MORE THAN YOU TOOK - by Nimmatula Abdulsalami

Just yesterday, I was playing outside with my friends. I was happy. I was innocent. I was me. Everything seemed fine; life was good. Then I turned thirteen.Life seemed normal until the women in my community started saying weird things to me. Some said, "You’ll soon become a woman." Some said I’d "come of age." I didn’t think much of it; I thought it was just them saying I’m growing up quite well. Then everything suddenly grew dark. My friends left me. My mom pushed me out of the house. Confused and scared, I was then held by a woman who gave me a stern look. For some reason, I stopped struggling and started walking away with her.I could hear the screams of other girls as they were being held just like me. They took us to an old, small house. Inside was an old woman sitting comfortably on the ground with tools spread across her—tools I’ve never seen in my life. We were then placed on the cold ground. As one of the girls was dragged to a wooden table and her legs were spread apart, the next minute blood was everywhere and my heart stopped beating for a minute. It was a terrible scene, and one after the other, girls' screams were echoing in all directions of the room.Then it was my turn. Two women were walking up to me, ready to grab me for the table, but my legs immediately started to run. I was caught midway. I was placed on the table and the next minute I felt extreme pain. Cut. Cut. Cut. It was unbearable. It was terrifying. My screams died down and I was then placed on the cold floor again next to the other girls. One by one, we were bound from our hips down to our legs. They sewed me shut, leaving only a tiny hole. My mother smiled and said she was proud, while I laid bound for weeks, shaking in a pain so sharp I forgot how to breathe.Then came the next betrayal: an arranged marriage. A dowry was paid for a body that was still healing, still screaming inside. I moved to the city with him, unaware of the nightmare awaiting me. That first night, he staggered toward me and pinned me to the bed. My screaming filled the room; my hands and legs shook with pain. I kept hitting his chest, but he only held me down.Hours later, my world crumbled. My thighs stung with excruciating pain; my voice was gone. He got off me, roughly throwing me to the floor before leaving. I saw the large bloodstains all over the bed. I struggled to crawl to the bathroom and turned on the tap. I scrubbed my body until it stung, trying to remove his scent, trying to wash away the dirt I felt inside.For two months, that house was hell. I was brutally beaten and tortured every single day. I almost died from the last beating when I suffered a miscarriage. My child was gone. I was broken. But in that darkness, I decided to fight—not for myself, but for my innocent child. I waited for my moment and I ran away into the night, leaving that monster behind forever.I spent two weeks on the streets, eating scraps from trash and sleeping on cold concrete. I was lying lifeless on the floor, shivering and waiting for death, when a fair, middle-aged woman named Margaret found me. She rushed me to the hospital. I slept for two days, and when I woke, I saw her smiling face. At first, I was terrified; she spoke a language I couldn’t understand. But she didn't look at me with a stern face; she looked at me with mercy.The white walls of the hospital felt like a sanctuary. When the doctors finally cleared me to leave, Margaret took me into her own home. She gave me a room with soft sheets and a window that looked out onto a garden. For the first time in my life, I felt safe behind a closed door. She began teaching me English, pointing at things until "apple," "friend," and "future" felt familiar on my tongue.Soon, Margaret took me to her organization’s headquarters. They enrolled me in a special transitional school for survivors of trauma and FGM. There, I wasn't an outcast; I was one of many. We learned at our own pace, and for the first time, I felt the power of a pen in my hand. It felt heavier than the blade, but far more powerful.Once my English was strong enough, Margaret helped me enroll in a local public school. The bullying started almost immediately. The other students had heard whispers. "Cutter girl," they whispered. "Broken girl," they laughed. Every insult was a cut, cut, cut to my spirit. But I remembered the night I ran away. I remembered the child I lost. I realized that if I could survive the blade and the betrayal of my own family, I could survive the whispers of children.I threw myself into my books. I studied until the words became my armor. Every lesson I learned was a brick in the wall I was building to protect my future.Years later, I stood on a stage, no longer the shivering girl on the concrete. I looked out at a room full of people and spoke into the microphone. My voice didn't shake. It was a hammer, striking against the silence.I told them: "I am Hawa. I am a Somali woman. I am a survivor. The 'three sorrows' stop here. The tradition of the blade ends with me. I am not just a victim; I am the activist who will ensure that no other girl ever has to feel the steel."I stepped down from the stage, and for the first time, the world wasn't dark. It was bright with the light of a thousand girls who would never have to scream.

Other insights from Nimmatula Abdulsalami

Referral Earning

Points-to-Coupons