The Screaming Scar Poem by Namita Rani Panda

The darkest secret of my life today I dare to share
The scar that haunts and scares me like a nightmare
Only one consolation is that I'm no more impure
Can slicing the immoral lump of my flesh be an act of torture?
I'm now the proud custodian of our age-old culture
But I only know how incomplete I feel and how much I suffer!

Every night revives my scary screeching scar
And the heart wrenching screeching of my little sister
Who failed to pass the rite of passage for intolerable torture,
The same aunty appears in my dream to lure us with loving gesture
We both innocently tag along
Without anticipating anything wrong

I feel the same harsh hands that dragged us to an unknown place
And tied forcibly to some thick bushes
I can see the girls in unbearable pain, profusely bleeding
My heart pounds with their blood-cuddling screeching
That beats the loud drumming and women's singing
The devilish faces of those women flash like motion picture
I beg and plead, kick and hit, as if in the claws of a vulture
I am pushed to the ground and the undergarment removed
My hands and legs are tightly held and mouth is pressed
The same old petrifying woman appears with a shining sharp knife
Fresh blood dripping from its terrifying edge due to the recent rip
She holds my clitoris, harshly slices fast,
Scrapes everything that comes along with that:
All of the labia and my confidence with that
I shriek in pain: a sharp shooting pain
And finally, I am turned to a pure and clean woman
The faces of Ada, Amara, Imani, Aliyah and many more
Parade before me one after another
Who like me are left to bleed into little dirt holes for hours,
Then the herd is led to a shabby shelter
The month-long healing, the unspeakable torture
The warning in harsh tone rings in my ears:
"If not wished to be killed, mention it never! "

I do visualise the celebration
The successful completion of the rite and family reunion
No one asks why my sister doesn't return
Unwanted and useless she's fit for derision
I repeat the question that I had asked my mom,
"Why this to me and why this custom? "
She whispers me to bury it under the culture of silence
Better forget it as a transient trance
How can she wish us to be outcaste and unclean!
Tradition is not at all easy to slay
Slaying girls is easier she thoughtlessly says
Why do you care for something immoral and impure?
For your good that's sliced to curb your sexual desire
To check you from masturbating and have affairs
Isn't it wiser to simply mutilate genitals to make women clean
With a noble purpose to save the society from many sins?

My dream was curtailed by a harsh cold touch
Just a source of gratification I'm, nothing much
Living a life of humiliation to die everyday
Of conjugal life, nothing more to say

How regressive is the mindset of the progressive community!
The victim is penalised for the culprit's liberty
A vital gift of God is sliced and sacrificed:
Pricked, pierced, incised, cauterized, repeatedly infibulated and defibulation
Whenever I look at my face in the mirror that
It resembles the innocent face of my mother
And strangely to the terrifying stoic face of that old woman
Behind which are hidden the faces of her mother, granny, grand granny and so on.

I glanced at the calm face of my daughter in deep slumber
Lost in sweet dream of stars, unaware of the screeching scar
Lovingly I carved a moist kiss on her forehead and stroke her soft silken hair
Surely, she'll be beyond the reach of any such nightmare
And see her distinct reflection only when she looks into the mirror.