by Rosie Lewis
She paused. I didn’t say anything in reply. I was too incensed. Grown women making a voluntary decision to take themselves off to London for a cosmetic procedure was hardly on a par with the enforced cutting of a young girl. It struck me as an attempt by Zadie’s father to minimise the brutal act. I must have been breathing harshly or something. Peggy seemed to sense that I was livid and her tone softened. ‘Look, Rosie, all I’m saying is that there are too many unknowns at the moment, so much we don’t understand. My advice is to hold fire for a while, until we know more. Let’s not judge the father too harshly.’
‘So that’s it. We do nothing?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ Peggy said slowly, with exaggerated patience. ‘I’ve asked for an Emergency Strategy Meeting to be arranged so we can go through all the concerns.’
‘Oh good,’ I breathed, relieved that some action was being taken.
‘Meanwhile, you keep up the good work. And remember, Rosie, I’m only interested in Zadie’s best interests. We simply don’t know enough about her culture to ride roughshod over her relatives’ wishes.’
It was only when Zadie asked if she could spend some time on the computer later that day that I remembered why she had been so keen to use it. She had said that she regularly trawled ancestry and social networking sites in an attempt to locate her sister. It had been such a frantic few days since our chat that I hadn’t really absorbed it all. Now, as I watched her leaning close to the screen with an intense expression, I wondered whether there was anything I could do to help her.
Nowadays it must be easier than ever to locate missing people, I thought, unless what Peggy feared had actually happened: Nadeen being forced into a marriage and sent abroad. Leaning against the worktop and nursing a cup of tea in my hands, I determined to do some detective work of my own. I had a mountain of chores that needed doing – the pocket of Jamie’s school blazer was torn and needed sewing, he’d been squeezing himself into his old one for two weeks now, I hadn’t filled in my fostering diary since the previous Thursday, and on top of that the contents of the airing cupboard were spilling out over the bathroom floor in their desperation to be ironed – but tracking down missing relatives was more important than running an orderly household, I told myself, and definitely more intriguing.
As soon as Zadie’s hour of screen time was up I took her place at the computer desk, the swivel chair still pleasantly warm. There was nothing to lose in making the effort, and if I had no luck I thought that I might even consider employing a professional. I remembered walking past the offices of a firm of private detectives on one of our riverside walks, my attention drawn by the small windows shaded with aluminium blinds and tall pot plants. If I’m honest, the thought that I might have a case to take to them filled me with a sense of excitement and mystery.
Half an hour later and I had worked my way through the electoral register and all the genealogy and social networking sites I could find, probably only repeating what Zadie had already done countless times. I sat for a moment tapping my foot lightly against the desk and then it occurred to me that there might be a specific site for people from minority backgrounds. If there was, I reasoned, it would certainly narrow down the numbers; there seemed to be thousands of friends and relatives desperately searching for long-lost loved ones. Quite quickly, I came across an organisation called MEWC, the Middle Eastern Women’s Centre, a support organisation for women living in fear in the UK. The blurb on their site said that they existed to help all women who found themselves being oppressed, threatened or abused, although they specialised in supporting women from minority cultures. I went to find my phone and was pleased to see that Zadie had tucked herself away in her room, reading. With her safely out of earshot I sat back at the computer and dialled the advice line number.
The voice that answered was rich and warm. I had already half-prepared a mental script, imagining that I would reach a switchboard and expecting to be transferred several times before possibly finding someone who might be able to help and so I was surprised to find that the director of the charity, Sofia Omar, was manning the lines.
She listened attentively while I ran through some of what I knew about Zadie, although, keen to protect her identity, I mentioned no names. Sofia only interrupted when I told her about Zadie’s self-harming.
‘Asian women are twice as likely to self-harm and three times more likely to commit suicide,’ Sofia told me in impeccable English, although her accent was richly exotic.
‘Really?’ I said, picturing Zadie’s blood-stained pyjamas with a shudder. ‘I had no idea.’
‘No, most people don’t, isn’t it? That’s why we have such a mountain to climb. It’s such a hidden problem.’
‘Yes, I see. The thing is, I was wondering whether there was some way I could locate her sister, or at least find out what happened to her. It might just give Zadie some peace. I’ve tried all the obvious searches but …’ I hesitated, feeling a little foolish. Sofia was running a women’s centre, not a missing person’s helpline. ‘Well, I was wondering whether you might be able to offer any suggestions, with you having expert knowledge of her culture and –’
‘Yes,’ she said immediately. ‘I have a number of ideas, but it would be much easier to have a discussion face-to-face. How easy is it for you to get to London?’
After talking to Sofia on the telephone I found I couldn’t wait to meet her in person to find out if there was anything she could do to help me in the search for Nadeen. Fortunately, Peggy agreed that it would be a good idea to consult an expert for cultural advice and gave permission for me to share some of Zadie’s personal information. My mother, always easy to sweep up into a flurry of excitement despite her advancing years, agreed that there was no time to be lost. She arrived at my doorstep early the next morning with her new iPad tucked under her arm like a clutch bag, more than happy to spend the day with Zadie.
The journey down to London was long but, taking the opportunity to finish the book I was reading, time passed quickly. Bustled along by a sea of commuters at King’s Cross station, it felt strange to be alone without teenagers mooching a few steps behind or little ones skipping beside me, clutching my hands. How funny it was, I thought, as I allowed myself to be swept along again – it wasn’t unusual for me to long for an hour to myself away from the unrelenting needs of children, and yet there I was, set free for the whole day, and already I was missing them.
When I finally turned the corner into King’s Avenue it was just before 1.30 p.m. – exactly on time. Not bad considering the distance I had travelled. I almost walked past the offices of the Middle Eastern Women’s Centre. Number 57 King’s Avenue wasn’t the sort of venue I had been expecting at all. As I walked up the path of the three-storey town house I screwed up my eyes to decipher the engraving on the small bronze plaque fixed beneath an intercom. The letters MEWC were tiny, about half an inch high and indecipherable to outsiders. Passers-by would probably have no idea what went on inside the unexceptional building.
I pressed the buzzer and was surprised when a smartly dressed man of Asian appearance answered the door. Silently, he stood aside and welcomed me into the large hallway. A woman in her forties appeared from one of several doorways and walked towards me with her hand outstretched. She was wearing a black tailored, expensive-looking jacket over a smart dress with horizontal black and white stripes and her long straight hair was pulled back at the sides, held in place by thin silver grips.
She was petite, barely two inches taller than me, even in the heels she was wearing. As I shook her small hand I wondered why I was so surprised by her appearance, but then she introduced herself and I remembered the commanding impression she had made over the telephone. ‘So nice to meet you, Rosie,’ she said. Her voice was deep and carried a tone of confidence, incongruous with her delicate vulnerability.
Sofia led the way past a room with several desks and computers, through to a large lounge diner with a kitchen at one end and patio doors overlooking a small paved
garden at the other. Her movements were slow and self-assured. She was the sort of woman who would draw the attention of men, I imagined, whatever her age.
‘Please, sit down,’ she said, gesturing towards a large dining table. In the centre of the table was a cafetière filled with dark liquid, a milk jug and several mugs on a woven mat. Sofia sat opposite me and began to pour, smiling warmly as she offered me the steaming mug of coffee. Her eyes were brown with golden flecks that seemed to light up her face but they were also heavily lined, as if she’d endured more in her life than she should. But there was a youthful, eager watchfulness in her countenance and a way about her that some people have, of establishing an intimate connection with a tilt of her head, a warmth of expression.
Immediately comfortable, I thanked her for the drink, took a few tentative sips then briefly repeated what I had told her over the telephone. Showing interest by settling back in her chair and giving me her full attention, I felt encouraged to go into more detail and told her exactly why Zadie ran away.
‘So the FGM, it was imminent, yes?’
I lowered my cup gently to the table and nodded. ‘Zadie thought so. She overheard the family making plans.’
‘They were going to take her overseas?’ Sofia raised her mug and blew softly over the hot liquid, narrowing her eyes against the rising wisps of steam. She rested the rim of the mug against her lips and looked at me expectantly. I could tell she was totally immersed in Zadie’s story and, eager to find out what she would make of it all, I spoke quickly.
‘No. It seems that an auntie was willing to do it.’
She rolled her eyes but didn’t appear to be at all surprised. ‘Many women, they support the cutting of their own daughters. They build the girls up, telling them that something special is going to be done to them, as if it’s some sort of rite of passage. The matriarch then, she cuts them, while other members of the family hold them down. Traditionally, mothers would perform the procedure on a kitchen table using what they have to hand: scissors, glass, sometimes sharpened bamboo. Girls often end up with fractured arms because they struggle so frantically to escape.’
My hand, halfway to raising my mug to my mouth, froze in mid-air. I lowered it gently to the table, then pushed it a bit further away. ‘How could a woman do that?’
Sofia lowered her mug to the table and lifted her arms, resting one over the other on the top of her head. She let out a heavy breath. ‘Mothers around the world enforce the status quo. They want to marry their daughters into good families as much as fathers do. When you think about it, FGM is just a more extreme form of the chastity belt. Parents have always tried to control their daughters, to own them and keep them pure. Trouble is, the procedure is still so badly performed that the girl ends up mutilated when that was almost certainly not the intention, leaving the girls with a lifelong sense of loss. Many cultures, they believe cutting will bring their daughters good luck and happiness so they close their eyes to the reality. I heard recently of a woman who was shunned by her community after the birth of her first child because she developed fistulas, one of the many complications of FGM. She leaked faeces and urine wherever she went and ended up a pariah.’
I shook my head in disbelief. ‘Zadie told me that her sister was very ill afterwards. The poor girl had the responsibility of nursing her.’
Sofia grimaced. ‘They call it the three feminine sorrows, you know.’
‘What?’
‘The pain a woman goes through after her surgery. One is the extreme pain when she is cut, but that’s not the end of it. She then has to endure the agony of her wedding night, when she is reopened. And the third, I’m sure you can guess …’
‘The day she gives birth?’
Sofia nodded grimly. ‘The surgery has lasting effects for a woman. Sometimes, when they’ve been cut as an infant, they don’t even realise they’re different from other women. They think everyone suffers in the same way. It’s only as they go through life that they realise what’s been done to them. I’ve had women coming to see me, totally distraught after attending clinic for a smear test, only to be told that they’ve been disfigured. It comes as a huge shock to them.’
I shook my head, my stomach churning. What Sofia was telling me was awful. ‘Zadie’s father told her social worker that they don’t practise FGM. They approve of female circumcisions, he says, and he claims the procedure is legal in this country. That we practise it here under some other name.’ I frowned and rubbed my head. ‘The name escapes me at the moment.’
Sofia snorted. ‘The cutting of genitalia is mutilation, however much some try to couch it in softer names. And it is most definitely illegal, has been since 1985, although no one here has been convicted of the crime. France has had some successful prosecutions but that’s because strip medical examinations are routine in schools over there so it’s picked up quickly.’
She reached for her cup, tilted it towards her, drained the dregs of her coffee and set it gently down again. ‘Did you know that there is no requirement in Muslim law for a girl to be cut? These people give our religion a bad name.’
‘You’re still Muslim?’ I asked. Sofia wasn’t wearing a headscarf and so I was a little surprised. ‘Yes.’ She gave a half-laugh. ‘Do I not fit the stereotype?’
I suddenly remembered reading about the young Saudi women who simultaneously rip their headscarves off when flying west, once safely in international airspace. I felt my cheeks redden and began blustering apologies for my ignorance – of course, not all Muslim women cover their heads. Sofia waved a hand through the air, brushing the awkwardness away with a smile. ‘I get the same reaction all over the country. For a start I don’t feel the need to wear a veil, but then, like FGM, the practice of covering women up comes from culture, not religion. I’m still very much Muslim, only these days it’s on my terms. You know, Rosie, men in your own culture have had decades to adjust to the idea of equality between the sexes and still some struggle with it. Look how long it has taken for the Church of England to accept women as preachers. I long for the day when I can walk into a mosque and worship alongside my brothers.’ She examined her fingernails then looked up, giving me a rueful smile. ‘When it comes down to it, many women suffer, not for their god or religion but because of men.’
I tapped my forefinger on my lip, thinking. ‘What I don’t understand is why women still support it.’
Sofia gave a grim smile. ‘Women have fallen into line for centuries. I don’t think you would believe the lengths some of them are willing to go to, in order to please their husbands. I’ve had to hold a woman’s hand while she let her baby die inside of her.’
I put my hand over my mouth. It was hard to take it all in.
‘Yes,’ Sofia said, her voice softening to a loud whisper. I leant further towards her, drawn into her confidence. ‘It was a few years ago. A Muslim mother of three went into labour and it was a difficult birth. After an hour of pushing midwives told her that the baby was trapped in the birth canal and would need to be delivered by caesarean section.’ Sofia looked straight at me, her lips drawing thin with the memory. ‘The mother refused a caesarean and one of the midwives called me in desperation, hoping I might be able to reason with her.’
‘But why would she refuse help?’
‘Because she knew that the maximum caesareans a woman can have is three. After that she would be able to bear her husband no more children. She let the baby die so that her husband would not be displeased with her. To maximise her chances of giving him more children.’
I pulled my hands down my face, my heart squeezed with emotion. ‘That’s terrible. That poor baby. To think something like that could happen in this day and age.’
‘Yes,’ Sofia said bitterly. ‘And I stood by and watched it. It was so horrific. The midwives were distraught, even the doctors were close to tears. They tried to section her but the baby died before psychiatrists could agree on whether she was of sound mind. I felt so utterly helpless.’ Sofia stared at a point beyo
nd me, her mind drawn into the past.
‘You’d think it would be against the law to allow that to happen.’
She shook her head, as if she was trying to escape the memory. ‘There are no laws to protect the unborn child.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘but there should be.’ Having seen the effects of alcohol and drug abuse on tiny infants, I’ve often felt that mothers who’ve caused such damage should be charged with grievous bodily harm. ‘It sounds like something that would happen in the third world. But this was in England?’
‘In a London hospital,’ Sofia pursed her lips. ‘It is hard to believe but I have to say the UK leads the world in matters of human rights. I wouldn’t be alive today if it weren’t for your wonderful country.’ Sofia went on to tell me about her past, her tone warmly confidential. She fled Iraq over a decade earlier, her life having been threatened because she dared to speak out for a woman who had been sentenced to death for adultery. ‘There is still an order for my execution,’ she said, gesturing across the room where two heavily set Asian men sat at opposite ends of a leather sofa, playing cards. ‘Hence my friends over there. I can’t leave the house without security. I tour the country making guest appearances at high-profile events and trying to raise awareness, but I can’t even go to buy a pint of milk without two bodyguards accompanying me.’
I was blown away. ‘You’re so brave,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I could do it. Aren’t you ever tempted to hide away?’
‘There’s too much to be done. Women need to know that we’re here to help. And besides,’ she said, ‘where better to hide than in plain sight?’
‘You’re an inspiration,’ I said with conviction. She was such a driven, sassy woman. Sofia pressed her lips together in a self-effacing smile. ‘Thank you. Anyway, please continue.’