Born in the Big Rains: A Memoir of Somalia and Survival
196
Born in the Big Rains: A Memoir of Somalia and Survival
196Paperback
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Overview
As a nomad, Fadumo Korn freely roamed the wild steppes of her native Somalia until her mother delivered her into the hands of an “excisor” to become a woman in the eyes of her tribe by undergoing female genital cutting. But serious complications brought on by the circumcision would force her to leave her home on a journey of survival and self-discovery.
Fadumo first traveled to the bustling city of Mogadishu and the household of a wealthy uncle, a brother of the Somali president. There, she entered a world of luxury underpinned by political instability and cruelty in a country eager for rebellion. As her symptoms worsened, she journeyed to Germany, where she received not only therapy but love and acceptance in the most unlikely of places.
With this “courageous . . . indispensable testament,” Fadumo Korn weaves together a sensitive understanding of traditional practices with revelations about their disturbing effects. Full of sorrow and surprising humor, Born in the Big Rains provides a candid history of a life sculpted by crippling rheumatism and an unexpected path to recovery (Elfriede Jelinek, 2004 Nobel Laureate in Literature).
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781558615786 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Feminist Press at CUNY, The |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2008 |
| Series: | Women Writing Africa |
| Pages: | 196 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.40(h) x 0.50(d) |
About the Author
Writer and radio journalist Sabine Eichhorst is the author of Courage to Defend Yourself: Strategies against Sexual Violence and A Long Way Home: A Prisoner of Uzbekistan.
Dr. Tobe Levin is collegiate professor at the University of Maryland in Europe and co-founder of FORWARD-Germany.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
In the distance, a lion roared, deep and long, dismissing the night. The air smelled of smoke and freshly brewed tea, and on the horizon the day's first light chalked the sky. My shoulder soaked up the warmth of Adan's breath, still coming in even puffs. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I sat up.
Only a few paces away my mother squatted, cracking twigs. Maryan, Uncle Yusuf's second wife, rolled up the mats. A metal suitcase, two stools, a pail, and cooking pots stood where our hut had been the previous evening. The lion roared again, this time briefly. Soon he'd find himself a place to sleep. We had survived the night.
Aunt Maryan began to undo the colorful woven leather bands that usually decorated our huts. My cousin Nadifo bundled branches, and in the distance I heard the wooden sound of a camel's bell. My brother Adan awoke. I took his hand. In a few hours, once the sun stood higher in the sky, the sand would glow like copper. Now, in the half dawn, silhouettes of shrubs resembled spiky hills. The brush had been driven across the desert, rolling about before finally being abandoned, as though Allah had been throwing dice and had tired of the game. Here and there an acacia tree stood out.
My mother fanned the fire to flame. Then she carried the kettle to one of the water containers and filled it. Adan stretched and secured his loincloth, getting up so I could roll up our mat. My mother poured a little water into the hole Adan had dug in the sand so that he could wash his face. She then turned to me. I loved the fresh coolness of water on my morning skin.
A fence made of thorny twigs surrounded the camp and confined our camels. I heard my brother Jama's tongue clicking at the herd. The bells now rang out clearly too, and the air vibrated with penetrating animal calls. I placed our rolled-up mat next to the others.
I didn't want to move away. I wanted to stay with my friend Mahad.
A sheep bleated, and Nadifo poured tea into a cup. My father entered the half circle in front of our huts and called out to Adan, who ran to Timiro, Uncle Yusuf's first wife. In a minute he returned with Timiro's sons. Jama herded a number of transport camels in our direction as he clicked and with his staff coaxed their flanks. Two female camels tried to bite him, but Jama sidestepped the attack. They answered with long throaty complaints — threatening, almost menacing announcements of displeasure.
"Ju," my father said, tugging at their reins to make them kneel while the boys brandished their sticks. "Ju," my cousin Saïd called as well. Though resisting, the first animal bent its knees and let its weight sink to the earth, its long neck stretching its head high. The other camels were also biting, spitting, and complaining, but my father, Saïd, and Jama weren't the least bit bothered. Finally they had the camels seated on the sand in front of the huts. The leathery skin on the animals' legs was dusty brown.
The men began to examine the herd with tender hands: stroking their necks, torsos, and backs, feeling for leeches and ticks, checking legs for thorns and hoofs for stones. They then spread mats over the camels' backs, stroked them flat, and took great care to eliminate even the slightest unnecessary pressure or irritation. Gradually, they loaded the camels with everything we owned. A nomad never owns more than can be loaded onto his camels' backs.
A hand gripped my arm. "Go and milk the goats," my mother said. Taking the wooden pail, I wove my way through the camels to the makeshift fence. Careful not to pierce myself on thorns, I opened the gate. I smelled dung, and a high-pitched whining filled the air. The goats nuzzled my legs, some using their horns. I could feel their breath through my clothes. I counted them to make sure none had gone missing during the night and then squatted beneath the udders of one unhappy, squealing goat. Deftly, I clamped one of her legs between my knees and began, tenderly, to stroke her udder and pull on the nipple. But at first no milk came. The animal refused, knowing that we were on the verge of moving.
Returning with the half-full can, I found all the other huts had been dismantled and Jama had tied the forelegs of the loaded camels to prevent their running away. My mother filled a cup and handed it to my father, then passed it to my brother and to me before she drank what was left of the warm milk.
Mahad. Where in the world was Mahad?
The sun hovered over a hill when the caravan set off. Hoofs sank into the sand, and lambs bleated. Camels snorted, gargled, and brayed. My father had bound the jaw of one of the females to prevent her from biting. In a long row, the camels passed along the thorn fence that guarded what had once been our home.
Jama guided the lead animal. Behind him, Saïd and Uncle Yusuf's sons drove the herd, brandishing sticks, clucking, and pulling on the ropes tied to the animals' halters. Every once in a while one of the boys would imitate Jama's clucks. Nadifo and the other girls tried to keep the goats and sheep together.
I sat in the sand next to the spot that had served as our fireplace and watched the caravan leaving.
"What's the matter?" my father asked when he spied me sitting there.
"I'm staying here."
My father leaned over toward me and looked down. "My daughter is staying here?"
"I'm not going! I want to stay with Mahad."
Mahad and I belonged to the same clan and were distantly related. Mahad was my age and not very well liked because he could neither hear nor speak. But that didn't bother me. We had found a language in signs and gestures. I liked Mahad and didn't want to leave him behind. He was my friend!
My father shook his head and rejoined the caravan.
The lead animal struck off, followed by the others laden so high with goods that they dwarfed their drivers. Barefoot women and small children marched along over the steppe, wrapped in cloth for protection from the sun. I stared at the cloud of dust that grew tinier and tinier, still visible long after all the human and animal noises had faded. I pulled my wraparound tighter. A fly crawled up the inner side of my forearm.
The sun rose higher. I was sweating.
Over the horizon, the dust had vanished.
Soon, I began to feel frightened.
I started to cry. From anxiety and rage, I ripped off my scarf and threw it on the glowing embers. In seconds it blazed. I was too proud to run after the caravan, but no one had come back to get me. My family had moved on and simply left me behind!
I looked around. In the shadow of an acacia, only a few paces away, were Mahad's family's huts. Everything was silent. At this hour Mahad's sisters and cousins were watching the goats, while he and his brothers were leading the camels to water. They wouldn't be back before nightfall.
I sat in the hot sand crying, waiting.
Hours must have passed before I spied another sand cloud, smaller this time, moving in my direction. Once it had gotten close enough, I recognized my father.
"How can a child be so stubborn?" he complained. "You can't stay. We've got to move because there's no more water here."
Later, my father admitted that, in the confusion of breaking camp, he'd simply forgotten me. He'd been sure that, after a short time, I'd follow of my own accord.
As he lifted me onto his shoulders, I was jubilant, but I bawled.
In the midday heat we caught up with the others.
In the late afternoon, my father sent out a scout. The sun was already setting when the scout returned to report that he had found a place for the night only half an hour away by foot.
Jama and Saïd drove the camels. The scout ran ahead and soon was practically out of sight, swallowed by the reddening earth.
"He's going to purify the ground of evil spirits, and gather wood before it gets too dark," my father explained.
I plodded after him. My skirts wrapped themselves around my legs, making it difficult for me to keep up with the adults' rapid steps.
The spot we reached just as the sun set looked exactly like the one we'd left that morning. In the middle of the steppe, other nomads had already erected fences of thorns, a stall to protect their goats and sheep from night-prowling jackals, hyenas, and wild dogs. They had built huts out of willow branches and woven mats, installed water containers, and placed a fireplace in the center of the space. They had left only a short time ago. Their footprints had not yet been erased by the wind, the animal dung was fresh, the fence intact.
The men began to unpack. Since we'd continue in the morning, the women prepared places to sleep under the stars. Then they began to cook millet for dinner.
After eating, everyone sat around the fire. The adults talked to one another; we children cuddled up together on the mats. I heard my brother say I'd have to sleep on the edge so that when a lion came, he'd get me first, but I was too tired to punch him.
My name is Fadumo Abdi Hersi Farah Husen, the second daughter and fifth child of Mayran Muhammad Elmi and Abdi Hersi Farah Husen. I was born in the Big Rains, 1964. It was a good year: The dry steppes in Ogaden in Somalia, not far from the Ethiopian border, had been green longer than usual, providing nourishment for animals and people alike. Everyone who talks about my birth always mentions the Big Rains.
My oldest brother, Ahmed, already grown up by the time I was born, lived as a soldier in the city. My middle brother, Jama, was eighteen. He was considered the most beautiful in the family because of his muscular physique and even, white teeth. Khadija, my sister, was nine and a stubborn, decidedly temperamental child. She lived mainly in the city with my Uncle Muhammad. From time to time we visited her. My brother Adan was four years old when I was born, and we loved and hated each other. I had stolen his place as the family's little one — just as Muhammad, four years later, would drive me from my mother's arms.
My skin was lighter than all my siblings' and my hair gleamed red under the sun, both signs of beauty in Somalia. My mother, who was small, round, and very dark-skinned, felt very proud of my appearance. She devoted her energy to the family, cooking, caring for the animals, and tilling fields — even during pregnancy. She ground flour, wove rope, produced mats, and cured leather, but she was always ready to spring up to pounce on a naughty child and pull her ears. She was also very strict. My father was a giant with shimmering red hair and a henna-colored beard. A gentle man, he never scolded and only seldom showed anger.
My father fell in love with Mulaho Muhammad Elmi, my mother's sister, but she was already married to my father's uncle. She was very beautiful and songs were sung about her tall frame and long hair. The uncle was old, and when he died, my father asked for Mulaho's hand. But tradition required that she marry the dead husband's brother. In this way, strangers were prevented from marrying, thereby keeping the children in the family.
My father eloped with Mulaho.
They fled, married secretly, and returned only when Mulaho became pregnant. After the birth of my half-sister Halima, the marriage was annulled and Mulaho married the brother of her deceased husband after all. My father was very unhappy about this but eventually married Mulaho's sister, my mother. Because their parents had died when Mulaho and my mother were young, their brothers took on the responsibility of parents. The brothers — my uncles — had wanted the marriages arranged as they had been. When my mother had her first child, she was barely fifteen. Nonetheless, my parents seemed to have a happy marriage; after all, my father was a well-respected man from a good family, and my mother had also inherited the proud character my father had so admired in her sister.
In Somalia we have four major tribes: the Darod, the Dir, the Hawiye, and the Isaaq. The tribes are subdivided into numerous clans that frequently clash. Clan membership has always been very important. Early on, nomadic children learn songs about their clan's history so that even the littlest ones already know clan stories by heart. And often, grandfathers' names go back sixty generations!
I belong to the Darod tribe, Marehan clan, and the family of Reer Kooshin. I have more than a dozen aunts and uncles, about forty cousins, and six half-siblings: I lived with some of them as nomads. My father owned more than fifty camels, more than five hundred sheep and goats, and a dozen cows.
We were a highly respected family.
The moon sank, the women rolled up the mats, the girls drove the goats from the temporary compound, the boys brought the camels, and the men loaded them.
Before dawn the caravan set out.
The sheep milled about in confusion, and the goats ran to any bush that might promise a leaf or two. I followed them on the hard, hot earth, and pierced the soles of my feet on sharp roots while thorn bushes tore at my legs. I carried my shoes in my hands so as not to damage them. Uncle Yusuf and his second wife, Maryan, scolded the children who lagged behind or who had lost a goat. For days we marched from dawn to dusk, covering seemingly endless distances.
On the fifth day Aunt Asha remained seated in the shadow of an acacia. Her huge stomach hurt and she could hardly walk. I didn't understand why no one thought to put her on a camel. The old and the sick weren't expected to walk. Uncle Yusuf explained that the camels were already laden with our huts and equipment and several lambs, so there was no room. My mother set up camp for my aunt and stayed with her. In the evening both women reappeared suddenly out of the darkness. The glow of the campfire illuminated Aunt Asha and the baby in her arms who would be named Iman. She was small and round and snoring. All the girls jumped up and wanted to hold her. Because of the dire need to move on, the next day Aunt Asha tied the baby to her back and walked behind the caravan.
The sky was clear and the landscape changed color with the angle of the sun. Early, we had been bathed in the color of a lion's fur, but toward evening the world was a wild tomato. We passed termite hills meters high: From within came a humming and buzzing, and sometimes I asked myself whether only animals were making these sounds. Why not witches and ghosts? I marveled at the beauty of our animals: the black and white patterns on the goats and the majestic gait of the camels with their long eyelashes decorating languid eyes. Once when I was sick during a move, my father had put me up on a camel. Surrounded by mats, I had lain in the saddle, calmed by the monotonous regularity of the animal's plodding. Soon overcome by fever, I had fallen asleep. I had only awakened as the camel suddenly sprang to one side. My brother Jama had screamed, a whip had struck, and the camel had taken off at a gallop. The men had run after the beast, and it had sped up. It was in overdrive: It flew. And then, suddenly, it had stopped. The saddle, all the goods, and I had flown through the air, landing on a thorn bush. Since then I decided I'd rather walk.
On the afternoon of the ninth day we reached our goal. It was raining, and the earth steamed. Everywhere you looked — green! The trees appeared to shine with an inner radiance; the bushes were fat and luxurious, like rotund sheep. Out of the ground plants shot up that I'd never seen before. The air smelled sweet and our animals were soon full and contented. Aunt Maryan and my cousin Nadifo bent branches into arches and held them in place with sisal cord. My mother unbundled the mats and started to decorate the poles. Before night fell, our huts stood in a half circle with pens for goats and sheep on both outer edges, and all of it surrounded by a fence made of thorn branches. Uncle Yusuf built a fireplace out of stone. My father sprinkled holy water in the four corners of the courtyard and invited the spirits to make their home with us for a while.
Was Mahad okay? Had he made new friends?
Screams echoed through the night, and before I was fully awake, my father rushed into the hut. In the next second he grabbed my brother, turned around, and ran out with him, my mother following with me by the hand. Uncle Yusuf was standing pale as a ghost in front of his hut, and next to him were his wife and the children huddling against her. "Let's go!" shouted my father. "Quick!"
Not understanding what was happening, I stumbled after my mother. She lifted me up, covered my mouth with one hand, and ran through the darkness. Before us was Nadifo. Her older brother Saïd grabbed her. Everyone raced as if lions were after us. As we reached a copse of trees, the adults gagged us and bound our hands together. Someone put me in a leather sack and pulled the cord so that only my head emerged. Men climbed the trees. One of them tied the sack I was in to a high limb. Then the women climbed up and squatted on branches as close to the trunk as they could. My heart beat wildly while, with wide open eyes, I stared into the night.
Coming from somewhere I heard raised voices and angry, raging sounds.
The men ran back. I wanted to call to my father, wanted to know where he was going, wanted to shout, Stay with us! But my mouth produced only a gurgle. "Shush, Fadumo," my mother whispered. "Be still, for Allah's sake!" Out of fear I peed in my leather sack.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Born in the Big Rains"
by .
Copyright © 2004 Fadumo Korn with Sabine Eichhorst.
Excerpted by permission of Feminist Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Nomadic Life,
In Mogadishu,
In Germany,
Epilogue,
Afterword: FGM, A Note on Advocacy and Women's Human Rights,
Addresses,
Reading Group Guide,