Born in the Big Rains

A Memoir of Somalia and Survival

Fadumo Korn, Tobe Levin

• Publisher: The Feminist Press at CUNY
• Year: 2008
• ISBN:
  9781558616226
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: Social Sciences

This “impassioned, beautifully written memoir” by a survivor of female circumcision is a “brutally honest” story of tragedy and triumph ( Publishers Weekly ).
 
As a nomad, Fadumo Korn freely roamed the wild steppes of her native Somalia until her mother delivered her into the hands of an “excisor” to become a woman in the eyes of her tribe by undergoing female genital cutting. But serious complications brought on by the circumcision would force her to leave her home on a journey of survival and self-discovery.
 
Fadumo first traveled to the bustling city of Mogadishu and the household of a wealthy uncle, a brother of the Somali president. There, she entered a world of luxury underpinned by political instability and cruelty in a country eager for rebellion. As her symptoms worsened, she journeyed to Germany, where she received not only therapy but love and acceptance in the most unlikely of places.
 
With this “courageous . . . indispensable testament, ” Fadumo Korn weaves together a sensitive understanding of traditional practices with revelations about their disturbing effects. Full of sorrow and surprising humor, Born in the Big Rains provides a candid history of a life sculpted by crippling rheumatism and an unexpected path to recovery (Elfriede Jelinek, 2004 Nobel Laureate in Literature).

In Germany

6

Small as a matchbox, the apartment, on the third floor of a student residence, contained a cooking corner and a shower. Sahra, a cousin of Aunt Madeleine, lived there with her brother Jamal and stepson, Rashid. “German doctors are the best,” Uncle Abdulkadir had declared. Besides, I’d be better off with relatives than with strangers.

That’s how I got to Munich.

Suddenly I was living in a very small space. The four of us slept together in a single bed. That didn’t bother me. I was happy to have left my crisis-ridden home behind. A change of air seemed to help my rheumatism, and pretty soon I was almost free of pain. Jamal, who was there on scholarship studying electrical engineering, used his contacts and visited the appropriate offices to apply for a larger apartment. German law allowed family members to follow resident spouses, and he claimed I was his wife. Thus we were able to move to a three-room social welfare flat. I was always shocked whenever Jamal would say—in earnest or in jest—that we were married.

Sahra’s husband, Ibrahim, lived in Berlin. A doctor of veterinary science, he had finished first in his class, yet as a black vet, Berlin was the only place he could find work. Rashid, his son, had come to Germany after physicians had diagnosed polio. His right leg was shorter than his left. The boy underwent many operations as surgeons tried to lengthen his leg. Eventually he was fitted for a prosthesis which had to be altered every time he grew. Nonetheless, Rashid was a cheerful boy.

In the new apartment Jamal claimed a room for himself. Sahra, Rashid, and I shared the other bedroom. Then Sahra invited her grandmother to live with us. Madame La Lune, a woman more than eighty years old, had lived for many years in France. She was very fond of gin. Finally, when Ibrahim came back from Berlin to try once more to find employment near his family, space became even tighter. Ibrahim also took me to the university clinic.

There a professor of hand surgery examined my twisted fingers. He bent them, twisted them, measured them, and took x-rays. He spoke to Ibrahim, who nodded enthusiastically, while I sat there not understanding a word. Finally, the two men shook hands. “The professor is going to operate,” Ibrahim said as we took the streetcar home. “He’s going to straighten your fingers.” It seemed so easy and permanent. In only a few weeks I’d have pretty, straight hands! I was numb with pleasure.

The operation took place several days later.

I woke up with a plaster cast on my right arm. In the afternoon the professor came, and, this time, Ibrahim translated. Into the middle knuckle of each finger they had inserted metal rods, which would be removed in six weeks. Impatient, I longed for the day.

When it finally arrived the nurse took off the plaster, and I saw a thin, gray hand with fingers that appeared unnaturally long. The tight bandage had pressed its threading into my skin and the doctor had to cut into me to remove the bits of gauze. The nurse gave me a number of shots for the pain. Then the surgeon, using tweezers, started to withdraw the rods. Each squeaked as it was loosened and withdrawn from my flesh.

With splints to apply at night, an introduction to a physical therapist, and strict orders to take good care of myself, I was discharged. In the meantime, with the money given to her by Uncle Abdulkadir, Sahra enrolled in a private school to qualify as a secretary with foreign language skills. Everyone expected that I would look after Rashid and Madame La Lune and take care of the housework. When I asked how soon I’d be able to continue my schooling, Sahra answered that there was no money for me.

In the spring they operated on my left hand. This time when I woke from the anesthesia I could no longer feel my middle finger. At first, the doctors assured me that it was an effect of the painkiller. But several days later the finger was still numb, so I was operated on for the third time. Still, the finger remained stiff. It had assumed an untoward twenty-degree angle. Nobody admitted that a mistake had been made. Instead, they started planning to operate on my feet. “The toes, too, should be straightened,” they said. Each time weeks passed before the metal rods were removed. Each time I screamed when I heard the metal squeaking in my flesh. After the fifth operation nine fingers and a pair of toes were nearly straight, one finger had lost all feeling, and my big toe was now more crooked than ever. I was forced to walk on the outsides of my feet.

In the meantime, Sahra had given birth. While she was in school, I took care of little Mursel as well as Rashid and Madame La Lune, whose dementia was increasing. It was a challenge but one that gave me pride. From time to time, when Mursel had a fever or cried because he was teething, I would miss my physical therapy. At night I sometimes forgot to put on the splints because it was best if the baby, whom I now loved above all else, fell asleep on my stomach. Half a year after having been discharged from the clinic, my fingers started to become crooked again. I ignored them.

Back in Mogadishu, Aunt Madeleine and Uncle Abdulkadir had divorced. For years, Aunt Madeleine’s family had been ashamed of their unorthodox son-in-law. Now that nobody’s feelings had to be spared, the rage they had long nourished burst out. Sahra, her mother, who had arrived recently, and Madame La Lune criticized Uncle Abdulkadir. They complained also about Aunt Madeleine, who had been stupid to marry him in the first place. And they criticized me because I was Uncle Abdulkadir’s niece, a member of that unholy clan that had made Aunt Madeleine so unhappy. The women now looked me over scornfully, directing their gaze toward my hands, dropping their eyes to my feet, and calling me a pitiful cripple.

I took refuge in the broom closet and locked myself in. I longed for Aunt Madeleine, whom I loved, just as I loved Uncle Abdulkadir. My inability to help either of them tortured me. And I missed my mother and my sister. I asked Sahra for permission to phone Mogadishu, but it became too complicated. I would have to register my call and then wait around for hours for a connection. It was also expensive. At night I lay awake for hours, my body like lead and my heart heavy. At some point, I would close my eyes and imagine myself standing in a palace, in a foyer full of light and flowers, with white curtains puffed by gentle breezes at open windows, with birds singing, and on the terrace I would hear Uncle Abdulkadir and Aunt Madeleine receiving guests. Glasses would clink, music would sound, and soon I would go out there to be pleasantly greeted, to make my own compliments, to enjoy compliments from others admiring my petal-white dress and my new pumps. And the ambassadors of foreign lands would kiss my stunningly beautiful hands.

Ibrahim was unable to find work, so he and Sahra decided, after a year and a half in Munich, to try their luck in the United Arab Emirates. The movers marched in and out, packing crates. “What will you do?” Sahra asked as she spied me, shortly before they left, taking my few possessions out of the last remaining wardrobe.

“I’m packing.”

“Did you really think we were going to take you with us?”

I turned to dust.

The day they were to fly, the movers picked up the last boxes. Voices echoed against the naked walls. With Mursel on my arm, I stood at the window and looked down at the street. The furniture truck glistened blue in the sun. Nobody saw me.

“Where should I go?” I asked.

Sahra was combing her hair. “Call your uncle,” she replied without looking up. “Maybe he’ll help you.” Mursel passed a bit of paper over my cheek. I made believe it tickled, and that got him laughing. The thought that in a moment I would have to hand him over forever caused me severe pain. I felt hollowed out.

“Do you remember the people in Augsburg who visited us a few weeks ago?” Sahra asked. “The Somali with the German husband and the little child? Maybe you can live with them.”

“But I saw her only once. I don’t know her!”

“It would only be for a couple of months. Until they can send you a plane ticket.”

“But … ”

“Do you have any better idea?”

“Maybe they don’t want anyone else living with them.”

“I’ll phone her … ” The shrill of the horn cut Sahra short. Below, next to the furniture truck, stood a taxi. Madame La Lune put on her coat and swayed as she reached for her hat. Sahra approached me and took Mursel.

Time stood still.

I heard the door close.

I don’t know how long I sat there.

At some point, I remember, a cry rose in my chest—an immense pressure grew and then broke, shattering the stillness. Its echo fell back from the walls and pierced my breast, crashing into my body. I felt as though a club had been pounding my torso. At the same time, I wanted someone to hit me—anything so that I might feel again.

Where could I go?

Slowly, I grew more tranquil. Then, as a key turned in the front door lock, Jamal came in. He had not left with the others. “Come,” he said, still standing on the threshold and observing me. “I’m driving you to Augsburg.”

Yes, then I remembered. They had come once to visit and stayed the whole afternoon—Waris, a Somali, Detlef, her German husband, and Saïd, their son. Now she stood before me and said, “Welcome!” and as I hesitated to mount the step, “I’ve made us some tea.”

I had been sweating, freezing, and in a frenzy, considering my options. What would I do if this woman didn’t want me? Then Waris took my suitcase, placed it next to the wardrobe, and pushed me gently into the living room. On the table was a cake, on the couch, Saïd. He was pouting. But suddenly, his mouth pulled itself into a big smile. He recognized me and laughed, and I hugged him and gave him a kiss.

“Please take a seat,” Detlef said and pointed to an armchair.

“Are you going to be my big sister now?” asked Saïd. I touched his cheek with mine. He had already asked me that in Munich while I played with him and Mursel as the adults talked. So there we sat in the living room, drinking tea and eating cake. Gradually the fear drained out of my body. In the evening we cooked a Somali dish together. Detlef and Waris helped me make my bed. That night I dreamed of Mursel.

Whenever I jumped up to help with the housework, Detlef told me to sit down again. He gave me books and forbade me to act like a servant. We cooked and washed up together, played games or watched TV. Waris and Detlef registered me in a language school, helped me to find babysitting jobs and to extend my visa. They saw to it that I had health insurance, and they invested the money that Uncle Abdulkadir sent. They also phoned him in Mogadishu.

“Fadumo,” said Uncle Abdulkadir in a voice riddled with exhaustion, “stay in Germany. Don’t come back. There’s no future here.”

And once again I felt rejected.

I held on that much more to Waris, Detlef, and Saïd.

Waris took me along when she visited friends. Detlef’s mother, Grandma Paula, whom everyone called Ayeeyo—Somali for grandmother—took me to the movies. Detlef’s father, whom the family called Ami, for uncle, gave me money for an iced coffee. “Go out, Fadumo,” Detlef said. “Go and meet other young people.”

“Go out dancing,” Waris said. “Live!”

When they moved elsewhere in Augsburg, they took me with them.

Outside it was raining—thick drops exploded on the windowpanes. On the table there were roasted lamb and other dishes. “Help yourself,” my new friend Maryan said. I dipped the spoon into the curried rice and rejoiced at the smell. “I’m so glad you made it,” said Udo, Maryan’s German boyfriend. I forked a raisin and put it into my mouth. The radio was playing James Brown. “After eating we’ll go to the Olympic Stadium. There’s a fantastic Mardi Gras party.”

“Hm,” Maryan answered. “What should I put on?”

“It’s already pretty late,” I objected. We had started cooking at eight o’clock and it was now ten-thirty. The last train from Munich to Augsburg left at midnight. I knew I could spend the night at Maryan’s, however, since I had done so before. She was a friend of Waris, a Somali trying to make a career as a model in Munich.

“Well, I could go as an African woman,” Maryan grinned, stuffing a forkful of vegetables into her mouth.

“Not a bad idea,” Udo replied. “You’d probably be the only one there who didn’t need makeup.”

“But I don’t have a costume,” I said. On the radio, Aretha Franklin replaced James Brown.

“We’ll find something,” Maryan said and shoved her plate aside. “Come on,” she added, pulling me behind her. “Let’s explore the closet.”

Shortly before midnight two African princesses in glittering veils, escorted by a pirate in jeans and hiking boots, could be seen waiting for the tram.

The building was full. Udo, Maryan, and I stood squashed together next to the entrance, and for a moment I lost all desire to squeeze in. But I quickly adjusted my veil, hooked my arm into Maryan’s, and competing with the music, shouted, “Okay! Let’s celebrate!” Udo performed a long, drawn-out whistle. “Let’s go!”

We snaked through gigolos and transvestites, a mountain of a mushroom blocking the way, and Captain Ahab flirting with an Eskimo girl. A doctor with a surgical mask raised his stein to Udo, bellowing, “Cheers!” Next to the doctor stood Frankenstein with huge plastic hands, facial scars, a full beard, and hair to his hips. “Should I find you a table?” Frankenstein offered, grinning.

I grinned back. “Of course! And fast—” Frankenstein vanished into the crowd, but to my surprise, a few moments later, he reappeared with coffee and jelly donuts. “Come with me,” he said and gestured toward a corner. We tagged along.

Frankenstein really had found a table. “What’s your name?” he asked once we’d sat down. He offered me a cup of coffee. I took it with my hands angled so he couldn’t see my fingers.

“Fatima,” I answered. That was the name most Germans assigned to me since Fadumo was too difficult for them to pronounce.

“I’m Walter.” I dran...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• Dedication
• Nomadic Life
• In Mogadishu
• In Germany
• Epilogue
• Afterword: FGM, A Note on Advocacy and Women’s Human Rights
• Addresses
• Reading Group Guide