevance (even indispensability) in purging the barbarism." Amen. One is tempted to ask when we will ever learn.

For a contrasting example of a visionary grass roots approach to change on this issue, see http://tanaritrust.org . Muhia and Marcy Karianjahi incorporated Muhia’s experience with NOLS (National Outdoor Leadership Schools) in Kenya and created an alternative to negative aspects of rites of passage like female circumcision. Primarily working with kids who are about to enter high school, the biblically based program they started has become a popular option for many Christian parents in Nairobi. Our older daughters were upset when they missed going through the experience with their age set because we happened to be in the U.S. the summer before they went to high school.

Photos below: 1, 2. Tanari Trust (photos from Tanari Trust Facebook site)

3.  Neema Ntalel, also now an award-winning gospel/RnB musician. Photo is from her website: http://neemantalel.com/Welcome.html. Those of you interest in global music, will want to listen to her gorgeous, rich voice.

American (In)Directness

Here’s a question for female readers. You go to a beauty salon and get your hair cut in a new style. Next day at work or in class somebody asks you, “Did you cut your hair?” Which of the following is NOT a legitimate interpretation of that utterance:

 (a)  They aren’t sure if I cut my hair.

 (b)  They like my haircut.

 (c)  They don’t like my haircut.

The correct answer in a mainstream American context is (b).  

Unless the person follows up the question with a compliment—“It looks cute/sophisticated/great/stunning”— what probably happened is that she noticed your new look, thought it unattractive, but opened her mouth before she could stop herself. Anytime anybody does the “Did you get your hair cut” thing with you, you know the truth: it looks butt ugly. (If the person is your mother, of course, she will go ahead and blurt out what she really thinks, as my patient daughters can testify.)

I’m not certain what the correct answer in a Ugandan context is, but I’m guessing it’s (c). If they didn’t like your haircut, they would have told you.

This is interesting to me, partly because we Americans have an image of ourselves as straight talkers. In my experience this is true in many areas of life, but on issues of personal weakness or failures, we don’t talk straight at all. In contrast, it’s difficult for many Americans even to tell a friend  that they have concerns about the quality of guy/girl s/he is dating. Except in extreme cases one doesn’t criticize a friend’s romance until it is over. Then one can say, “That jerk didn’t deserve you.” One of my Ugandan colleagues said to me the other day, “I can never tell what Americans are thinking. They are so indirect.”

Ugandans don’t mind telling it like it is about personal topics. American exchange students here are frequently shocked when their Ugandan roommates tell them, “That dress isn’t flattering; why don’t you choose a different one?” or “Your acne looks bad today, better put on more make-up.” Or “Looks like you’ve gained weight.” The other day I was trying to explain to someone which msungu [white person] I was talking about and he said, as realization dawned on him, "Oh, the fat one." (Actually, that was probably a compliment. The ideal women’s body size is different here than in the States.)

Here’s a slightly different example. I asked a masters student here how she compared the teaching style of visiting Norwegian professors with that of Ugandan professors. She said she found the Norwegian instructors were always very careful to be gentle when correcting students, but if a student made a mistake, Ugandan professors told them so flat out, in front of the class.

How do you explain this difference? Do Americans (and Norwegians) just have incredibly fragile egos? Are Ugandans just interpersonally insensitive? I think it may relate to our societal perspectives on community.  Most Ugandan cultures are deeply communal, and one of the things about community is that the in-group takes care of its own. So if you see a member of your ingroup making an embarrassing mistake, of course you need to warn them. Because that person knows they are unconditionally accepted in the larger group, it doesn't trouble your relationship. (Proviso: In my observation this is not relevant in east African societies for interactions with more powerful individuals. In those situations Ugandans would be less direct than Americans.)

A paramount value of mainstream American culture, however, is individualism. We should be able to be different, define ourselves, reject the status quo. Because we don’t have the security of deriving a great deal of our sense of self from membership in the group, we have to be careful not to threaten one another’s choices. Individualism has its benefits, but at times I have wished I could honestly tell a friend I cared about, “You know what, your old hair style looked much better on you.” One just has to hope they will look in the mirror and figure it out on their own.

Bride Price, or, Reasons for my Daughters to Marry Kenyans or Ugandans, and my Son to Marry an American

The other day during a casual conversation in the mass communication department at UCU the office assistant mentioned that he was saving money to build a brick house for his mother to replace her thatched hut. Someone standing nearby slyly teased him that that wasn't the only thing he needed to be saving up for. After all, wasn’t he about marrying age?

A comment like that in the U.S. would require some explanation.  All else being equal the bride’s family pays for the wedding in our culture. Of course there are many exceptions, but one would need details to understand his specific situation. Here in east Africa, though, the reference was transparent.  His colleagues were joking about his saving money to pay not only for the wedding but also bride price.

Westerners sometimes find the concept of bride price offensive. Isn’t it demeaning to the woman, like purchasing her? Doesn’t it hold the potential for encouraging a man to view his wife as chattel and subsequently abuse her? Actually, that outcome is much more likely to occur in places like India, where brides bring a dowry to the marriage. Once the money is in hand, the woman has no protection.

Bride price in Uganda and Kenya at its best seems to have to do with building relationships between families. To begin with, because it is considered disrespectful for the groom-to-be to approach his future in-law alone, he is accompanied to his prospective bride’s family home by a delegation of his uncles, clan elders, or family friends through a process of several visits. Prescribed activities take place at each of these meetings, leading ultimately to an agreement about the payments to be made to the bride’s family. But that is not the end. In many cases small payments stretch out for years after the ceremony itself—in some cases indefinitely—providing ongoing reasons for the husband to maintain a good relationship with his wife’s family. Even coming up with required sum is a family affair; it is gathered through donations from the groom's entire extended family. From beginning to end, if bride price functions as it should (and one cannot deny there are abuses), it serves as a glue to bind marriages and families together.

Westerners, of course, may be curious exactly what sort of payment the bride price consists of. The amount and form of the payment depends on the ethnic group as well as the particular bride’s family, so my examples will be limited to my small set of experiences. Families may ask for livestock, new dresses for the aunties, cloth wraps called kangas, calabashes of traditional beer, cash—whatever is the most useful. Rural dwellers may want actual cows and goats, which requires careful selection of high quality animals on the part of the groom’s representative. For many urban dwellers, though, cash is fine. Years ago popular Kenyan satirist and humorist Wahome Mutahi used to refer to his daughter in his newspaper columns as “the Pajero”—a joking allusion to the form of bride price he expected one day to demand for her.

The negotiations themselves are laced with deep proverbs and metaphorical references. For a non-African observer it is fascinating. Once my husband and I were asked to be part of the groom’s delegation at a negotiation between two urban dwellers. The bride’s family metaphorically asked for 20 goats to open up the negotiations. The groom’s representatives understood that a cash substitute was acceptable and even desirable, but a quick private calculation made it evident they had not brought enough money for the value of 20 goats. They decided all they could do was to give what money they had. Upon receipt the groom’s representative counted the money and observed wryly, “I see the goats in your district are undernourished.”

My husband and I put all of this together and realized that our most financially viable direction on our children's weddings was to encourage our three daughters to marry Kenyans or Ugandans. We weren’t sure how we would set bride price but we figured our friends could help. Our youngest son, on the other hand, would need to marry an American. Our oldest son, as it happens, is already married. He and his wife eloped.

Photo below: The Maserati and her twin brother.

Cheeseburger in Paradise

It's interesting to observe yourself if you go overseas for an extended period of time to see what you miss from home. Sometimes you surprise yourself. I remember when we moved to Kenya 25 years ago I walked into church at Christmastime and realized I missed seeing women wearing red and green dresses. Who would have even thought about missing something like that? Sometimes the things that make us feel at home are so subtle.

A colleague of mine at UCF writes about sensory shock in new cultural environments. We typically think of culture shock being primarily cognitive, but it's often experienced, literally, at a gut level. Missing the smells, textures, and tastes of familiar foods. For example, this past January when we first arrived in Uganda we found a container of Blue Band among the groceries stocked for us in our kitchen. Blue Band is margarine made of palm oil. It's solid at room temperature and is probably terrible for you (but who knows? one can't keep up with the shifts in thinking about fats and cholesterol these days). We had eaten it all the time in Kenya, and that first night, jet lagged, I sat down at about 2 a.m. and ate two slices of bread slathered with it. It was comfort food in the best way.

By now, though, we are missing some foods from the U.S. In Florida Jim used to eat tuna every day as part of his low carb diet--I've already confessed in this blog we're not exactly foodies--but it costs $4 to $8 a can here so we didn't feel we could indulge. Recently I found some on sale for $1.50 apiece in Kampala and we bought, I am not exaggerating, 27 cans. We might have bought more but we ran out of cash. We had not anticipated that we would start hoarding tuna as if for the apocalypse on that particular day. Anyway, those cans should last until we leave on June 30.

Joanna has been craving non-chocolate sweets. Ugandans, incomprehensibly, don't like sugar as much as Americans. (They are way ahead of us on that one.) A few days before the tuna incident I found a package of marshmallows at a South African chain store. They weren't quite the same as American ones, heavier and sort of square shaped rather than cylinders. Even so I took the bag home and handed them to Joanna. She grabbed them and ran toward Luke's room. I found the empty bag about 30 minutes later. Luke hasn't talked about what he is craving but obviously he didn't mind the marshmallows.

Personally, my "cheeseburger in paradise" is American pizza. I'm going to try to make some from scratch tomorrow with a couple of substitute ingredients, but in my book pizza is like brownie mix--home made inevitably falls short. It's the first thing I want to eat when I get back on U.S. soil. And whatever the nutritional wisdom on cholesterol by then, I might even need it with pepperonis. Just the first slice.

Photo: Blue Band. In the cabinet, not the fridge. Beside sunflower oil and Kimbo (vegetable shortening or lard? depends on the batch, but good for pie crust). The Millers successfully ignore the nutritionally implications of the contents of their pantry/store.

Reflections on Easter, Terrorism, and Perceptions of Risk

Yesterday was Easter Sunday. We spent it at a joyful thanksgiving service and lunch in a tiny rural Anglican church four hours east of Mukono with our amazing friends, Mike and Monica Chibita. Four days earlier Somali terrorists entered Garissa University College in Garissa, Kenya at dawn and massacred 147 people, mostly Christian students. It seems almost incomprehensible to consider such extremes of light and darkness happening side by side in our world, but it occurs to me that's what Easter is about.

During the original holy week, Jesus came into Jerusalem to celebrate passover as a popular figure, adored by the crowds. Four days later one of his closest friends sold him out to his enemies, and he was arrested on false presences at night while he was praying in a garden with his disciples. He was given a mock trial in which even the Roman governor admitted he knew Jesus to be innocent. He was then beaten, mocked, and subjected to the most humiliating, excruciating death the Roman empire could devise. While he was being crucified he prayed for God to forgive those who had killed him. As Mahatma Ghandi explained it, "A man who was completely innocent offered himself as a sacrifice for the good of others, including his enemies, and became the ransom of the world. It was the perfect act." That was Friday, on Sunday when some of his followers went to his grave to finish the burial they found he wasn't lying on a slab wrapped in burial cloths, he was, astonishingly, alive. Death had worked backward and humanity had been given forgiveness, hope, eternal life. Extremes of dark and light compacted into three days. May the God of Easter comfort the friends and family of those murdered in Garissa. 

*****

After the terrorist incident in Kenya, an American exchange program here at UCU has decided to send their students back to the U.S. three weeks early. Many of them are flying out tomorrow. I found several of them in tears after receiving the news; they didn't want to leave.

How should expatriates living in places like Kenya or Uganda respond when it comes to implications for their own safety? What does one do when one lives in a situation in which the terrorist threat is red, rather than the orange that has seemed to be the perennial color in U.S. airports? Or, how much should one worry about friends, acquaintances, family in such situations? Here are a few thoughts.

1.  We learn from the field of risk communication that people's perceptions of risk are highly irrational. From 2012 to the present 500 people have been killed in terrorist acts in Kenya. That is frightening--terrifying. At the same time, the World Health Organization's Global Status Report on Road Safety reports official figures for traffic fatalities for Kenya at 3,000 for the year 2013 alone, though the organization estimates that the figure is actually much higher, close to 8,500. That means somewhere between 10,000 and 25,000 people were killed in auto accidents over the same time period that 500 people were killed by terrorists. 

As my department chair here at UCU observes, all else being equal, terrorists in Kenya are 20 to 50 times more likely to be killed on the road en route to committing an atrocity than the average person is to be one of their victims. For a recent example in the U.S. consider ebola. How many people died of ebola in the U.S.? One, last I counted, though I stand to be corrected. What's the entire American population? 300+ million. Other than the families and health professionals working with the infected, how much sense did it make for anybody else to be worried? But again, our sense of risk is illogical. We have to subdue it to what we know cognitively about our probability of harm.

2.  When we hear about terrorist incidents we often can't know context-specific details. Garissa, Kenya, is a town in the middle of a heavily Somali part of Kenya. It is so remote that in years past people never drove single cars there out of fear of banditry. One only travelled to Garissa by caravan, preferably with armed guards. What happened there is horrific and evil. But it happened there, rather elsewhere, for a reason. Consider 9/11. New York City and Washington DC are very different than Grand Rapids, Michigan, Villa Rica, Georgia, or Oviedo, Florida. Oviedo residents (I assume) were not worried that a 747 would crash into downtown Oviedo. It's hard to make those distinctions when things happen overseas. 

3.  Americans and Europeans are among the few people in the world who have the luxury of making their minds to fly out of a place when things get hot. Most of the time the locals have no choice but to stay and deal with their fears. That's not to say it's necessary for foreign nationals to stay in nations that are lapsing into civil war until they are forced flee on foot with just the clothes on their backs to refugee camps in neighboring countries. It might, however, provide a sense of perspective for Westerners to consider how their fears may look to people who have learned to adjust and live with the underlying anxiety for years on end. People in New York City didn't all move out or change jobs en masse after 9/11. As a country we gritted our teeth and collectively said, we're not letting you scare us. We're resilient. We're staying put.

4.  At a personal level, who wants to live your life worried all of the time about what might happen to you? Perhaps being in an affluent society where we have so much control over our lives has made us intolerant of personal safety risks to an inordinate degree. Some people, of course, know they are at specific, personal risk and should take appropriate action. But taking into account points 1, 2, and 3, many of us Americans living overseas and our relatives probably need to loosen up and learn to live with uncertainty. There's something freeing to saying to yourself, I have important things I want to do--maybe things I believe God has called me to do--I don't have time to sit around and worry about whether a terrorist is going to target me. 

So, what about the exchange students' departure? I would argue in terms of their personal safety there's no reason for them to go, and that they could have achieved a better closure on their experience had they been allowed to complete the well-planned activities scheduled for their last three weeks in Africa. Am I criticizing the organizers of the program? No way. They may be full in agreement with every one of the points above. They, unfortunately, have to deal with another type of risk, one that constitutes another major difference between the U.S. and Africa. They have to minimize their exposure to risk of litigation. 

Photos below (unfortunately I forgot my camera for the church thanksgiving service). Regarding risk: breakdown in the middle of the Murchison Falls game park. Leopard walks by in nearby field as we wait to get a new battery. OK, I admit not all that risky. The guy on the left of the car is a game warden with a rifle who was riding with us!