the intention of respecting the indigenous construction of the practice and of not passing comment on the relative physical severity or implications of the operations themselves, or of the relative status of males and females in everyday realms within the society. The most apt translation, I believe, is provided by English-speaking Kuria who translate esaaro as “initiation,” a term appropriate for describing the holistic practice and not solely the cutting aspect that so fascinates and horrifies Western observers. I will deconstruct the linguistic complexities and their associations with specific schools of thought—and brands of activism—when discussing the perspectives of international observers.
The second perspective is that of the initiates, the youths—both boys (abamura) and girls (abaiseke)—who have undergone the operation as part of their initiation into adult society. I have conducted dozens of interviews and participated in scores of conversations on the topic of genital operations, young people’s personal experiences, the controversies surrounding them, and their ideas regarding the future of the tradition. Further, their ideas were captured through opinion polls I conducted in primary schools in 1988, 1993, 2003, and 2007. All Standard 8 pupils in the administrative locations inhabited by the Abairege3 were asked to participate on each of these data collection points, and in 2007 this included 391 youths.4
The third perspective is that of circumcisers (abasaari), as embodied by the man and two women who performed the operations in Kenyan Bwirege during the years of my research. These perspectives are based on interviews, as well as participant observation. The main female circumciser refused to be interviewed, despite her participation in other aspects of my research (she was a respondent in my socioeconomic survey four times across three decades). Her younger sister, who became the “traditional” circumciser at the mission, engaged me in a discussion of the controversy, and opened up her thinking and her practice to my scrutiny. The male circumciser I interviewed performed operations both in the open and at his clinic. He discussed his work with me extensively. Sadly, he was killed in a raid on his cattle prior to the publication of this work.
The fourth perspective is that of the parents, the people who support or oppose the practice in theory, but who have nonetheless almost unanimously chosen to have their children circumcised. Their opinions and ideas were gathered through interviews, conversations, and participant observation, and represent a wide range of thinking, corresponding to the many challenging situations in which they have found themselves. Among them are men and women, mothers, fathers, and grandparents, as well as teachers, headmasters, medical workers, religious personnel, administrators, farmers, and tradespeople. Many of them are good friends, and most of them are people with whom I share the experience of parenting.
The fifth perspective is that of observers and critics, as well as local activists and leaders spearheading opposition to genital cutting practiced on girls. Non-Kuria perspectives are gathered from the academic record, Kenyan and international media, conversations, documentary films and informational videos, papers and talks, policy statements and statistical abstracts, as well as opinions expressed directly to me. Interviews and participant observation have been conducted with directors of local nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), missionaries, leaders of community-based organizations (CBOs), and government officials.
In all instances, the perspective of this text is a polyvocal one, and is characterized by numerous divergences and inconsistencies that reflect different individuals and their social positions. By maintaining the individuality of the voices, I aim to create “a mosaic—an image made up of unique and separate, even contradictory voices, concepts, and practices—an arrangement of individually shaped and colored elements that together make a meaning larger than that offered by any single piece, any solo voice” (Zingaro 2009, 13). The decision to include them in specific arenas has been mine as the author of this text.
The Field Experience
I witnessed the genital cutting of a prepubescent girl for the first time in December 1988. Despite having been in the field for eighteen months by the time initiations were held, I was unable to observe this particular set of rituals with impartiality. I was quite shaken, both by what I was witnessing and by my response, even though it was my third visit to the field. In the course of my research on the relationship between economic development and cultural change, I had appreciated my experiences, had come to like and respect many of the people in the community in which I worked, and was able to understand their way of life with increasing sophistication and subtlety.
As I watched the ritual procedure, a young girl—in my mind the size of a six-year-old—struggled to keep her legs together while women attending her pried them apart. Deftly, the circumciser removed the girl’s clitoris, and shortly afterward, the group of girls cut in those few minutes stood up and walked away. I was stunned. Then, I saw the severed parts lying on the ground and two thoughts passed into my mind: I would be ashamed to be the only person present to faint, and this practice was totally awful. Thoroughly shaken, I was unable to remain detached or impartial, as the passing moments played out all around me: women trilling; a young girl, looking dazed, standing with her head bowed while women solicitously tied a kanga (cloth wrap) around her neck, praising her bravery all the while; a woman turning away from the cutting taking place, weeping quietly. And though I did not faint, my mind was flooded with images and ideas emanating from my own mzungu5 upbringing. These imaginings had nothing to do with realities of Kuria life, nor with indigenous conceptions or constructions of the practice of genital cutting. As I squatted down, light-headed, I was suddenly distracted by the temper tantrum of a newly cut girl. Unlike her fellow initiates, this girl tore off the wrap previously tied around her by her women escorts, and proceeded to stomp around the circumcision ground. Able to regain my composure, I stood up and began the long walk home with the initiate my friend and I had escorted to the event. I wondered intensely as I walked, why the different responses? What did it mean? How would the stomping girl now be regarded by these women?
Later, removed from the immediacy of the genital cutting operations, I felt that my conversations with both women and men on the subject were unsuccessful and distorted by a lack of deep communication. My own response seemed so visceral, so uncontrolled, and so partial. I then realized that the questions I was asking emanated from my assumptions, from preconceived notions that reflected a very personal view on what was taking place. They clearly were not aligned with how others in the community regarded the events. A friend admonished me, saying “Nyangi,6 you are asking the wrong questions” when I confessed my inability to comprehend what was happening around me. Though I continued to observe the ritual activities for the duration of the community’s genital cutting season, I resolved not to write about any of it since I was apparently missing the point.
In witnessing initiations then, I gained a sense of how these events unfold, the level of communal excitement, and the ritual events that most closely surround genital cutting. I also experienced my own reaction to observing the rituals, and I reflected on these ceremonial circumstances and outcomes. I remained reluctant to write about genital cutting because my personal response was so overwhelming. At that point I was unable to even begin to understand what these events meant to the lives of Kuria people. Though I continued to speak with women, girls, men, and boys, I did not feel that I made much headway toward unraveling the complex cultural strands that are woven together to make this event one of the key moments in both an individual’s life and the life of the community. Though I sought explanations, none were offered to me that seemed to add up to the momentous transformation this ritual causes in a young person’s—especially a young girl’s—life. “This is our tradition”—a response I received repeatedly when asking why people do this—hardly seemed to explain anything. No one offered or articulated any reasons more comprehensible to me than that.
A decade later I was offered another opportunity to engage with this topic. In the summer of 1998, I began to get word from various friends and informants in Kenya that initiations would be held that year. By the fall, a letter from a former assistant confirmed the news, announcing that the Abairege would be circumcising at the end of the year. He invited me to join his family in celebrating the “circumcision,” of his oldest brother’s firstborn (a daughter). His grandmother had asked him to write and invite me. This kind and generous woman was a key informant who treated me as a granddaughter, and taught me a tremendous