Naked in School the Exported RebellionChapter 18
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Three months earlier, Kevin and Denise had finished their second year of college. They enrolled in a six-week summer session and each added nine credit-hours toward their academic progress, which would allow them to take graduate courses in London. For the balance of the summer, they planned to visit Jakarta and Kevin’s honorary “family” there, the Coris Foundation staff, especially his “Aunt” Janet Davis, its executive director, who knew him from his birth and who Kevin had regarded as his second mother.
Summer session ended and the two left for Indonesia after arranging for Denise’s mother to ship some of their household and winter clothing items to London after they arrived and got themselves settled.
Arriving at Soekarno-Hatta International Airport, the two were amazed at the greeting they received since virtually all of the long-time staff of the Foundation came out to meet them and brought them to a country club for a welcome-home party. The last time Kevin had been in Jakarta had been four years earlier, when his parents had been killed in the terrorist bombing, and immediately following that he had left for the U.S. to attend high school. He had last seen Aunt Janet in Seoul three years ago when she visited him during his Korean high-school scholar exchange program.
Janet spent much of the first two days bringing Kevin up to date on the Foundation’s projects and he got to meet many of the newer field workers. It became apparent that the work of the Foundation was flourishing under Janet’s management; she had secured a number of grants to support their humanitarian work and was able to fund operations using the investment yields that the Foundation held. Their activities had grown enough that Janet needed to bring a financial specialist into her management group and had recruited an expert from London, someone who actually happened to have Indonesian roots too.
This was Elliott Hadad; he had been the controller for an NGO based in London that supported humanitarian projects in Africa. He was British by nationality but he had grown up in Indonesia; his parents had been British international aid workers when they were younger, working in Southeast Asia. They were still working in international aid and were currently employed by the African Union and based in England. Janet had recruited Hadad as the Foundation’s CFO and he had moved back to Jakarta about two years earlier.
Three days after Kevin and Denise had arrived in Jakarta, Janet told them that she had invited Hadad and his daughter to dinner that evening.
“You obviously haven’t met Elliott yet since he just returned from a brief trip and I know he really wants to meet you,” she told them. “They have an interesting but sad story that I know you’ll want to hear.”
Early that evening Elliott Hadad arrived with his daughter, a very pretty 16-year-old; both Hadads looked quite Western despite their name. Hadad was very astute and immediately detected Denise’s appraising look. He grinned at her and then took one of her hands in his, shaking Kevin’s with his other hand.
“I’m really very pleased to finally get to meet you, Kevin, Denise; Janet’s always talking about you. And yes, Denise, I get that look a lot. People think I’m Arabic, or Indonesian, or whatever, from my name—and my accent too—but I’m mostly a Brit, actually. So don’t be embarrassed at my catching your stare. The disconnect between my name and Western appearance just means that I’ve got a complex history; lots of us who work in foreign charities have histories like mine. And this charming person here” —he drew his daughter in front of him as she was shyly standing behind him— “is my wonderful daughter, Amelia. Amelia, meet Denise and Kevin. Janet is Kevin’s honorary aunt,” he grinned.
“Pleased,” she nodded her head as she touched her hand to Kevin’s and Denise’s, then dropped her eyes.
Denise and Kevin glanced at each other and the nonverbal message passed between them: “This is a troubled girl in pain...”
Kevin glanced at Amelia again and winced slightly, trying to conceal his concerned expression from the others.
“Say, folks,” Janet broke in. “Let’s go sit and chat before dinner’s ready.”
They walked out into a screened and covered courtyard filled with tropical plants and flowers.
“Oh my,” Denise breathed. “so pretty.”
“Thank you, my dear,” Janet replied. “It’s my hobby and very relaxing. And the plants don’t talk back but they do appreciate the attention.”
The others chuckled.
“So Denise, Kevin, tell us about your London venture,” Janet began. “You’ve done a great job in keeping us up on your antics for the past year; thank heavens for videochat—but that time difference between us is the pits. Anyway, you didn’t tell us much about your school plans—why London now?”
The two explained their academic plans and how the classes in London would fit in.
“So Elliott,” Denise said after she had been thoroughly questioned, “you mentioned that you had a complex history; is it something you can share?”
“Oh, yes. Well, part of it depends on Amelia and if she’s comfortable with her part, since this involves both of us.”
“Oh, I’m okay, Papa, I don’t want to always keep hiding. That’s why I love my acting classes, you know. So go ahead.”
Denise sensed the emotions which underlaid Amelia’s response and her heart melted. She moved over to Amelia and took her hand.
“Amelia ... my, that’s such a pretty name...” Then she leaned over and whispered in her ear, “I can see you’re tense and troubled. It’s in your face and how you hold your body. Later we’ll talk privately if you want but I want you to know that I’ll try to help you, okay? I had bad things happen to me and learned from them and I want to help others. Can we talk later?”
Denise looked up. “Sorry, I just wanted to mention something privately. Anyway, Amelia, you have a very pretty name.”
Amelia gripped her hand firmly but giggled. “Thank you, but that’s funny. Actually Amelia means ‘beautiful’ in Arabic...”
“Oh my, that is funny,” Denise interjected.
“Yes, in Indonesia we take names from Arabic, Sanscrit, Javanese, and some other native languages,” Janet added.
Amelia leaned over to Denise and whispered, “Thank you, that was amazing, how you know how I feel, and yes, let’s talk later.”
Hadad cleared his throat. “Well, I guess it’s my turn then. So my folks are Brits, as I said, and I was born right here in Jakarta. I went to school here and also in England; my parents have a little home near Birmingham, but I graduated secondary school here and then went to university in Kuala Lampur where I studied finance. That’s where I met Kalila, Amelia’s mum, she was Indonesian and studied nursing. Kalila’s father died when she was a teen and she had to fight for her university education against her conservative mother—that whole side of her family is very, ahh ... traditional. She was able to get a scholarship and we met in her second year there.
“After we both graduated, I went to England for advanced schooling and got my doctorate and that’s where Amelia was born, in London, actually. Kalila took a position with a hospital in London and that’s how things remained until a few years ago when the story changed. Kalila’s hospital arranged a medical mission to Freetown, Sierra Leone; that was five years ago, and you remember about the Ebola outbreak then? She became infected and they couldn’t save her.”
“Oh my god,” Denise and Kevin sighed. “So sorry...” “That’s terrible...”
“Thanks,” he went on. “Then Janet recruited me—maybe a year or so later—and I moved Amelia here the following year; she was living with my folks back in England. I should have left her there...” he choked.
“Oh, Papa...” Amelia whispered.
“But I so missed her,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “I put her in the AIS Indonesia school here; it’s a good school. She was 13, almost 14. Okay if I continue, darling?” he asked Amelia.
She nodded, her eyes shiny with her own unshed tears.
“I was stupid and not really aware of how pigheaded Kalila’s family was. Her father was enlightened, but not her mother or the rest of them. One day, Amelia’s aunt—that is, Kalila’s brother’s wife—forged a note to pull Amelia out of school for a quote-religious celebration-unquote. The office clerk let her go but the headmaster’s secretary got suspicious, checked the note, and called me to verify it. While they were trying to reach me, the school found out that the only religious ceremony going on then was a mass ceremony to perform sunat perempuan. I know Indonesian—sunat means ‘circumcise’ and the term means ‘female circumcision, ‘ which as you probably know is an inaccurate term. It’s actually known in the human rights field as ‘female genital mutilation.’ Or FGM.”
Kevin and Denise were listening with their attention riveted on Hadad. Denise shuddered and glanced at Amelia whose hands were clasped in her lap and she was looking down. Then she looked up as her father stopped speaking to dab at his eyes.
“Let me tell the next, Papa,” she said quietly.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, I need to be able to talk about it.”
“If you’re sure...”
“Yes. Auntie took me to—it was an old school building; she said it was a coming-of-age ceremony that everyone does. But when I got into this room, there were kids, little girls of all ages, some crying and holding themselves in pain, some lying on the classroom desks with their privates all exposed and women holding them down, and there was crying and screams all around. I tried to run out but they caught me and held me struggling there for maybe an hour, I think. I kept looking at that clock on the wall. Auntie said we had to wait our turn and I was trying to get away but the woman holding me was too strong.
“Then they came for me and dragged me to a desk and stretched me out on it—it was a hard desk! Wood! And pulled up my school skirt and my undies down. I was yelling and kicking and trying to pull free but then two women held my legs apart so I couldn’t move. Then I felt a sharp stab into my private parts and maybe that gave me more energy ‘cuz I jerked hard and pulled loose before this woman, she was holding a pair of little scissors, could jab me again. I kicked at her and she backed away; the two women were trying to push me down again—and that’s when I was grabbed by Papa! And two policemen grabbed the women who were trying to hold me,” she gasped, her tears flowing now.
Denise wrapped her in a hug.
“Yes, I wasn’t quite in time,” Hadad picked up the story. “I had learned where she was taken and got the police to go with me by claiming a kidnaping, which it really was, and I did rescue her, but she had apparently struggled fearsomely and that delayed their taking her to do the mutilation straightaway when she arrived because they thought her screams would so panic the other children that they’d have a bigger problem with the rest of them. So they waited to take her until most of the others were done. Anyway, her genital area had been partially cut into when she wrested herself free; that woman wasn’t able to do more than make one sloppy incision, a stab with a scissors, which was bleeding profusely. That’s when I pulled her off that bloody—and I mean bloody in both senses of the term—desk.”
Kevin shook his head in disbelief. “I thought that stuff only happened in Africa...”
“Oh, no,” Janet said. “It’s awful that it’s such a widespread custom. Yes, Africa is one major region where this barbaric practice takes place, but it’s common here too—you know that Indonesia is the most populous Islamic country in the world, right? Well, FGM is a misguided cultural practice which many Muslims perform despite its denouncement by progressive Muslims. Even so, leading traditional Muslim clerics are becoming ever more insistent that it’s a sacred duty, no matter that the Qur’an doesn’t mention the practice and it’s actually outlawed in most Islamic countries. Not in Indonesia, however.”
“So it’s that big of a problem here?” Denise asked, dismayed.
“Quite,” Janet confirmed. “A major one. Our foundation, you know, works toward providing medical and legal aid to our needy populations in Southeast Asia. So I’m very familiar with the FGM problem here. Listen: In the last health survey we did, our researchers found that between 85 to 100 percent of the households in Indonesia subjected their daughters to genital cutting but this was usually performed before the age of five, but up to teenagers are done too, like what happened to Amelia. And it has a high acceptance too; more than 90 percent of adults support continuing the practice.
“The survey asked clerics why they support doing this and a common answer is that it’s necessary to control women’s sexual urges and that women must be chaste to preserve their beauty.”
Denise stared at her with an incredulous expression. “No!”
“You’re not convinced?” Janet said. “Try responding coherently to this reason—this was mentioned by a woman who performs the mutilations. She said something to the effect that the cutting was helpful to girls’ health because it balances their emotions so they don’t get sexually over-stimulated.”
Denise and Kevin were listening, shaking their heads in disbelief.
“It gets worse—the reasons given by some other women were just as bad. One woman claimed that it helps girls to urinate more easily and reduces the bad smell,” Janet said with a disgusted gesture. “But the take-home message that we try to pound into people is that female genital mutilation is absolutely not required by Muslim law.”
“That’s so true,” Hadad continued. “And Kalila escaped being mutilated as a youngster because her father was progressive and forbade it. I never would have brought Amelia back here if I realized...”
“Papa, it’s okay, not your fault,” Amelia said insistently.
“Well, we’re at the point where medicine has the ability to do microsurgery now,” Hadad went on. “So my folks were in touch with doctors in the hospital in Birmingham where they live...”
“Yeah, that’s where that Malala girl from Pakistan who was shot in the head was treated!” Amelia interjected.
“ ... but they don’t do neurological microsurgery there, instead they recommended a hospital in London where the procedure was developed. Only now we need to wait a year,” Hadad concluded.
“Why’s that?” Denise asked.
“My parents were going to see to her care during the treatments, which would take place over six months. But they were just assigned to a humanitarian project in Accra in Ghana for a year. I can’t go to London for that long now, either. Janet says I should go, but we’ve got this critical grant coming up that’s hugely important for the Foundation’s future. Amelia is okay with waiting but I know her condition is painful. She’s had some treatments to try to help her pain but the docs here say that the cutting damaged an important nerve.”
Kevin came over to Denise, leaned over, and whispered in her ear; she nodded and he stood up.
“I have a proposal and want you to take it seriously and not as a courteous offer I’m just making to be polite. Denise and I can be Amelia’s guardians while we’re in London so she can get her treatments...”
Both Hadad and Janet began to object to Kevin’s proposal.
“ ... no, no wait; let me go on.” Kevin held up his hand. “I’ve done this guardian thing before, actually. Denise’s mom appointed me as Denise’s legal guardian when she got her new job and had to move hundreds of miles away. I mean this seriously. My parents thought I was sufficiently mature to emancipate me when I was only 16—at Amelia’s age, actually. And I was 17 when I was Denise’s guardian. Aunt Janet, why did you begin to protest?”
“Well, Kevin, I’m not questioning your maturity or commitment. You have your own life plus a demanding academic program this year,” she pointed out.
“Good points; I won’t debate them because it would appear that I’m downplaying their importance. And those are definitely significant considerations. But that’s what life is like, isn’t it, after all? It’s meeting one’s responsibilities. I’m used to taking on responsibility. I think I have the need to be challenged with significant responsibilities. It actually makes me work harder when I’ve committed to a major obligation. Besides, being the guardian for a high school girl will be great practice for when I have kids of my own, don’t you think?”
The group all laughed, the tension being broken somewhat.
“Elliott, what’s keeping you from agreeing?” Kevin went on.
Hadad looked at Janet. “I see what you meant about Kevin. I don’t think I could come up with a cogent argument to deny him anything!”
Denise giggled. “Yep. He absolutely has that effect on people.”
“Young man, I don’t know what to say ... Why would you do this ... this incredible mercy ... for someone you’ve only known a couple of hours?”
“Elliott, we all need to do this. She needs it and so do you. Both Denise and I can feel Amelia’s pain. We felt it as soon as we saw her. She’s masking it well, but she’s suffering and you are too. I know you’re a good person, because Aunt Janet would never have given you this job otherwise. I want to do this for you both because it’s the right thing to do.”
Hadad stood and pulled Kevin into an embrace and Amelia rose too and spread her arms around both men, tears streaking her cheeks.
“Kevin, thank you so much, I can’t thank you enough,” she whispered.
“Young man, I’ve never met anyone like you, although Janet says you’re the image of your father—not physically—she says you’re better looking—but your character,” Hadad told him. “As Amelia said, we can’t thank you enough. But we’ll need to work out some financial...”
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