Circumcision: A Rite of Passage – Extract from the book ‘Blessed Struggles’ by Regina Williams

Female circumcision was an age-old practice in my community in Kisii, Kenya. The Abagusii people had engaged in it for centuries. Although my mum was born in the 1920s and grew up in a society where this was the norm, she didn’t support this practice. In fact, she had resolved that my little sister Stella and I would not undergo this ritual. Unfortunately, despite my mother’s disapproval, when I reached the age for circumcision according to our tribal customs, my older sister, Philomena, hid me from her to make sure it happened. She took me at bedtime, joining other girls waiting for the knife. We laughed and joked, but I was sick with fear inside. I had no choice but to follow tradition, knowing it would cause intense discomfort. After all, it was a tradition. It was how it had always been done. There was a belief that no man would marry an uncircumcised woman, leading to potential rejection within the community. In the early morning, my sister delivered me to the circumcision performers. They were elderly women equipped with razor blades. Circumcision marked a passage to womanhood in our community. Ten of us who were going to be circumcised, all aged about seven to nine years old, were assembled under a banana tree. We looked frightened because we were, even though we were deemed grown enough for womanhood. There was honour in being put forward, mixed with intense fear of the hurt to come. Still, I wanted to go ahead with it. I didn’t want to be an outcast in the community. When it was my turn, I struggled, I fought, and I screamed. The terror of that burning, piercing pain stays with me even today, half a century later. There was no anaesthesia, just the knife. When we bled, they patched us up with a paste made from millet flour. The blade pierced the skin, cutting deep into us, and then we waited for the rest of the girls to be done. Yet, like the others, I had to do it. The pain enveloped me. Then, all I wanted was for it to stop. Nothing else. I just wanted it to stop. I cried and even attempted to run away, half cut, with blood running down my legs, wishing that my mum was there to rescue me. But she was not there, nor was my sister. I remember running away and standing far from the woman who was cutting me, crying, my hands folded around my chest, cold and shivering, until they begged me to come back, to sit down, and have the procedure finished. They were telling me, ‘We must finish. Where will you go with your skin cut and hanging?’ I finally agreed to go back and sit on the stone. Two or three women held my legs apart, and another held my chest back so that I couldn’t move until the cutting was finished. The others around me were happy: dancing, rejoicing for those who had endured circumcision without crying, and celebrating. Meanwhile, I was full of pain, all done without my mother’s knowledge or her comforting presence. Worse than the pain, however, was the reaction from others because I fought and resisted the knife. I struggled and refused to stay still. There was no sympathy for me at all. Instead, I was bullied, ostracised even, because I went against tradition, against the accepted way since time began. My screams were seen as cowardice, and I was frequently reminded of this in the years ahead. My family did not know what I was going through psychologically, and I had no support. I was in my own world, tormented by bullies because of my crying, which was a natural response to the pain I had to endure. It’s no exaggeration to say that my resistance to this cruelty and my fear of the blade marked my childhood and set me apart. Bullied and tormented in the village, I was the girl who could not go through her transition to womanhood courageously, proudly, and in dignified silence. Crying during circumcision was a big taboo, according to the Kisii tradition. I was accused of bringing shame not only to myself but also to my family, my clan, and the entire village. I was labelled ‘enkuri’, meaning ‘cry’. My crying, so the story spread in the community, would perhaps have been mitigated had I remained still throughout the ritual. But I had made an unpleasant situation worse by standing up and attempting to run away halfway through the process with my blood running down my legs. I was a child on a cold, early morning, wearing no clothes but a small, scarf-like material around my shoulders. I was freezing, but one could only be covered after a successful circumcision. As I had shown fear, any cover for me would depend on the mercy and discretion of the women conducting the ceremony. I just stood there, ignored, alone, shivering, crying, and still missing my Mum, The women who performed the circumcision lacked formal education and understanding of the potential consequences of circumcision on the female reproductive system. They used their bare hands to navigate the layers they wanted to cut. Each girl was brought to her own home to start a three to four-week seclusion period. My Mum was shocked when she found out that I was among those who had been circumcised, something she had not planned for. Hearing about the pain I went through deeply troubled her. She sought to comfort me while expressing her disappointment in Philomena for keeping this from her. But the people told her to cool down — ‘maziwa yakimwagika hayachoteki,’ meaning ‘spilled milk cannot be scooped back.’

The Guardian’s Assignment for the Circumcised

From this time on, each girl is assigned a guardian (‘Omosegi’). This individual takes care of the circumcised girl within the household. They are allowed to enter the secluded area where the circumcised girl stays and provide continuous support until the completion of her seclusion period. This role entails significant responsibility as it fosters a lasting relationship between the guardian and the girl, extending beyond the seclusion period into their lives. The newly initiated young girls were greeted with a celebration in their homes. In my case, there was no feasting or celebration because my mother was unaware that I had gone for circumcision. Therefore, there were no arrangements for food or drinks at my home. I was the last girl to be accompanied home due to my crying during the circumcision. There was no going out of the house for newly circumcised girls, and no visitors were allowed to see us. If a visitor came to the door, the circumcised girl was first alerted to hide before the visitor was welcomed inside. During this period, the girl’s body would be smeared with ash except for the eyes, nostrils, hair, and mouth. People were not supposed to recognise us if we ventured outside the house. This ash would only be washed away on the day our seclusion ended, which we called the coming out day. On that day, there was singing, dancing, and ululating (okoiririata). The girls were welcomed into the community as mature women, even though none of us had reached puberty yet.

The Second Phase

Esuguta T he Esuguta ceremony was the next event, taking place two weeks after circumcision. It involved the planting of a special grass called Esuguta, traditionally used to make brooms. This ceremony typically took place in the evening. A group of girls escorted me to gather and uproot the Esuguta grass, bring it home, and plant it in the corner of the room where I stayed. The day concluded with a family gathering, where fermented porridge sweetened with sugar was served, a rare treat. Once the Esuguta was planted, it became an integral part of my daily routine. Regularly watering it served as a practical task and a symbol of my care for the plant, signifying my transition to adulthood. The Esugata plant

The Third Phase

‘Chinyangi’ In this ceremony, known as ‘Chinyangi’ (weddings) in the Kisii dialect, elder women and older girls gathered at our family’s home in the evening, four weeks after circumcision. I was secluded in one room while they were in the next. They told me that in that adjacent room, a giant snake (Echage) had been brought in specifically to offer punishment for my past wrongdoings and finally take me away. This filled me with intense fear. They were singing in Kisii as follows: ‘Kame Echage oyaye, Kame the Echage oyaye, Kame Echage nomware yachakuoyia’ (Milk the snake, milk the snake because it has come to take the circumcised girl) T hese words were repeated rhythmically, mimicking the sound of a snake rolling. All individuals in the room participated in singing this song, creating a musical atmosphere as if the snake was joyous or pleased. The snake was believed to have the power to punish, forgive, or swallow me whole. The idea of being swallowed scared me the most. At that young age, I genuinely believed this would happen in the next room. Questions were directed at the snake, and its responses were either ‘yes, yes,’ or ‘no, no.’ They even asked the snake if they could offer it all the good things in the world in exchange for sparing me, to which the snake replied, ‘No, no.’ My screams filled the room as I grappled with intense fear. On this day, people came to report any wrongdoings I had committed against them over the years. For example, they mentioned times I refused to give them a cup of water when I met them coming from the river, and they were thirsty. The idea was that the snake would punish me. It felt like judgment day, and I was overwhelmed by fear, desperately pleading for forgiveness and making vows to become a better person. Even when they were bringing me to the next room to reveal the truth while saying there was no snake, I couldn’t shake my belief in the snake’s existence. I was dragged along, convinced that the snake was real. But to my surprise, when they finally brought me into the adjacent room, they assured me there was no actual snake. It was, in fact, a musical instrument made from two special bamboo sticks that were rubbed together against a wet cow skin placed on top of an African clay pot. The pot featured a fastening around its neck, designed to produce musical sounds when sticks were rubbed against it. This contraption created the sounds I had believed were coming from the snake. The instrument was specifically designed to mimic a snake’s voice, producing the distinctive ‘yes, yes’ and ‘no, no’ sounds that filled me with terror. After that, I was warned to never tell the uncircumcised girls about this, as it would bring bad omens to my life. I never even told my sister, Stella, when her time came. I believed they had good intentions for us.

The Fourth Phase

Coming Out of the House In the fourth phase, referred to as ‘coming out of the house,’ we marked the end of seclusion. This occurred two days after the unsettling ‘Chinyangi’ event, and it signified the first time I had been in public in roughly four weeks since my circumcision. It was a festive occasion where people were invited home to eat large meals and indulge in drinks. However, my heart held no joy because I knew that news of my tears during the circumcision had spread, and I expected to face bullies. T he final ceremony included a thorough bath because, during the four-week period of seclusion after my circumcision, my body had been covered in ash. Therefore, on the last day of seclusion, I had a thorough bath, with a guardian assisting me in the process. This involved dressing me in new clothes, applying cow fat or Vaseline to my body, grooming my eyebrows, and presenting myself to the public for the first time since the circumcision. During seclusion, the circumcised don’t put on clothes. T he transition was celebrated with new outfits, gifts, and festivities. I received a stern warning again to never reveal the secrets of our cultural traditions, especially the part about the snake, to other young, uncircumcised girls, as it held significant importance within our culture. T hen, finally, the elderly woman came with fresh milk in her mouth and sprayed it on my face. Dad gulped alcohol called ‘busa’ in his mouth, and sprayed it on my face, all done as a sign of blessing me into the world. Reflections Millions of Kenyan women have undergone similar rituals to the ones I experienced as a young girl, pushed on by this driving force called tradition. This tradition cut into our flesh like an army invading a defenseless land, plundering through skin and tissue. It was finally, and thankfully, banned by the Kenyan government with the passing of the Prohibition of Female Genital Mutilation Act on 30th September 2011. My mother never wanted it for any of us, and later, after the prohibition, she worked with the tribal chief to discourage the practice. T hat didn’t save me from the pain at the time. The law of 2011 has helped reduce it, but it still happens today. It’s tough to change tradition—to change the way it has always been done. During Covid, female genital mutilation increased. There remains a long road to eradicating FGM in the world we live in. This terrible practice causes both physical and psychological problems for the victims throughout their lifetime. We believed our very future depended on the circumcision, as they told us. We would never get suitors, much less offers of marriage, if we did not get circumcised. But now, some men in the country are saying they will only marry girls who are not circumcised to support the ban on this cruel and inhumane practice. A rite of passage suggests a journey from one state of mind or maturity to another. My life has been a journey,

but circumcision made no part of that. Yes, we were now considered women rather than girls, but as you turn the pages of this autobiography, you will see that our maturity was forced upon us by necessity, not by the knife. My childhood was stunted, short, and full of horror; yet without that horror and taboo, or the extreme poverty and hunger, would I have found the strength and resilience to embark upon such an extraordinary journey? Everything from the earliest days of my life built up inside me, bringing with it the determination to make a change. And that necessitated a long and difficult journey, both in terms of miles travelled and barriers to overcome. We are who we are because of the meeting of two things: our experiences, particularly in our early lives, and the attitude we have toward those experiences. The two combine to produce the driving force in our lives, as well as the essence of who we are. I realised afterwards that, however punishing a situation is, there’s always someone who has it worse than me. And the only way I could turn things around was with a good education. T hus, my education, not the horrors of circumcision, became my true rite of passage to a wider, better world. And that, as you shall see, was fraught with hardship.

Regina’s book, ‘Blessed Struggles: My journey from extreme poverty in Kenya to professional and political success in Great Britain’ is available to buy here.