*names have been changed
The sun is beating down hard on the baked soil. Rows of limp corn bow their heads as if in reverence to the ominous melting peaks of Mount Kilimanjaro in the background. The old taboos are cast and fear is in the watery eyes of 15-year old Vallery.* She stands along with her mother under the sparse shade of an acacia.
A day earlier in a run down office building along the outskirts of Moshi, Bassilla Renju-Urasa, Executive Director of NAFGEM(an association of women against female genital mutilation) says, “Though outlawed in 1988, FGM is still practiced in some tribes in the Kilimanjaro Region. The so-called reasons behind this practice are diverse. They believe it facilitates birth and is hygienic. But the real reason and the saddest one of all is sexual control.”
Not an hour later, 70-year old village informant Kikund Cha leads me by the hand to the Moshi bus terminal. Crammed inside a mini-bus (locally referred to as dala-dalas), hawkers push their goods through the cracked windows. The dala-dala ideally seats 9, I count 23.
Kikund speaks Kiswahili and a local dialect, both of which I don’t understand. But she arrived at NAFGEM that same morning from the remote area of Tindigani, desperately pleading for an investigation into Vallery’s FGM threats.
In 1996, the Tanzania Demographic Health Survey concluded that 81% of the Arusha Region practiced FGM, 37% in the Kilimanjaro Region. The Tindigiani high district is nestled in the Kilimanjaro Region and although most tribes in the area have either stopped or never performed FGM, the Kamba tribe seems to be the exception.
Off road, the drive continues through the countryside until finally, four hours later we arrive at the village market, followed by a two hour walk to Chekimaji where Kikund leads me to a hut. A short while later, 54-year old Bakari Samiji Mdee greets me in English, offers me tea and the story unfolds. Arrangements are to be made and news spreads of the white man’s arrival. I am to meet with Vallery the following day.
Secondary education in Tanzania costs 120.000 Tsh/year (around 100 USD). Sent off to secondary school in Dar-es-Salaam, Vallery returned to her village when her father died. A retired schoolteacher, he supported his family through savings and with a small government pension was able to pay for his daughter’s education. After his death, his social welfare stopped and the family finds itself without income. They now belong to Vallery’s uncle whose ideas of home planning are firmly rooted in tradition.
Tradition has it that when a man dies, his brother inherits his wife. Miriam* refuses to become a concubine. The furious uncle withdraws Vallery from school in November 2004 and decides to marry her off but first she must under go the procedure. Vallery writes a letter threatening to kill herself if forced to succumb to her uncle’s wishes. With no income and no man as head, they rely on will and conviction. They turn to UVITA, a local CBO headed by Bakari for help. In turn, UVITA notifies NAFGEM.
The following day, another long walk through the valley. Dirt paths intersect and given the sparse vegetation, one can see far. In the distance, silhouettes of trees seem to dance as the waves of heat emanate from the ground up. Bakari explains that we are to meet Vallery and her mother at a house in another village, sympathetic to their cause. For the two women it is a cloak and dagger operation. Where rumors and gossip spread quickly, the two must leave their village without suspicion.
“I’m afraid for my immediate family,” says Miriam. “I am afraid they will be poisoned for our actions. I tell my children to stay at home and not go anywhere.”
Six men and women sit on an old couch inside the house. It is cooler here but we move outside for more room underneath the acacia. A table is set up. Behind the house smoke billows as a young girl feeds the hearth with wood.
Vallery stands solemn and quiet as her mother speaks. “My daughters hate this hell,” she says referring to her other daughter Cybil. Miriam has five children, two daughters and three sons. The boys are too young to understand what is happening. The feeling of isolation and helplessness coupled with the threats are taking their toll. She recently received an anonymous letter threatening her children if she doesn’t comply.
Though officially outlawed, Vallery has little recourse to the law. The authorities turn a cold shoulder at her plight and she is visibly afraid. Close to an hour later, conversation over, the two women begin their trek home. We part in opposite directions, the long walk back heightens the sense of isolation. Behind us, the two women like the distant trees appear to dance on the horizon in the engulfing and bone drying heat. It is a sad dance of silence.
