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Chinese Khat Affair
Chapter One: The Rite
The dry, arid wind swept through the village where the borders of Djibouti, Ethiopia, and Eritrea converged, a place of stark contrasts—where poverty and wealth, tradition and modernity, collided in a corybantic dance of conflicting values. Here, the earth was parched, but the flow of khat and the currents of trade—both legal and illegal—kept the village thriving. Just beyond the hills, the presence of foreign military bases loomed, unseen but constantly felt, casting a sepulchral shadow over the landscape.
In a small, dusty courtyard enclosed by a wall of stones and corrugated metal sheets, fifteen-year-old Amira lay on a straw mat, her face pale, her breath shallow. Her mother, Fatima, a zaftig woman with a kind face but stern determination, her grandmother, and a village elder stood around her, their hands steady, their faces stern with a resolve that bordered on boorishness. Today was the day she would undergo the ancient procedure that nearly every girl in Djibouti faced: Female Genital Mutilation (FGM), specifically the most severe form, Type III—infibulation.
To her family, it was a rite of passage, a marker of purity and readiness for marriage—a practice that had been passed down for generations, despite its severe health consequences and the growing legal and social opposition to it. The air was thick with anticipation and a sense of inevitability, a palpable tension that hung betwixt the traditional and the modern.
Amira’s eyes darted around, taking in her surroundings as her mind raced with a mix of fear and confusion. She had heard whispers about what this moment would feel like—friends who had undergone it already spoke in hushed tones, their faces unreadable. Some called it a necessary sacrifice; others spoke of the searing pain and the lifelong health issues it could cause. But all agreed that it was inevitable, a dicker with fate that could not be avoided.
“Be brave, Amira,” her mother whispered, kneeling beside her. “This is what it means to be a woman.” Amira closed her eyes, swallowing hard. Her mother’s words did little to calm her; they only added to the nettlesome anxiety that gnawed at her heart. She felt her grandmother’s rough hands grip her legs, holding them apart, and suddenly, panic rose within her like a zhuzh of adrenaline. Her body trembled, her heart pounded in her chest, and her mouth went dry.
The elder, a woman who had performed this ritual countless times, knelt down with a worn, blood-stained blade in hand. Her face was calm, almost serene, as if she were simply performing an everyday task. Amira’s stomach churned as the elder spoke softly, muttering verses in Arabic that Amira barely heard. These were the tools of tradition, the implements that kept the girls “pure,” as her family and the community understood it. But Amira knew that this practice was not just a tradition; it was a harmful act that could have severe and lasting consequences for her health and well-being.
The first cut was sharp, sudden, and blinding. Amira gasped, her scream swallowed by the wind. The pain radiated through her body like fire, a Kafkaesque nightmare come to life. She tried to twist, to escape the agony, but the hands holding her were too strong. Her vision blurred, and the sounds around her faded as the searing pain consumed every part of her being.
The procedure continued. Blood pooled onto the mat beneath her, and her breath came in shallow gasps as she clenched her fists, biting her lip until she tasted the coppery tang of her own blood. Tears streamed down her face, though she made no sound. She had been told to be brave. To endure. And so she did, her mind quizzically wondering why this had to be her fate.
Her thoughts drifted in and out, her consciousness waning under the intensity of the ordeal. But somewhere deep in her mind, anger bubbled—anger at her family, at her culture, at the traditions that demanded this of her. She had no choice. This was her fate, as it had been for every woman in her village. The Panglossian optimism of her family and community, their belief that this was for the best, only added to her frustration.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the elder stood up, her hands stained with Amira’s blood. “It is done,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. Amira’s body sagged in relief as the hands holding her down released her. She felt weak, lightheaded, and utterly drained. Her mother smiled, pride shining in her eyes. “You did well, my daughter. You are now a woman.”
Amira’s vision swam as she lay back on the mat, staring up at the cloudless sky. She couldn’t focus on anything except the pain and the pounding in her head. She had survived. But at what cost? The thought of the future, of the chronic pain, the reduced sexual satisfaction, and the emotional disturbances that lay ahead, filled her with a sense of dread and longing for something different. Something more.
In the days that followed, Amira struggled to move, to walk, or to...
The dry, arid wind swept through the village where the borders of Djibouti, Ethiopia, and Eritrea converged, a place of stark contrasts—where poverty and wealth, tradition and modernity, collided in a corybantic dance of conflicting values. Here, the earth was parched, but the flow of khat and the currents of trade—both legal and illegal—kept the village thriving. Just beyond the hills, the presence of foreign military bases loomed, unseen but constantly felt, casting a sepulchral shadow over the landscape.
In a small, dusty courtyard enclosed by a wall of stones and corrugated metal sheets, fifteen-year-old Amira lay on a straw mat, her face pale, her breath shallow. Her mother, Fatima, a zaftig woman with a kind face but stern determination, her grandmother, and a village elder stood around her, their hands steady, their faces stern with a resolve that bordered on boorishness. Today was the day she would undergo the ancient procedure that nearly every girl in Djibouti faced: Female Genital Mutilation (FGM), specifically the most severe form, Type III—infibulation.
To her family, it was a rite of passage, a marker of purity and readiness for marriage—a practice that had been passed down for generations, despite its severe health consequences and the growing legal and social opposition to it. The air was thick with anticipation and a sense of inevitability, a palpable tension that hung betwixt the traditional and the modern.
Amira’s eyes darted around, taking in her surroundings as her mind raced with a mix of fear and confusion. She had heard whispers about what this moment would feel like—friends who had undergone it already spoke in hushed tones, their faces unreadable. Some called it a necessary sacrifice; others spoke of the searing pain and the lifelong health issues it could cause. But all agreed that it was inevitable, a dicker with fate that could not be avoided.
“Be brave, Amira,” her mother whispered, kneeling beside her. “This is what it means to be a woman.” Amira closed her eyes, swallowing hard. Her mother’s words did little to calm her; they only added to the nettlesome anxiety that gnawed at her heart. She felt her grandmother’s rough hands grip her legs, holding them apart, and suddenly, panic rose within her like a zhuzh of adrenaline. Her body trembled, her heart pounded in her chest, and her mouth went dry.
The elder, a woman who had performed this ritual countless times, knelt down with a worn, blood-stained blade in hand. Her face was calm, almost serene, as if she were simply performing an everyday task. Amira’s stomach churned as the elder spoke softly, muttering verses in Arabic that Amira barely heard. These were the tools of tradition, the implements that kept the girls “pure,” as her family and the community understood it. But Amira knew that this practice was not just a tradition; it was a harmful act that could have severe and lasting consequences for her health and well-being.
The first cut was sharp, sudden, and blinding. Amira gasped, her scream swallowed by the wind. The pain radiated through her body like fire, a Kafkaesque nightmare come to life. She tried to twist, to escape the agony, but the hands holding her were too strong. Her vision blurred, and the sounds around her faded as the searing pain consumed every part of her being.
The procedure continued. Blood pooled onto the mat beneath her, and her breath came in shallow gasps as she clenched her fists, biting her lip until she tasted the coppery tang of her own blood. Tears streamed down her face, though she made no sound. She had been told to be brave. To endure. And so she did, her mind quizzically wondering why this had to be her fate.
Her thoughts drifted in and out, her consciousness waning under the intensity of the ordeal. But somewhere deep in her mind, anger bubbled—anger at her family, at her culture, at the traditions that demanded this of her. She had no choice. This was her fate, as it had been for every woman in her village. The Panglossian optimism of her family and community, their belief that this was for the best, only added to her frustration.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the elder stood up, her hands stained with Amira’s blood. “It is done,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. Amira’s body sagged in relief as the hands holding her down released her. She felt weak, lightheaded, and utterly drained. Her mother smiled, pride shining in her eyes. “You did well, my daughter. You are now a woman.”
Amira’s vision swam as she lay back on the mat, staring up at the cloudless sky. She couldn’t focus on anything except the pain and the pounding in her head. She had survived. But at what cost? The thought of the future, of the chronic pain, the reduced sexual satisfaction, and the emotional disturbances that lay ahead, filled her with a sense of dread and longing for something different. Something more.
In the days that followed, Amira struggled to move, to walk, or to...
