Memories of a cry: A Bohra woman’s poem on her Khatna
by Sunera SadicaliCountry: Portugal / Spain Memories of a cry When I was eightwas too young to complaintoo old to forget. Went on a family tripKarachi was warm, humid, overwhelming, tasty, spicy.Had long hair and soft brown skin.Went to MadrassaLearnt to recite some verses by memory.Laughed out loud, met new friends. It was hard, sometimes…the crowd, the men just staring on the streetsall the compulsories. One daywent to a certain doctor, a woman.I was eight and healthyMy sister, my cousin, and meremember an old building, the peculiar smell…A sliding door.I loved the street food, the pani puri, the colourful shalwar kameez.We waited in the hall, wooden chairs. My cousin was first,after some time, don’t remember how muchheard a scream, sharp sound of pain…my cousin’s cry. I was nextI was afraid, hesitating, felt insecureMy mother and my khala were there with me.There was a small room,It was hotI was sweating.A weak-lit room, yellowish, humid.I was put on a gurney– then everything just went very fast, in my memories…They told me that I had a “worm” between my legs that must be cut,slicedMy mother and my aunty grabbed my legs stronglyI remember freshly the painsharp and bloody-pain.I felt shame and did not realize what happened. Then, my sister’s turnand again the cry…I still feel a knot in the stomach.Not for the pain, rather the yell. I was thirteen when I realizedthat “the worm”, was a bit of my flesh,The sinful bit-of-clitand yet I was not guilty at eight,nor my mother at 28. We are not good enoughif we do not bowif we do not obeyif we do not have it cut properlyif we are not modest.If we speak too muchif we enjoy too muchif we question too much.