INNOCENCE: The beginning that never ends
Mud huts.
My country.
My homeland.
I’m not sure whether I should be calling Ethiopia my homeland for I wasn’t even born there. My parents migrated to Ethiopia when I was two. Both my parents were from South Africa, whose ancestors had migrated from India long back. They had gotten married there and a year later I was born. I didn’t have any siblings. Although this used to bother me sometimes, I hardly ever felt the shortage of playmates.
My father was a doctor although not with any missionary organization. He was a skinny old man with sparse hair and limbs drooping under a force unknown, although mysterious. He wasn’t always this old though. I believe it was the degree of sickness and starvation that he had seen in my country that had lent that extra droop to his limbs and took away a centimeter every year from his already receding hairline. He was the sort of human being whose very passion lay in tending to broken bodies and minds. I suspect that was one of the primary reasons behind his urge to become a doctor in the very first place.
My father was not only my best friend but my mentor and the best educator ever. At home, he had, what at that time seemed like endless, rows of books put up on cramped wooden shelves. I now remember the many times that I had pulled, what from the covers seemed like less boring books, out of the shelves in search of the one which would have nice pictures or perhaps be a little more colorful than the other books of Father. I would, of course, fail miserably in my mission and settle for ruining what I found with a stray pencil or pen that I might happen to lay my hands on at Father’s table. During the day, I would have the entire shelf to myself for Father would be out. Only Mother used to be around and the moment she came in, I didn’t have the sense to look busy. So more often than not I ended up getting smacked by her, although quite lightly.
Father would be out the entire day making rounds in the village that we were living in. Ethiopia, being a poor country with only a few tribal leaders possessing the power and wealth for prosperous sustenance, riots were galore. The four or five tribal leaders that were around would forever be in a warring state. During these riots, obviously running and hiding away in the forests was the safest and the only resort possible. Father was though strangely immune to the repercussions of the violence erupting from such riots. Even when people were getting gunned down mercilessly on the dusty streets, my father didn’t hesitate to go out and tend to the weak and dying.
My mother would be in constant fear for my father’s life. But it was the Almighty’s grace by which he always managed to return.
Apart from my mother, there was one more person who used to live in mortal fear for my father’s life; and that was, of course, me. It was more than impossible for me to imagine my life without my father. Just saying that I missed him terribly when he wasn’t around was a terrible under-statement.
It was my father who had told me about things I never hoped I would chance upon to see. He painted for me the world as it was outside my war-torn nation. He taught me nursery rhymes; he taught me the English language. He told me bed-time stories and was always around when I would get scared in the middle of the night.
In fact, it was my father who showed me how to build those mud-huts.
My mud-huts. My country.
My homeland.
This is how I’ve always orchestrated my thoughts about the nation I was brought up in. Mud huts lined up along the dust road. I remember many a times that I had been standing on that road, my father standing beside me holding my hand.
Standing on one end of the road, you could see it stretching so far that it would disappear in the womb of the small swirling dust storms which seemed to have lodged themselves permanently on the long stretch of the road, obscuring vision. That was one of the major factors behind the terrific attraction that the dust road held for me. I couldn’t see where it ended. The swirling mist of dust added to the mask of mystery that the road seemed to have donned permanently. It ran parallel to the fence beyond which lay the mine-fields.
On that road I would spend my days – sitting, dreaming and fantasizing about the many rickety trucks which had had the good fortune of being able to disappear down the road.
I was always a dreamer.
Every kid likes living grand dreams, though the frame of reference used by a child is comparable only to another child’s, the time and place being of no consequence. Hence, even though I had spent the best part of my life in a country where I had not only seen fear but tasted it as well - in the form of a bitter metallic taste, which only later I came to know as the taste of the blood that oozes out when you bite deep into your tongue in fear, trepidation or plain apprehension - I loved making dust palaces and imagined living in them.
"This is the grandest that it would ever get".
That was my friend Nina. I guess I could call her my best friend although she used to annoy me most of the time. One reason why she seemed so annoying was because she always turned out to be irritatingly repeatedly right!
"This is the grandest that it would ever get. So enjoy it as long as it lasts".
There is another reason why I found her so annoying. She acted so damn grown up.
Two years plus tremendous bickering from Mother to “stop talking nonsense” and “there is no Nina” made me realize that she was not an imaginary friend after all but a constant companion whom I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to shake off, for Nina still exists; only now I think of her as that silly voice in my head.
"Stop referring to me as that!"
She could be quite silly at times.
"So you want to make more?"
She would, of course, be referring to all those tiny old mud huts that we never got bored of making. We were quite the dreamers, Nina more than me.
Nina used to drive me nuts…crazy…cuckoo with her endless nagging and …
Yes. I dare you to complete that!
Frankly, she tired me out. Although now that she makes her presence felt in ways sparse in count and much mellowed in nature, I’ve found her true worth.
Back then, we didn’t have to worry about what seemed like stuff pretty mundane - food, water and shelter.
It sounds so non-clichéd, it almost sounds insane if not corny.
Nina again.
We were the citizens of a nation where igniting riots -communal and ethnic- happened to be the favorite past-time of those who have grabbed power, irrespective of whether it was done legally or otherwise. There were two other reasons why we didn’t have any worries as to the availability of, what I later came to know as, the basic amenities of life - scarcity of those very amenities and lack of any modes of comparison.
Bravo!
“Alas” might be the better word to use, Nina.
See what I mean?
She was… is like this evil twin sister of mine who must have been whacked extremely effectively with the stick of sarcasm, if there ever was one, when God was whacking people around.
All the same. I like her. She represents my childhood.
Of mud huts and dust palaces.
And of my homeland.
Why does that image keep coming back?
Mud huts and dust palaces right beside that dusty road that I so loved.
That’s about as much of a happy childhood as you’re ever likely to recall.
I believe Nina’s right.
I can’t remember much of a happy childhood; not because of a memory that has acquired early amnesia but because of the abundance of unhappy circumstances.
Squatting on the road-side planning to carve out may be the porch of a house or a straw window…
Which I had the brains to metamorphosize into real doors and windows.
I feel like I have been doing that for an eternity. But I remember well, that was not the only thing that I used to do. I used to watch other children scrounging for any kinds of combustible substances that could be found lying about, including twigs, leaves and dried dung.
The scrounging would be, more often than not, interspersed with frequent dashes to the nearest shrubs in case any gun-shot or any loud sound even remotely resembling one was heard.
There were no schools and everybody had to work; from children to old men and women. As long as you weren’t rendered invalid, in which case you were better off dead, you had to work. It was something that nobody had told me, just something that I had observed and was amused with, for I didn’t have to work. I could play all I wanted and sit beside the dust road for as long as I had the energy to.
While the children would be digging around for stuff, the elders would be busy farming their dry lands.
The children had been given strict instructions as to what to do in case any kind of disturbances in the form of riots or skirmishes cropped up. Make a dash to the nearest forest and hide in the undergrowth. The clawing question of whether their loved ones could do the same didn’t crop up instantly in their little minds.
We were quite powerless against those sinister forces which were threatening to level us out.
'Exterminate' would be the better word, dear.
Nina scares me sometimes.
“We are out of supplies early this time”. This would be the periodic concern of my parents.
A constant litany which used to drive you out of the house in extreme exasperation.
Yes; and that was because parents always seemed to be obsessed with ways and resources of gathering food for the next meal - not that we had as many meals as that in a day. There would be weekly supplies coming in choppers from South Africa and other places far away… places where my father told me there was always plenty to eat… people didn’t go hungry for days… and children could go out and play any time or anywhere they wanted to.
You ought to stop constantly asking for more.
If she had read Oliver Twist back then, she would have definitely quoted from it.
In my moments of childish selfishness, I never understood why my parents came away from a place like that. My father was a doctor; but even in the land of plenty, people must fall sick. You could never really run away from sickness and disease. So why come to a place where disease had grabbed much more than its fair share.
Because somehow you feel good inside. Doing what you love doing.
And if that means healing the sick and helping your fellow-men, there’s no greater happiness in the world.
What she means is may be spiritual gratification.
She seemed quite mature for her age. And am I not thankful for that!
However, what she said about happiness is something that I can understand now, after all these years. May be I can understand it because I had it for sometime and then, lost it.
Back then, food was only a factor of distant concern.
Our apparent callousness towards the intense efforts that our parents put in for getting together something that resembled a decent meal in a war-torn, starving country, though didn’t imply that we were alien to the concept of hunger and starvation; for, the biting feeling that you get all around your tummy in the inside, as if its walls are crumbling down wasn’t the kind of feeling that I cherished. I had come to associate this feeling with all sorts of negative emotions.
Hunger for me meant anger, persecution, suppression and most of all, subjugation - subjugation under nature or worse, under humans.
We had to fight. Everyday.
Even nature wasn’t any kinder towards us, for, Ethiopia is virtually a dry cracking wasteland of sorts, as if nature couldn’t bear to cast her kind eyes on the accursed land that was my country.
Although I was then too young to realize that there were things much worse than hunger, there were a few things I put worse than not having enough to eat.
Not being able to break rules?
No. I would prefer to say, not being able to cross boundaries.
There was a fenced off area a mile from my home over by the road, which was a complete wasteland like so many other places in my country. I had hardly ever seen any grown-ups veer near it. The very fact that it was fenced off made it terribly tempting for me. Again, I was too young to realize that what I was feeling was symbolic of what every human considers his or her birthright - freedom. I was quite sure that I wanted to climb the fence and cross over to the territory where it said “danger”.
“Danger”. In red.
It held a fatal attraction.
An attraction that turned out to be literally fatal?
Yes.
I didn’t know what danger meant. For one thing, it seemed to be in a foreign language; my father was teaching me English but I hadn’t gotten as far as that yet. The only thing I knew was that it spelled nothing good.
And that just added to the fun and temptation for you.
Yes and No.
It was tempting because it was forbidden.
The “danger” sign hardly discouraged me although our parents were quite strict as to drawing us boundaries beyond which lay the forbidden land.
Many a times I was attracted to it imagining that the first step I took there would be sort of … my last step on earth.
The ground would shake beneath my feet. Creepers would come out of the earth and tie me down; or worse take me down to the netherworld with them. This was the only thought that kept me away from setting foot on that land for a long time.
For, I was afraid of the dark. And I was quite sure the netherworld would be the darkest place around.
You didn’t though mind pushing someone else there.
I didn’t push him there, for God’s sake!
Or may be I did. Not physically but psychologically.
The kid wasn’t one from the weaker faction, the one that bigger kids in countries like America call the losers’ group. Cultures might be different but concepts are always the same.
So, here was this kid, who wasn’t one of the losers. He was actually one of the bullies. I was as usual sitting by the road with Nina. I saw this kid run up to the fence. He was soon followed by loud shouts and cheers. He climbed up the fence and looked back at his friends, one arm raised in victory. The cries of cheers grew louder. The kid devoured the applause for sometime and then made to come down. He was though not coming down on our side. He was going down to the other side, where it was forbidden. There could now be heard a note of apprehension and uncertainty in the cries of cheers. The kid jumped down to the other side.
Nothing happened.
The crowd had now fallen silent. Anticipation pregnant with unease.
He took the first step. Gingerly.
Nothing happened.
Second step.
Again, nothing happened.
A collective sigh of relief could now be heard.
It couldn’t permeate through the entire crowd though; before it could end, my ear-drums felt the thunderous reverberating noiseless second …
… After which I went deaf.
My sight was though not affected. I could tell that for sure, for I now saw his body rise from the ground and disintegrate in the air in the midst of all that smoke and dust.
I still cannot understand how I could manage to see things so lucidly.
That was the only time I hadn’t made a dash to the nearest woods possible. Nobody had the guts to go pick up the remains of that kid except the mother who had run berserk into that mine-infested wasteland herself crying out the name of her child. The noiseless second was felt again. It left me deaf again.
In retrospection, it was that noiseless second and many more noiseless seconds like that which had rewarded me and my people with the resilience to be stretched to our elastic limits without breaking down. It was the deafness which had made us stronger and more capable to bear many more of such seconds that were to come.
OVERVIEW
The book “The Ever Untitled” is based on Infibulation - a cruel and ruthless custom still followed in remote parts of Africa. Wikipedia defines Infibulation as the practice of surgical closure of the female labia majora by sewing them together to seal off the female genitalia , leaving only a small hole for the passage of urine and menstrual blood. This is usually done on young girls around the onset of puberty , to ensure chastity. It is usually linked with female circumcision or removal of the clitoris and usually the labia minora as well, in order to render women theoretically less sexual.
They are usually performed without anesthetic and in unsanitary conditions, and without the consent of those infibulated. Many of the subjects of these practices have experienced severe infections and reproductive disorders as a result of these practices, and even death. Infibulation is usually reversed at the time of a girl’s marriage by simply cutting the connected tissue.
“The Ever Untitled” deals with the pathetic life cycle that each of the women subjected to this heinous ritual go through, over and above the tribulations of living in a war-torn, starving nation of Africa.
“The Ever Untitled” is the autobiography of a young woman from Ethiopia , Norah, who got infibulated when she was eight. It spans the time from her childhood to her adulthood, an entire journey where she encounters both the darkest and brightest shades of human nature. Filled with incidents that left her solitary and in immense pain, both physical and mental, she was a woman who managed to not only survive but she survived with a morality that never saw a tear in its fabric.
The book throws light on not only the delicate social equation between the men and women of Africa but also the emotional trauma that a mother of a daughter goes through; a mother who had been infibulated herself and has to decide whether she would curse her dear daughter to the same hell in return for social acceptance or would put her daughter’s happiness at the risk of eternal social ostracism.
Here is a Synopsis of the novel. To read the full book, buy it!!
SYNOPSIS
The story is divided into six sections signifying the various stages of her life marked by different levels of maturity, understanding and strength.
Innocence
This is, of course, the first phase. It spans her entire childhood from the time she landed in Ethiopia with her parents to the time she was dragged into a stifling old straw hut for the ritual of Infibulation.
Norah was a sensitive child and was closer to her father than her mother. Her father was a conscientious doctor and was immensely loved by the entire village. Norah was a single child and had a perfect childhood with a father who doted on her, a mother who tended to every whim of hers and an imaginary friend Nina who seemed to keep her out of trouble. However, trouble started soon. Norah’s perfect childhood slipped away from her in a sudden jerk when her father died in one of the many freak gunshots that take place in a country of unrest like Ethiopia, leaving her intensely lonely and dejected over her huge loss. The neighboring women, who she called aunts, however helped Norah and her mother in any way that they could. Although things had changed drastically for Norah with the death of her father, she soon discovered that these changes were not confined to her emotional boundaries only. They had spilled into her physical self as well.
Seduction of innocence:
When she was eight years old, one day the village elder, a very old hunch-backed woman offered her a lean wheat brownie. She took it and had it. Next thing she saw was an old straw hut, on the floor of which she had been spread-eagled. Those very women who she called aunts were pinning her down to the floor. From nowhere appeared the old hunchbacked woman with a knife in her hand. Amidst Norah’s heart-rending screams and absence of any kind of anesthesia whatsoever, the ritual of Infibulation was performed on her. In full view of her mother.
Once, it was performed, she was left unattended in a dark room for an entire week to recuperate. Recuperate, she did. But the scars that were left on her physical and emotional self never did heal.
Pain and Padlock, these were now her constant companions.
She was then too young to understand why it was done to her. She always held it against her mother for letting those women do what they did to her. Although she sometimes tried to talk to her mother, the connection between mother and daughter could never be established. Her mother ended up lecturing her on keeping “your husband happy” and she ended up loathing her mother even more for crippling her for life only to serve the sole purpose of keeping “your husband happy”.
Soon, there was talk of her marriage. A groom was chosen for her and she got married at the age of ten. On the wedding night, her innocence which had already been seduced started degenerating as well.
Degeneration:
On her wedding night, she caught fever and her husband left her. He returned after a week and forced himself on her weakened body. Norah now had a newer, more gruesome and self experienced picture of what it was like to be in pain, in an intense, head-splitting pain about which she was not allowed to complain.
Her husband unlocked her every night, forced himself into her, tearing apart her flesh and ripping away her vitals. When he was done, he would lock her up again.
Norah was broken. Body and soul.
She was treated as cattle and she accepted it.
Re-birth:
A year passed. A year devoid of feelings, esteem and respect for one’s own self.
A year when Norah grew more withdrawn and lost than before.
Soon, she knew she was pregnant. With the birth of that new life inside her body, there was birth of a new spirit as well.
The fact that Norah was pregnant didn’t go down well with her husband. During her eighth-month pregnancy, one night her husband came into her room, drunk and with a few other drunk friends.
Before Norah knew what was happening, they all crowded around her. They raped her, mutilated her over and over again.
She had a miscarriage. There were twins, one was still-born and one was dying.
She caught hold of the dying one and ran out into the night.
Regeneration:
She somehow managed to escape that country and reached her parents’ homeland, South Africa. Her dying child somehow managed to survive just as Norah herself did. It was a girl and she named her Nina.
Nina was Norah’s strength. Nina helped Norah to forget and to forgive. Norah worked hard and managed to scrape out a decent living both for herself and her daughter. She arranged for her daughter’s education and lived a life as close to happiness as was possible. The connection that she never had with her mother, she established with her daughter. She told her daughter about the cruel ritual of Infibulation and how it had irreversibly changed the course of her life.
Over the years, with the immense encouragement offered by her daughter, she gathered support against this cruel ritual. She opened a forum to educate women about it and ways of eradicating it by spreading awareness and education.
Moksha:
This is the final phase of her life when Norah and her daughter made a final pilgrimage to their homeland, Ethiopia. Working day and night, she managed to gather a faction of young women there to help her in educating the village elders and the other women for eliminating this vice.
Unfortunately, this made Norah unpopular amongst a few women. Coming home one night, Norah found Nina gone.
They had abducted Nina and infibulated her to teach Norah a lesson.
Hence, Norah’s life turned a full miserable circle. Once again, she gathered what was left of her dying daughter and took her away.
On her way back to South Africa, Nina died. But before her slow and painful death, she made Norah promise that she would never give up her crusade against this evil ritual.
Norah came back to South Africa and buried her daughter there. Along with her darling daughter, Norah had also buried her earthly possessions, feelings and connections. While burying her daughter, she swore to herself to free the society of such mindless and macabre rituals that succeed in only making walking zombies out of women.
Her journey still continues. And she’s walking her way to true and eternal Moksha.