My biggest problem living with a Maasai family in Tanzania was not the roof made of sticks and cow shit that I slept under nightly. It was actually the nightly war against my homestay sister for space on the family cowhide where we slept. I would settle down as best I could and try to create some semblance of personal space among the five other people in bed (when I say bed, think sticks, cow hide and a log as your pillow). But my homestay sister Monika had no qualms about pushing me, punching me, kicking me or spooning me. And it didn’t take long before I learned to push back. With Monika’s arm around me, and two sharp elbows at my disposal, I managed to hold my ground. Come November, when the rains began, I would be long gone, but Monika would still be sleeping there as the rain pounded down outside the hut. It would be her first rainy season as a woman.
Monika took me on as her responsibility almost immediately upon my arrival in the village of Ngare Sero (which means “Mountain of God” in the local language of Kimaa). She picked me up from the office of the village Chairman, covered me in jewelry, and from that moment on, I was hers. During my week in Ngare Sero, Monika dressed me, bathed me and explained why the young warrior men would swing their dreadlocks in our faces when we went out dancing. Each day, I accompanied Monika on her daily routine: walking to collect water, gathering firewood, and cooking for the family. Though Monika could not have been more than 14 years old, she was a woman, and perfectly capable of her responsibilities, which included me. I, on the other hand, at 20 years old, was considered to be merely a child.
In Maasai culture, boys and girls are not considered adults until they have gone through the appropriate procedures of circumcision. Once circumcised, everything in their lives changes. Villagers knew that Monika was a woman simply because of the words she used to greet people. I seemed to be the only person in the village who did not consider my pre-pubescent homestay sister to be an adult.
One hot afternoon, Monika broached the subject of her womanhood by asking me if I knew what the word “kutahiriwa” meant. I did not. If you look the word up in a Swahili dictionary, you will see that it means circumcision. But when Monika explained it, using diagrams and elementary Swahili, she told an elaborate story of her ceremonious transition into womanhood. Monika beamed with pride as she told of her experience. She pointed to the hut behind us, where her grandmother had performed the surgery. It was there that Monika learned about marriage, motherhood, and the practices and obligations of being a Maasai woman.
I cringed and asked her about the pain, which she brushed off with nonchalant stoicism. Monika answered all my questions with ease, even excitement, explaining that she had wanted to be circumcised, had completely healed within a month and was thrilled with the outcome. But I could not provide a satisfying answer to her question for me: why was I still a child, and when would I become an adult?
Picture this: two young women, one Tanzanian and one American, both dressed in Maasai traditional clothing (something resembling five layers of red blankets and an exorbitant amount of beaded jewelry), both talking about the same process, but one with a sense of ultimate pride and the other with a mix of apprehension and confusion.
I had studied and discussed female circumcision before my time in Tanzania. I had debated what to call it—female genital mutilation, genital cutting, circumcision, etc. I had weighed the pros and cons of human rights versus cultural relativism. But never had I sat with a young girl who so had been recently circumcised, and heard her perspective on the experience as she drew an “x” on paper to diagram the cutting.
I do not support invasive female circumcision procedures that take place against a girl’s will. But after listening to Monika, I came to see her experience as a positive one. We make sweeping assumptions about female circumcision, regarding it as a horrific affliction to women, and there’s no doubt that it can be. But, speaking as a feminist, I do not think that female circumcision has to be just that.
I realize that some women reading this article, many of whom have stood up against female circumcision in defense of women’s rights, will disagree with me. But I believe that our Western intervention into the affairs of Maasai women, though well intentioned, is the true act of disempowerment towards the Maasai culture. As long as this coming-of-age process is important and cherished among Maasai women, I think we could benefit from accepting its significance before berating its existence.
Perhaps this is my coming-of-age story, as I have returned from studying abroad in Tanzania. I can appreciate Monika’s womanhood because I have learned about it and experienced it through her voice. As I lie down at night under a roof not made of sticks and cow shit, on a bed that doesn’t include cowhide, I realize that my own womanhood may mean something different to me than it does to Monika. My womanhood is one of many, none better and none worse.
