A daughter’s khatna, a father’s regret: A poem in Hindi
by Abbas Ali Bohari This is a heartfelt poem about a Bohra father’s greatest regret. The poet, who hails from Indore, India, spent years praying for the birth of a child and was finally blessed with a daughter. A few years later, he found out that she had been subjected to khatna, or female genital cutting, behind his back. This is a poem about his grief for her, his regret, and his plea to the world to end the cutting of girls in the name of religion. एक पिता का अफ़सोस कई बरसों रहे दोनों बेकरार रहमान ने लगाया बेड़ा पार बुजुर्गों की दुआओं का भी असर गुड़िया रानी आयी हमारे घर रौशन कर दिया हमारा संसार लायी खुशियों की सौगात अपार अब ना करू किसी की दरकार मालिक बस तेरा ही शुक्रगुज़ार हँसते हँसाते गए बरस गुजर एक दिन ऐसा आया खूंखार मज़हब के नाम पर मचाया अंधेर मासूम के जिस्म को किया दागदार कसम ख़ुदा की मैं नही ख़तावार पीठ पीछे किया सारा अत्याचार कही नही मिली दींन में तफ़सीर हैरां हूं कब से शुरू हुआ ये फ़ितूर शरीयत का अंग बताते ज़ाहील ज़ोकर पर मुख़ालिफ़त करते इल्मी ज़ानकार मगरिबी तहज़ीब करे इंकार मशरीकी कौमे बैठी लाचार खत्म करो नाजायज़ विचार सज़ा पाये सारे जो है हक़दार *अब्बास* करे अफ़सोस बारबार बचा ना पाया अपना लख्तेज़िगर
Female genital cutting: A poem
By Zainab Khambata Country of Residence: India As the blade pierced through my skin, All I could feel was pain. I looked into my mom’s eyes, And she shrugged helplessly in vain. I was yet another girl, Subjected to female genital cutting. As a mere child of seven, I did not contest, I wasn’t even aware, That all my dignity as well as my rights, Were stripped from me bare. “It is done in the name of religion,” they said. And it is this ideology I dread. It is done to curb a woman’s desires, To subdue her voice and her fire. My grandmother said “It’s all right, all girls must go through this in their life.” Why has society rendered women unaware? To the point where they do not know and do not even care. They torment innocent children, With everlasting scars, But yet this practice they refuse to stop, Fearing from society’s eyes they will drop. When will this age-old tradition come to an end? So that without emotional trauma, The rest of their lives little girls can spend. It is time to speak up about this, And make people aware, It’s time to show that we care.
Missing Link
Missing Link By Anonymous No cuts, no wounds, but deep empathy for my sisters.I came to NY for the 4th time but for an entirely different circumstance. Being part of the Bohra community, I have made countless connections, some of who have been integral in my life. Yet, I still felt distant from the community that often lacked logic and ran high on emotion. Weird though, since I am kind of the same way at times.Learning about FGM for the first time at 14, everything shifted. I have always had an ability to empathize with others, but this was something utterly outside of my scope. I bowed my head and accepted that I will never understand the magnitude of this trauma,but I can surely become part of a movement and advocate alongside. I can use my voice.I can use my ability to empathize as a tool to heal the traumatic wounds. The 2nd annual Sahiyo Retreat was nothing short of inspirational bliss.I felt recharged.I felt motivated.I felt empowered.To hear each survivor’s story and understand ways to take action–it has become a movement.A movement that I want to walk with. While energy can subside, the power of one weekend still buzzes in my heart. Knowledge, trauma, empowerment, change, community- all wordsThat have taken on a new meaning entirely. As I wait for the next retreat, I continue to ask my selfWhat can I do, learn, ask different every dayto continue to be well-informed and a trueactivist. Thank you, SahiyoFor bestowing this buzz of energyAnd for helping me connect themissing linkof emotion and logic.And that link isSISTERHOOD.
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.