Molly Melching's Quest to End Female Genital Cutting Malicounda Bambara, August 1996. Kerthio Diawara sat on a stiff plastic chair, flipping through the notebook on her lap and trying her best to avoid eye contact with the other students. Usually the atmosphere inside the classroom was lively and animated but on this day, the room was filled with an unfamiliar and icy silence as Kerthio and the other thirty-four women listened uneasily to Ndey, the Tostan class facilitator, who spoke from her place in the circle. None of them could believe what Ndey was doing: speaking aloud about the custom of cutting a girl's genitals to prepare her for marriage - so old and revered a custom, it was known among themselves simply as "the tradition." Kerthio stole a glance around the room at the others and saw that most were keeping their eyes to themselves. Surely they too were nervously trying to make sense of what Ndey was saying, explaining that the tradition could cause a wide range of serious medical problems, such as hemorrhaging, infection, difficulty urinating, stress or shock, and complications during childbirth. While most of the women in the room had known girls or women who had suffered from one or more of these problems, or had suffered them personally, they never would have connected this with the tradition. Rather, everyone believed that problems after the procedure were the work of evil spirits, a punishment for some unknown transgression of the family or cutter. The consequences of talking about the tradition could be quite serious. It could mean mental illness or paralysis. It might even bring death. "What I'm about to read is a statement from the World Health Organization," Ndey said. Female Genital Mutilation is an act of violence toward the young girl that will affect her life as an adult. She paused. Would anybody like to share their thoughts about this? "Let's talk about why girls are cut," Ndey said. What consequences befall a girl who is not cut? Why were girls cut? It was a silly question, like asking why one breathes. Every woman in the room knew that the tradition was among the most momentous events of a girl's life, preparing her to become a woman, to eventually be deemed acceptable for marriage, and, most important of all, to fully belong and have a respected role within her society. For a girl not to be cut - to be a bilakoro, a name considered among the worst insults in their culture - was unimaginable. Not only would a bilakoro have trouble finding a husband, she would also be rejected and ostracized by the rest of the community, by women especially. Considered impure and unfit to enter the circle of "real women," the food she cooked would not be eaten, the clothes she washed rewashed by others. The Lost Daughter: A Memoir, by Mary Williams. Blue Rider Press. $14.97. Mary Williams grew up with a father in prison and a mother struggling to raise five kids in 1970s Oakland. But her life dramatically changed when she was 13 and met the actress Jane Fonda at a summer camp. Fonda soon invited her to live with her family and Williams finally got to experience tender parenting. When Williams grew up, she decided to reconnect with her birth family. This is her moving journey "home," the discovery that she never left, and her adventure in "bringing my mothers together ... one could not imagine two more different women." Takko, the village midwife and a mother of three, hesitantly raised her hand. "I know this is an uncomfortable topic for many of us here," she began, "but all last night I thought very seriously about this. We never talk about the tradition, but maybe it's time. Takko went on to describe the problems with childbirth she'd witnessed in her work as a midwife, and how difficult it was for the doctor to sew up scar tissue, therefore requiring more time for a woman to heal. She had long suspected that women who could not have children may have suffered infections following the cutting, causing their infertility. What Ndey is telling us is true. This is not a healthy practice. Takko sat down, her heart racing. She was unsure of how the other women would respond, and she felt the swelling rush of relief when her friend Aminata finally spoke. "As you know, I'm a Toucouleur," Aminata said, referring to the predominant ethnic group from the north of Senegal, "and according to my customs I was cut as an infant and sealed shut afterward." Aminata's mother had arranged for her to be married at fifteen. On the night before my wedding, my mother explained I would have to be cut open the next morning in order to consummate the marriage. I panicked and tried to refuse all of it," Aminata said. Marriage to the man chosen for me, being cut open. But I had no choice. The procedure to open me was agonizing. Over the next few weeks, the women continued their conversation, during class and beyond. In hushed voices, while waiting in line at the well, over meals in the evening heat, on quiet walks to the market, they discussed their understanding of the tradition, of why exactly they did it. They'd always been told it was a necessary means of finding a good husband - and it was generally assumed that men expected it - but in reality, it was the future husband's mother who acted as the gatekeeper of the practice. She was the one who insisted a woman be cut when it came time to choose a wife for her son. Men never spoke of it. But even more so, everyone believed it was required under Islam. To not do it, they had been taught, was to defy their ancestors as well as their faith. They went first to the village imam. He confirmed what they'd learned in their Tostan class: important religious scholars had attested to the fact that despite what they had always believed, the tradition was not a religious obligation under Islam and was not even mentioned in the Koran. Before long, with this information, it became clear that a bold decision was beginning to form among the group. Melching with some of the women she worked with to end genital cutting. Courtesy of Molly Melching Maimouna Traore spoke first. As the president of the women's group here in Malicounda Bambara, and on behalf of our entire Tostan class, I'd like to greet you by your first name and your last name. Molly Melching had always loved this way of addressing people, customary throughout Senegal. Greeting people by their first name acknowledges them as an individual, by their last acknowledges their entire extended family. Returning Maimouna's greeting in Wolof so perfect it didn't reveal her American upbringing, Molly tried her best to conceal the hesitation she'd been feeling over the last twenty-four hours, since she'd received the news that the women of this village had made a truly remarkable decision: to abandon the centuries-old practice of female genital cutting. The decision, she'd been told, had started to take shape eight months earlier and was the result of extensive discussion and heated debate among the women of the village. Earlier that morning, as Molly slowly steered her creaky Land Cruiser down the bumpy road toward Malicounda Bambara, scaring the goats and chickens aside, she thought back to her decision a year earlier to include a discussion about the risks associated with female genital cutting in a new Tostan series of classes, or module, on women's health. She had been extremely tentative. Having lived in Senegal for twenty years, she had spent much time in villages with traditions similar to those of Malicounda Bambara. She knew it was forbidden for anyone, but especially people from outside the practicing ethnic group, to even mention the practice of female genital cutting. As far as she knew, every effort to raise awareness about the practice in Senegal - from health education agents to development workers - had led to few results and had sometimes offended those who practiced it. So to now hear that these women had dared to speak of the tradition's potential harm in front of their entire village and were prepared to speak of it in front of an American woman, to think they may have truly decided to end the practice? It was unfathomable. After all the proper greetings had been exchanged, Molly attempted to ease into the point of the meeting. "I understand the women of Malicounda Bambara have started a soap-making project to earn income," Molly said. Carried in Our Hearts: Creating Families Across Continents, by Dr. Jane Aronson. Tarcher. $15.82. Aronson, the founder of Worldwide Orphans Foundation, has collected testimonies from dozens of women (and a few men) on why they decided to adopt, what the journey of international adoption was like, and the moment when the parents and children met. That's only the beginning of the adventure: the parents talk of how they forged a new family, and children themselves also give their own reflections. But conditions for orphans remain dire, and Aronson hears from those who have worked to enrich the lives of the children who were left behind, as they lend a hand in faraway countries or even found their own organizations. Maimouna looked perplexed. "Yes, but we don't want to talk about that," she said. We've invited you here to speak about our decision to end the practice of female genital cutting in our village. Such directness was unusual, and Molly did her best to hide her surprise. "Can you explain how this has come about?" she asked. Kerthio raised her hand to speak. She explained how overjoyed the women of Malicounda Bambara had been two years earlier when the Tostan program first arrived in their village. "Each of us has long craved the information we've learned in our classes," she said. But when Ndey first brought up the tradition, we were speechless, many quite offended. While we feared the consequences of speaking about it aloud, Ndey persisted. Without ever making us feel defensive or ashamed, without ever suggesting we alter or abandon any of our traditions, she explained that the majority of women around the world do not practice female genital cutting, which surprised us. Many women nodded in agreement. "Ndey also helped us understand what happens to our bodies when they are cut," Kerthio continued. Nobody had explained that to us before. This information made us begin to think differently, to question the practice. But nothing would have changed were it not for our new understanding of human rights and a discussion of our responsibilities in relation to those rights. There was no going back after that. It was this knowledge that made us confident in our right to choose for ourselves what happens to our bodies, to preserve our bodies as they are without changes. We have made this decision, and we feel confident we can defend this decision if necessary. Melching and her NGO are committed to ending female social inequality around Africa. Michael Zumstein/Agence Vu A few weeks later, on the morning of July 31, 1997, the thirty-five women of the Tostan class gathered in the public square in Malicounda Bambara. Since before the sun rose, the women had been readying the village for the twenty journalists traveling to see them in just a few more hours. A large cooking fire had been started in the freshly swept courtyard, the water put on to ready the rice. By 11 a.m., the aroma of simmering vegetables and fish filled the steamy air, and Kerthio nervously gathered her Tostan classmates for one last rehearsal of the theater they'd prepared. One by one, the women reviewed their roles as well as the information on human rights they'd been studying to better explain, and possibly defend, the brave decision they were about to announce. Later that morning, as the bus Molly had arranged for the journalists lumbered down the path toward Malicounda Bambara, Molly slowly let out a long breath, realizing her relief at seeing the women of the Tostan class gathered in waiting, knowing she hadn't simply imagined it all. Despite the fact that she and the women of the Malicounda Bambara Tostan class had been preparing for weeks for this day, Molly couldn't help but question if it would really happen, if something like this were truly possible. The bus pulled to a stop in the village square. Kerthio led the journalists to special seats under the large neem tree, where they joined several national government representatives who had come to witness the event. Maimouna greeted the guests. "Salaam maaleekum," she began. We are very happy to receive you today and tell you about a very important decision our Tostan class and members of our community have made, that of ending a tradition of cutting our young girls. It was a decision that was not easy, because our respected ancestors handed this practice down to us all the way from Mali, the country of our origin. The class then performed the theater they'd prepared, and throughout it Molly could sense the women's nervousness; it wasn't so long ago that many of them wouldn't have felt comfortable even speaking in public, let alone performing in front of a crowd. When they were finished, Kerthio stood to speak. Keeping Hope Alive, by Dr. Hawa Abdi, with Sarah J. Robbins. Grand Central Publishing. $14.99. Outside of Mogadishu, Somalia, lies a refugee camp and hospital that rises like a mirage out of land beset for two decades by war and chaos. Here, over part of a mass grave, Dr. Hawa Abdi and her daughters have built a 400-bed hospital, a farm, and housing for tens of thousands, to help them find shelter and basic medical care ever since the early 1980s. Now she tells this moving story in her memoir, which was co-written with Sarah J. Robbins, and recounts her remarkable achievements and why, despite her country's terrible state, she's hopeful. "We once believed the tradition to be a religious obligation, but we now know it is not," she said. We once believed it caused no health problems, and we now know it does. As women, we once believed we had no choice but to continue the practice. We now know we have the right to question any practice that brings harm or health problems to our community. We have made the decision to abandon this practice together and are proud of the choice we have made. When Kerthio finished speaking, Maimouna stood and walked slowly to the center of the circle. With her shoulders held back, her head lifted high, she said the words Molly knew she'd been quietly rehearsing: "From this day forward, we, the women of Malicounda Bambara, pledge that none of our daughters, and none of our daughters" daughters, will be cut. We stand by our decision, and we've invited you so that we may finally break through the silence, to publicly say no, to choose health and well-being for all of our daughters and granddaughters. "However Long the Night" by Aimee Molloy. HarperOne. $25.99. As Maimouna spoke, Molly felt the breath catch in her throat. She looked around the circle of chairs, at the women of the Tostan class gathered under the tree, perfectly aware of the significance of these words and of the fact that these thirty-five women had somehow found the courage to be perhaps the first African women to stand up publicly and break a centuries-old silence. Kerthio came to stand in front of her. Taking Molly's hand, she led her from her chair and into the center of the circle, to join them in a dance for their guests. As the questions swirled through Molly's head as rapidly as her long, blue boubou swirled circles around her sandaled feet, the women of the Tostan class were discreetly watching her with a few questions of their own. How had this exuberant American woman arrived here in their West African village and found a way to instill them with the courage and the confidence they needed to alter the destiny, and guarantee the health, of hundreds - perhaps thousands - of girls and women? Adapted from However Long the Night: Molly Melching's Journey to Help Millions of African Women and Girls Triumph by Aimee Molloy. Copyright © 2013 by Aimee Molloy and Molly Melching. Used with permission of HarperOne, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.