This is a song on women’s emancipation which became a hit in the late 1960’s in Somalia. I love the feistiness that Maryan Mursal, one of our best singers, portrays. She is very clear on her outlook on life, on morality and free will. Almost 40 years down the line and we’re still debating the same issues.

A bit of context to the song: “This song also takes the form of a debate between a man and a woman, this time explicitly about moral womanhood. To the male, a good woman is a traditional woman: beautiful and well groomed, quiet to the point of being invisible to men, obedient and accepting of a marriage arranged for her by men. Modernity is cultural transgression, characterized by untraditional dress, mobility and visibility in the public sphere, and the rejection of familial authority. But she has other ideas and the songwriter lets her gain the upper hand. Unafraid to couch her ideas in untraditional, modern terms, she asserts the importance of leaving backward customs behind, actively participating in leadership and public life, and getting an education. She suggests that God created men and women as different but not unequal beings and depicts men who marry off girls as thieves handling stolen property. Although in the three songs presented here women’s morality and modernity are not represented as contradictory terms, the conservative equation of moral womanhood with traditional womanhood is powerfully articulated.” – Lidwien Kapteijns (2009)

In the old days it was custom that a girl perfumed her hair and braided it. 
She wrapped around her waist a wide cloth belt with fringes and an ornamental cord, and wore a white dress. 
But something has changed. Something weird with long horns they wear as hats on their heads and run all over the market. 
[Refrain:] You women have destroyed our culture. 
You have overstepped the religious law and destroyed our religion. 
Girls, won’t you behave? 

What was custom in the old days and a hundred years ago and what 
has been left behind, don’t make us go back to that well-worn road, for we have turned away from it with effort. 

Now we expect to run and compete for the sun and the moon and to lead people. 

First get some education and learn how to read and write. Don’t try to turn back, you country hick, people who have woken up! 


In the old days it would happen that a girl would not address you for one or two months, and the men who went out looking would not see her for days.

But something has changed. In the evening a whole gang of them goes out, carrying fat purses, wandering about outside like robbers. 


God calmed the waters of sea and river and made them flow together. 
Then he put in order the wide earth and the mountains and created his human beings each in a different way. 

You are a loser. No one is asking you to come along.

In the old days it was custom to pay as bride-wealth for a girl a whole herd of camels and the most exceptional horse, and a rifle on top of that. 
But something has changed. You are self-absorbed and ignore the advice of the family in which you were born.

Girls used to be exchanged for a herd of camels and short-legged goats. 
But the religion we learned and the Qur’an do not allow this. 
Today we have no need for those who deal in what they do not own and for this old-fashioned dividing up of women. 

Sang by Maryan Mursal and Maxamed Jaamac Joof (late 1960’s)

Translated by Lidwien Kapteijns

Caraweelo, both fists raised in defiance, body contorted in mockery and eyes wide open with belligerence, burst into this world with a single, loud, blood-curling scream. Her kin, upon seeing the jewel between her legs, drew back with disgust and disappointment, all the while murmuring verses of protection.

A few old men, scared out of their wits and way past their due date, lay comatose on the scorching ground, recovering from the chilling scream. God help their kin from this abomination, this vile curse. What a waste of space, of humanity. She was and would never be of use to their kin. Surely, the drought and this creature were Satan’s antics, his offspring. Caraweelo, who could read their minds, spread her legs wide, reached for her jewel and rained on the land. She knew she had a long journey ahead of her, a destiny to fulfill. She looked into the tired eyes of her mother, laughed and reached for sustenance.

Caraweelo was blessed with the gift of insight, reflection and observation. She watched quietly, hidden in the safe zone in her mind. Women, in colorful robes, flirted back and forth, selling their dreams. Their men, fat and belching, the leeches, sat on mats chatting and chilling. They were discussing important matters, Caraweelo was told, and should not be disturbed. But Caraweelo knew better. She chewed her lips, drawing blood. She shuddered with resentment. They were fools in skirts, cowards who never ventured into war. Instead, they sat, plotted and planned the down-fall of an unseen rival. After dark, they would jump on their bone-weary wives and gallop into the sunset, alone.

When Caraweelo was six, her grandfather came for her one dark night and took her worth away. As she lay, bleeding and petrified, he proved why blood was thicker than water. You see, charity starts at home. Yes, it is true that nobody has the power to hurt you as your kin. It did not matter that she was still in stitches, recovering from mutilation, in strict observation of culture and tradition. She was their rubbish bin, their semen cup. That was all she was good for and would ever be good for. Caraweelo’s mother told her to bite her tongue, to sit on her lips and to conform. A good girl should not be seen, should not be heard and should aim to please. Hush child. This is your destiny, your role in life. Caraweelo disagreed silently. Her day would come one day.

When Caraweelo was thirteen, her grandfather gave her to his close friend…his distant cousin. He had trained her well and knew that she would bring prestige to her family. She watched from afar as the two old men sat, whispering and giving her furtive glances. Her 50-something year old husband looked at her, smacking his wrinkled lips. With the exchange of one camel and two cows, Caraweelo moved into the camp of her kin, her grandfather. That night, Caraweelo tasted bondage, tasted fear and blood. She had flashbacks of her violent initiation, her rape, into her kin…her clan. Her 13-year old body curled into itself, begging for mercy. He was oblivion to her cries, heaving and gasping. Shush. You’re a woman amidst millions of other women with similar faiths and destinies. You’re nothing. You don’t count. You don’t belong to any clan. Caraweelo bit down, swallowing her screams, cursing and vehemently disagreeing.

Caraweelo’s husband came into some wealth and moved her to Mogadishu. She was a young mother and still proud. She was still standing…..still strong. War broke out and they had to flee their beloved country. Finland was open, welcoming….or so she thought. Her old husband found the new country tough and turned to bitterness.

As he grew old, diminishing, Caraweelo grew into a beautiful black swan. She learned the new language, the new culture and embraced the new world she’d stepped into. Hush woman. Stick to your four walls and raise your children. Enough of your madness. Shut up, Caraweelo yells. You don’t own me anymore. Shush woman. You’ll go to hell for disobeying God. Shut up, she yells back. Since when did you abide by God’s rules? Hush infidel. Her husband – a serial wife beating rapist – became a sheikh during the day. When religious blackmail failed, her husband resorted to karate chops and kicks. When the next karate chop came, her husband suddenly found himself on the floor of their flat, overpowered by emancipation and enlightenment.

Caraweelo’s kin, her clan came to reconcile the two. This was the day she had lived for all her life. They came, all men. Of course they were all men. The cannibalistic clan is an exclusive club for goat-fuckers, father-fuckers, mother-fuckers and daughter-fuckers. Caraweelo let it rip. She let the shit hit the fan. Hush woman. Blood is thicker than blood. You’re mistreating your grandfather….your next kin of blood. He has sole ownership over your body. Shut up, Caraweelo yells. Where were you when my kin was ripping me apart? Raping my innocence? Shush woman. He has rights over you, rights over your children. Please, she says and rolls her eyes. I am married to the Finnish government. It pays my bills, puts a warm roof over my head, educates my children and takes care of my worries. Hush woman. Your kin, your clan are your blood and marrow. Please, she yells back. I was born into wilderness. I never belonged. I was never counted for.

Caraweelo, after getting rid of her nightmare, ended up with her son. A tyrant like his father.  When he fully slipped into his father’s shoes, she cut the umbilical cord and threw him out. She devoted her time, energy and love to raising queens, to raising warriors, to her daughters. She watches other women silently, with keen observation. She observes the clannish women. They look smart and educated on the exterior, but are rotten to their clan core. They parrot talk about emancipation, empowerment, nationalism, religion and equality during the day time and turn into clan cannibals when the sun sets. They conspire to congregate in dingy cafes, smelly alleys, forsaken homes and treacherous associations with their kin, their men, plotting and planning.

Caraweelo knows these women. After all, they are her cousins, her mother, her aunts, her grandmothers and her offspring. They are her and she is them. These are women who are more loyal to their clan than to their womanhood. Hush woman. Don’t hush me monster. You are repugnant….a traitor to womanhood……a traitor to Somalia. Instead of getting ahead based on qualifications, you resort to writing lists with your moronic kin. After all I went through, for you and for all the other women, this is what you do, she admonishes. I sold charcoal, my body and paid everything I had in my possession so that you could get to safety. Hush, I am Caraweelo. Let me speak. Let me put things into perspective for you.

You came to the Diaspora on the pretext of running from the clan militia, your cousins. What do you do upon reaching safety? You churn out lists, hate lists, of those you perceive to be better than you. Because it irks you that others are progressing, are making an honest living and getting ahead in life, you obsess over your lists. It irks you that you never managed to annihilate them from the face of the earth. You are a traitor, conspiring with men, your kin, your clan that raped you, molested you and your children. You are supporting a structure that enslaves you, dehumanizes you, denies you existence and that is uncivilized. Don’t you ever shush me! You never mattered to them and even as you conspire with them, they still despise you. Don’t you see my sister, my daughter, as long as you have a jewel between your legs, you’ll never matter to them.

Caraweelo speaks the truth. It hurts and is unpleasant. The cannibalistic clan mentality is deeply ingrained in these women. Every Friday or Saturday evening, they appear adorned in expensive robes and gold. They show up for their clans in the numerous weddings taking place almost every week. Yes, blood is thicker than water. Some of them have never worked a day in this country, can never write nor read any language. It is not uncommon to run into them at the health centers with back-aches, stomach-aches and other psychosomatic ailments. They’ll do anything to get out of going to school, work or reality. To becoming productive citizens. However, on that evening when their clan multiples, they’ll speak in languages. Hallelujah! When the lies start about her clan….how they rule the seas..even when they’ve never seen what it looks like and all of that shit….she’ll jump into the air, flick backwards, somersaulting all over the place and rolling on the carpet. Hallelujah! A miracle, she’s cured of her back-ache, her debilitating sickness. What a pity that the employment office staff, or the social worker, aren’t there to see this miracle.

Hush little girls. Give it up. Burn those lists. Desist with your malicious efforts. Your opponents still continue to exist despite your lists. Your hosts, although initially puzzled and supportive, now can see through your deception. No, she yelps, uncertainty in her eyes. I am my clan and they love me. Shush girl. That’s the devil talking in you, Caraweelo says. Desist with your poison. The CCC is not for you. It never was and it never will be. Cannibals eat each others. They’ll turn on you when all else has been eaten. Stop sponsoring your terrorist cousins. Cut their funding and put an end to their pillaging of Somalia. Somalia is one and will always be one. Put your clan flag away and unite under womanhood.

Shush little girl. You belong with the women folk, we are your womanhood, your sisterhood. You belong with me, with us. I will cure you of your disease, you’re dear to me, you’re my blood and marrow, Caraweelo says. Yes, Caraweelo, we hear you. Yes mama Caraweelo… queen…I hear and obey you. Yes, they are diseased and if they don’t want a cure, then they should leave. We turn, Caraweelo at the helm, both fists in the air and we scream in unison, shattering windows…eardrums. If you won’t join us, then go on and leave. You don’t belong in civilization. You are not worthy of Caraweelo. Go back to where you come from and indulge your sickness there. You’re not worthy of womanhood…of freedom. Your cage is open…yet you are still in bondage.

* Some background information on Queen Caraweelo (

(What I will tell my daughter)

Someday you will be told that a woman’s gaze must never stretch as far as a man’s.

That his should soar above the seventh heaven -like shooting stars between planets- to find himself on Saturn’s rings but yours- yours must never exceed the ceiling of your house because you were made different.

Your place- lies in the cleanliness of kitchen shelves the dust between radiator and wall the stains on both carpet and floor- because you are a woman… nothing more.

You see, They might say That a woman’s gaze should never stretch as far as a man’s. No, yours must stretch further.

Because you are a woman, Nothing less.

By Farah Gabdon

There is an angry mob ready to lynch. They’re gathering force, leaping over barriers, ululating, and blindly bulldozing civility in their wake. The drummers, hunched over the “SOS” drum, thump out an angry condescending rhythm, rivers of sweat and recriminations running down their livid face. The steady drumming picks up pace, urging the mob to free themselves from inhibitions, to discard any rules of engagement, gradually ignites the mob in an incensed dance. The dance of hurt feelings, of good attentions, manifested in chest beating, raised fists, and swathed in the bright colors of morality, swells to a frenzy, and abruptly ends in an ecstatic, feverish, orgasmic crescendo. The mob, oiled and utterly convinced of their righteousness, is ready. Suddenly, it turns in unison, their gaze locking on two young women tending to their media business. Lurching, heaving, the mob manages to corner the two petrified young women, strips them naked of their humanity and drags them on the street for an all-night mob mania. There’s nothing like a mob action, especially when it is out to save the black woman, or more specifically in this case, her black ass.

Sorry guys, please give me a minute while I rein in my over-active imagination. Let me get a steaming mug of chamomile tea to sooth my frayed nerves before continuing this writing. What a beautiful Sunday morning it is. Yes sire. We finally have snow, finally.

Hmmm, where was I. Right, I remember now. There is a mob, ready for lynching and all because of our juicy, fat, and black as the night asses. They’re on a “Save the Clitless Clique” campaign and my endangered ass is on the line here. We’re talking about the ass population of millions of women. I should be happy right. I should be honored. I should be flattered. I should be grateful for being the victim. I should be quiet, ashamed of what has been done to me. But I am not. Instead, I am confused, bewildered.

This mob is offended on my behalf because of an article and photos on FGM published by Helsinki Sanomat, the biggest media outlet in Finland, over a week ago. The anger is not wholly targeted at the media outlet as such, but at two specific women, namely Anu Nouisianen and Meeri Koutaniemi, who both provided the narrative. The writing and the photos were, I must say, fantastic. The photos, though shocking and terrifying, appealed to my humanity. FGM is not beautiful. It is gruesome, chillingly terrifying and deadly. In the opinion section, some men were frothing at the mouth while loudly bleating about male circumcision. I beg now. Men, glance down, look at your little brother in your pants, sit back comfortably and imagine the whole tip of your penises, without anesthesia, being slowly, excruciatingly, sliced away. That is mutilation and not circumcision. You must be out of your testosterone-laden mind to even have the audacity to insist that mutilation is the same as male circumcision.

Why are some people reacting so strongly to the HS piece, you ask? Beats me too, but I’ll hazard a guess based on my observations. You see, Anu and Meeri were invited and given access to one of the remote Masai villages in Kenya, where preparations were underway for an upcoming FGM procedure. Their visit eventually culminated in the inhumane mutilation of two under-aged Masai girls. Mind you, these villages are not strange to Meeri because of her self-funded, decade-long anti-FGM work. That is a side dish and not to be mixed with the main course. Anyway, the discussions’ escalated from insidious insinuations to downright accusations of racism, colonialism, exploitation, opportunism, incompetence and arrogance etc. See any projections here? As a result, a lot of negative energy was and continues to be invested in shifting the focus from this abhorrent practice, in diluting its importance and in silencing others.

There is no doubt that some of the ethical concerns raised about the piece are valid. Yes, exploitation is wrong. Yes, racism is wrong. Yes, children have rights and their privacy should be protected. Yes, we should not make a living out of the misery of others. These are rules of engagement that should apply to ALL, regardless of the context, color and creed. But is it fair, just, and ethical to accuse Anu and Meeri of these things? Why is there a need to question their intentions and in this very disrespectful manner? Why take things so personally?

This discussion minefield is shrouded in double standards. The loaded language of politics, of disempowerment, of patronization involved here is disturbing. If we are going to bring up the issue of exploitation, of making a living out of the misery of others, how about the migrants here? How about tackling the million dollar integration business that we have going on here? How about broaching the disempowerment of the black migrant communities by the integration business people? How about questioning the over-representation of the indigenous Finns in the integration and development focused NGOs? How about their exclusive right to leadership and management positions in these initiatives? How about their over-representation in development projects? How about questioning this white privilege? We have highly qualified and competent people that could be doing these jobs. But no, we have to relegate them to their position, their dirty territory, to deal with their kind. As if that is all they are capable of! The context of exploitation and by whom, is purely subjective and steeped in self-interest.

The black woman’s body, the bodies of her children, have been divided up for exploitation. We have experts on her madness, on her anger, on her ugliness, on her religious fanaticism, her inability to care for her children. We have experts on her sexuality, experts on her lack of sexuality, experts on her hyper-sexuality, experts on her womanhood, on her femininity. She needs saving from herself, from her husband, her son. Never mind about engaging her as an equal. Hell, fuck that intersectionality shit, right? Continue to speak over her and for her in your researches, in your projects, in your documentaries and in your writings. After all, you’re the expert, right? And if she continues to insist on speaking for herself, insists on breaking out of her compartment, label her as unreasonable, as lazy, as a mindless child producing factory, and if all fails, label her as nut case and put her on your blacklist. After all, she is half a woman, right? She is not the whole woman that you are, right? Isn’t that exploitation, modern day slavery, colonialism, racism, opportunism? If that isn’t exploitation, then what is?  How about tackling that? Why the selectivity? Is it because Meeri mentioned the P and the C word? Could that be it? She has a campaign and a project in the pipeline. What? How dare she encroach on a stamped body, the black woman’s body, on a stacked territory, whether here or elsewhere? As if you have sole ownership of the black woman and her children! How about not speaking for me at all? How about that?

I, as an FGM survivor, don’t see the burning need in whipping this horse to kingdom come. It is distasteful when some people choose to be selective in their lynching. I am not the victim portrayed in these discussions nor will I ever be. I am a survivor, a fighter. Walk half a mile in my shoes, if they fit and maybe, just maybe, you might catch a glimpse of the world from my vintage point. I have survived this long and will continue to do so long after this debate is over. I dream, yearn and pray for the day when this level of organized interest, this level of passion, this level of energy and this level of commitment is dedicated to the fight against racism, is dedicated to the fight for equity, for equal representation of migrants in decision-making structures, institutions and matters that affect their well-being in Finland. How about that?