Letters from the edge

Posted by admin on Nov 18, 2008 in Community | 0 comments

One weekend I went on a class field trip to Mbale, a Muslim hub city near the Kenyan border. Mbale featured beautiful mountains, scattered raspberry bushes and a pink clock tower made possible by Zain, one of the local cell phone empires. The purpose of our trip: to witness a circumcision.

Our trip started in the classroom. I listened to a traditional Bagisu circumciser describe the tradition. When a boy is ready for manhood – usually between the ages of 17 and 20 – he embarks on a journey to visit all his relatives, returns to brew the traditional beer, and, in the “Three Days of Stress,” prepares for his circumcision. He described the operation and all of the graphic details. The age-old idea is that if you can face the fear and pain of circumcision, you can face anything in life. You are a man.

In the village, one man held high goat testicles on a stick, leading the procession of roughly twenty men surrounding Danny, the boy who would become a man. He was about 18 years old, dressed in belts of beads and ceremonial shorts. Those around him poured bottles of traditional brew down his throat, until he could hold no more. Hundreds of people gathered on the roadside to watch as Danny journeyed up the mountain.

We passed the procession on our bus, and disembarked on top of the mountain. When we heard the distant sound of drums, we walked down the path toward the place of reckoning. As the paths converged, we were caught in the frenzy of drums, shouts and whistles, as the villagers ran down the hill, the neighbourhood boys weaving through the matooke trees. Children climbed up on top of rooftops and trees to catch a view. Everyone was drunk.

Then the man of the hour made his way into the middle of the crowd. Within a couple seconds the first chop was over, and Danny made no sign of pain. He swiftly spun around and ran down to his home, nearly knocking me over as he went by.

While he was gone the celebration continued, and I was handed a stick to dance along with the crowd. I waved it around a little, and then held it briefly with both of my hands. Every eye turned to me and I heard gasps and shouts all around. It turns out that is the gesture made by those who want to get circumcised. I was legitimately frightened, and I hurried out of the mosh pit and watched the rest of the ceremony unfurl from the hill above.

About twenty minutes later Danny ran back, freshly circumcised for the world to see. The circumciser and his assistant rubbed sawdust on their hands to help their grip for the next step, peeling the inner membrane (I didn’t know that part either, but now I sure do). As they cut and patched, Danny nodded with a forced smile, lest he utter a cry and be labeled weak for the rest of his life. Almost unconscious, those around him propped him up as they removed his clothes and wrapped him in the ceremonial sheet. The foreskin was saved and buried, so that no one could put a curse on him.

As we climbed to our bus, I felt scarred by my near circumcision incident, and Danny’s pain was too close to home. I left scarred, but I quickly recovered. But he paid a real price for his manhood, and now it will take two months for him to heal.