The bitter taste of silence still lingers on my tongue, a reminder of the situations I’ve been trapped in, the moments that felt like an eternity of agony. But I’ve learned to bottle it up and label it "Bad Faith." Because in those moments of weakness, I’ve grown stronger.
But what happens when that silence is imposed upon me, orchestrated by those I hold dear? My father or mother, perhaps. It becomes a memory that’s both helpless and humorous, a berry too sour to swallow.
As a schoolboy, my greatest joy was the arrival of summer vacation. My only plan was to play, play, play from sunrise to sunset, with nothing but the thrill of the game on my mind.
But even in those carefree days, my parents could be so unreasonable. They had already arranged for my “Cutting,” the mandatory act of circumcision required of all Muslim boys. I didn’t find out until it was too late.
The first week of my vacation was going smoothly. We prepared our playground, bought new soccer balls and formed two teams, one of which I was the leader. We had new friends visiting for the summer, and we took the game seriously. The losing team had to treat the winners, and I was determined to lead my team to victory.
But on the third day, my father called me in the morning, “Hold on a sec, we’re going to the hospital for a family checkup, so don’t go for playing.” I protested, but it was to no avail. I quickly passed the news to my team and gave them instructions, promising to join them by noon.
The hospital was grand, with a small park nearby. After registering, we waited in the lobby, which was elegant and did not look like a hospital. My name was called, and I entered a room with my parents. They were not allowed to stay, and a nurse kindly showed them out. I had no idea what the checkup was for, but I was eager to get back to my team.
There were around 4-5 nurses in the room, one of them told me to lie on the bed and cover myself with a green sheet with a palm-sized hole in the center. She folded it up to my waist and unbuttoned my pants, slipping them down. I caught them in time, but she convinced me to let go. I shut my eyes tightly as she uncovered my “nunu.” I was embarrassed, the whole room was filled with girls, and I was lying there exposed. I felt an ant biting sensation near my nunu, then a small light was shone on my eyes, and I fell asleep.
When I woke up, my parents were standing nearby, my nunu was still out through that hole, covered in white stickers and I felt a little pain. I glared at them, wondering what had just happened, “What’s going on here? You took me here for a checkup and handed me over to a nurse, and now she’s taken my nunu away.”
My father said, “Congratulations my son.”
“For what?”
“You are now circumcised, and now you are a full Muslim.”
I was in shock, speechless, unable to process the gravity of what had just happened. I had been robbed of my choice, my autonomy, and my innocence, all under the guise of tradition and religion. And it’s a bitter pill to swallow.
