The crippled wife screams. Continuation: A jealous man from the Moscow region brought his children to kindergarten before the massacre of his wife

I dedicate this book to my mother, my grandparents, brothers and sisters, my children, without whom I would never have had the strength and courage to fight, my companion.

I want to thank everyone I have met along the way and who have touched me with their involvement in the fight for human physical and moral dignity, fundamental rights and especially women's rights.

I want to thank all the people who have supported me, near or far, in my struggle, as well as all those who helped me make this book a reality.

The cold here is not for me, an African. I'm coming. I've always walked a lot. So much that I often got it from my mother:

Why are you walking? Stop! The whole neighborhood is gossiping about you!

And sometimes she even drew an imaginary line at our doorstep.

Do you see this line? From now on you will not cross it!

I was in a hurry to play with my friends, go for water, take a walk at the market, or look at the military in beautiful uniforms who were marching along the Wall of Concord. My mother’s word for “walking” in the Soninka language meant that I was running around, too curious about the world around me.

I actually “walked my life”, and it just didn’t take me anywhere: today I am at UNICEF in Zurich, yesterday at the Forty-ninth session of the UN General Assembly dedicated to women’s rights. Hadi to the UN! A woman wrestler named Hadi, in the past the most ordinary girl from the “womb of the sand,” like all African children. The same little Khadi who goes to the source for water, minces past grandmothers and aunties in the bubu, proudly carrying a basket of peanuts for grinding on her head; Khadi, charged with delivering the amber-colored dough drizzled with butter, is suddenly horrified to see it sprawled on the ground. I can still hear my grandmother’s angry voice:

Did you drop it? Well, you'll get it from me!

I see her come down the porch, armed with a broom as a whip, while my sisters and cousins make fun of me. It hits my back, my butt, and my little loincloth treacherously slides down. The girls rush to my aid, and my grandmother, still angry, turns to them:

Are you protecting her? Now I'll show you!

I take this moment to run to Grandpa's house, hide behind his folding bed where she can't find me. Grandfather is my salvation, my protection. He never interferes with the punishment process, leaving it to the women. He doesn't shout, he just explains:

Hadi, if you are sent to do something, you must concentrate on what you are doing! I'm sure you were playing with your friends and didn't see the basket turn over.

After a well-deserved spanking, I have the right to the caresses of my grandmother and... sisters, sour milk and couscous. It's something of a consolation. My buttocks still hurt, but I play with the doll, sitting under the mango tree with my sisters and cousins. Little Hadi is waiting for September to come so she can go to school with the rest of her brothers and sisters. Mom makes sure that we always have notebooks and pencils. To do this, she even has to limit herself in some way.

It's nice to live in a big house on the outskirts of Thies, a quiet town with wide green streets. It is located at the foot of the mosque where grandfather and other men go to pray at dawn.

Dad works for railway, we rarely see each other. According to our tradition, Grandma Fuley was assigned to look after me; she is responsible for my upbringing. Fuley is my grandfather's second wife; she has no children of her own. Our childless woman does not suffer from this. Grandma’s house is a hundred meters from ours, and I shuttle between them, looking for something tasty in one or the other.

Grandfather has three wives: the first is Marie, my mother’s mother, the second is Fuley, to whom I was “gifted” to raise me, and Asta, the third, ex-wife grandfather's older brother. My grandfather married her after his brother’s death, as custom dictates. All of them are our grandmothers, women without age, who love us equally, punish us and, of course, console us.

There are three boys and five girls in our family, and there are cousins, nieces, and aunts in the tribe. We are all each other's brothers and sisters, aunts and nieces, to one and all at once. It’s impossible to count us; I don’t even know some of my cousins. My family is from the noble Soninke caste. Previously, the Soninka traded in cloth, gold and precious stones. Grandfather worked on the railway in Thies. He also placed my father there.

Our family is made up of priests and peasants, the men are the imams of the village. A noble family, as we Soninka understand it, is a caste that has nothing in common with the European nobility. The upbringing is very strict. We are instilled with honesty, decency and loyalty to our word, values and principles that follow us through life.

I was born shortly before the country gained independence, in nineteen fifty-nine, on one of the October days. And in October 1966, at the age of seven, I crossed the school threshold for the first time. Until that time, I lived happily, surrounded by love. They told me about cultivating the fields, national cuisine, seasonings that my grandmothers sold at the market. By the age of four or five I had my own bench. Grandma Fuley made it for me because here every child has their own bench. He sits on it when he eats couscous, and leaves it in the room of his mother or grandmother, the one who raises him, bathes him, dresses him, caresses him or punishes him. The bench is the cause of quarrels between children: “You took my bench!”, “Give her the bench, she’s older than you!” It is stored for a long time until the tree dries out or its owner grows up and becomes the owner of a new, larger bench. Then you can pass on your bench “by inheritance” younger brother or sister.

My grandmother ordered and paid for the bench for me. I proudly carried it on my head: it is a symbol of the transition from early childhood, when they still sit on the floor, to the status of a child who sits and walks like adults. I walk with her in the field, along the streets of the market, between the baobab and mango trees in the yard, to the house with a fountain, to the grandmothers - I walk in a protected space, the warmth of which will soon be mercilessly cut off.

I walked from the age of seven, from Thies to New York, passing through Rome, Paris, Zurich, London. I never stopped walking, especially from the day when my grandmothers told me: “Today, baby, we are going to ‘cleanse’ you.”

The day before my cousins arrived from Dakar to school break: sister Daba, seven years old, Lele, Annie and Ndaye, cousins, and other, more distant relatives, I no longer remember their names, About a dozen girls from six to nine years old, sitting, legs spread, on the porch in front of the room of one of the grandmothers . We play different games - "daddy and mommy", trading spices at the market, cooking with small iron utensils that our parents make for us themselves, and dolls, wooden and cloth.

This evening we sleep as usual in grandma's, aunt's or mother's rooms.

The next day, early in the morning, I am woken up and washed. Mom puts me in a sleeveless floral dress; it is made of African fabric, but of a European cut. I remember its colors well - brown, yellow and peach. I put on my little rubber sandals, my “flip flops.” It's too early. There is no one on the street in our block.

We cross the road that runs along the mosque, near which men are already ready for prayer. The door to the mosque is still closed, and I hear their voices. The sun has not risen yet, but it will soon be very hot. It's rainy season now, but for some reason there aren't any. In a few hours the temperature will rise to thirty-five degrees.

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Crippled

I dedicate this book to my mother, my grandparents, brothers and sisters, my children, without whom I would never have had the strength and courage to fight, my companion.

I want to thank everyone I have met along the way and who have touched me with their involvement in the fight for human physical and moral dignity, fundamental rights and especially women's rights.

I want to thank all the people who have supported me, near or far, in my struggle, as well as all those who helped me make this book a reality.

The cold here is not for me, an African. I'm coming. I've always walked a lot. So much that I often got it from my mother:

- Why are you walking? Stop! The whole neighborhood is gossiping about you!

And sometimes she even drew an imaginary line at our doorstep.

– Do you see this line? From now on you will not cross it!

-Did you drop it? Well, you'll get it from me!

-Are you protecting her? Now I'll show you!

– Hadi, if you are sent to do something, you must concentrate on what you are doing! I'm sure you were playing with your friends and didn't see the basket turn over.

It's nice to live in a big house on the outskirts of Thies, a quiet town with wide green streets. It is located at the foot of the mosque where grandfather and other men go to pray at dawn.

Dad works on the railway, we rarely see each other. According to our tradition, Grandma Fuley was assigned to look after me; she is responsible for my upbringing. Fuley is my grandfather’s second wife; she has no children of her own. Our childless woman does not suffer from this. Grandma’s house is a hundred meters from ours, and I shuttle between them, looking for something tasty in one or the other.

Grandfather has three wives: the first Marie, my mother’s mother, the second Fuley, to whom I was “gifted” to raise me, and Asta, the third, the ex-wife of my grandfather’s older brother. My grandfather married her after his brother’s death, as custom dictates. All of them are our grandmothers, ageless women who love us equally, punish us and, of course, console us.

There are three boys and five girls in our family, and there are cousins, nieces, and aunts in the tribe. We are all each other's brothers and sisters, aunts and nieces, to one and all at once. It’s impossible to count us; I don’t even know some of my cousins. My family is from the noble Soninke caste. Previously, the Soninke traded in cloth, gold and precious stones. Grandfather worked on the railway in Thies. He also placed my father there.

I was born shortly before the country gained independence, in nineteen fifty-nine, on one of the October days. And in October 1966, at the age of seven, I crossed the school threshold for the first time. Until that time, I lived happily, surrounded by love. They told me about the cultivation of fields, national cuisine, and the seasonings that my grandmothers sold at the market. By the age of four or five I had my own bench. Grandma Fuley made it for me because here every child has their own bench. He sits on it when he eats couscous, and leaves it in the room of his mother or grandmother, the one who raises him, bathes him, dresses him, caresses him or punishes him. The bench is the cause of quarrels between children: “You took my bench!”, “Give her the bench, she’s older than you!” It is stored for a long time until the tree dries out or its owner grows up and becomes the owner of a new, larger bench. Then you can pass on your bench “by inheritance” to your younger brother or sister.

The day before, my cousins arrived from Dakar for the school holidays: sister Daba, seven years old, Lele, Annie and Ndaye, cousins, and other, more distant relatives, I no longer remember their names, About a dozen girls from six to nine years old, sitting with their arms feet, on the porch in front of one of the grandmothers’ room. We play different games - “father and mother”, trading spices at the market, cooking with small iron utensils that our parents make for us themselves, and dolls, wooden and cloth.

This evening we sleep as usual in grandma's, aunt's or mother's rooms.

My mother takes my sister and me to a big house with my grandfather’s third wife, a woman of about fifty, petite, friendly and very affectionate. My cousins, who are home for the holidays, are staying at her house, and like us, they are already washed, dressed and waiting - a small team assembled here, harmless and restless. Mom leaves. I look after her, she is thin and thin, she has a mixture of Moorish and Peul blood. Mother - wonderful woman, whom I knew poorly then, raised my children, girls and boys, without discrimination. School is for everyone, homework is for everyone, punishment and affection are also for everyone. But she leaves and doesn't tell us anything.

Something special is happening as the grandmothers come and go, talking mysteriously to each other, keeping their distance from us. Not knowing what awaits me, I feel that their conversations are alarming. Suddenly one of the grandmothers calls all the girls because the “lady” has arrived. She is dressed in a huge indigo and dark blue bouba, with large earrings, and is short. I recognize her. She is a friend of my grandmothers from the blacksmith caste. In this caste, men work with iron and circumcise boys, while women “cut” little girls. There are also two other women, fat matrons with powerful arms, whom I do not know. My older cousins may have an idea of what awaits us, but they say nothing.

In the Soninke language, the grandmother announces that we will now be given salinde in order to gain the right to pray. In our language this means “to be purified to gain access to prayer.” In French they will say “cut” or “circumcised”.

The shock is endless. Now I know what awaits me: the mothers in the house talk about it from time to time, and as if they were talking about entering a mystical position. It seems to me that I remember something that I carefully tried to erase from my memory. The older sisters went through this, receiving instructions from their grandmothers, who manage everything in the house and are responsible for raising children. When a girl is born, on the seventh day after christening, they are the ones who pierce her ears with a needle and thread red and black threads so that the hole does not become overgrown. They deal with weddings, births, and newborns. They make the decision about our “cleansing”.

All the mothers are gone. I had a strange feeling of abandonment, but now I know that no mother, even one with nerves of iron, will be able to look at what will be done to her daughter, and especially hear her screams. She knows what it is about because she has been through it herself, and when her child is touched, the mother's heart cries again. However, she accepts it because it is the custom and because she is sure that the barbaric ritual, supposedly purifying to gain the right to pray, is necessary in order to marry a virgin and be a faithful wife.

It is outrageous to involve African women in a ritual that has nothing to do with religion. In our countries of Black Africa, “cutting” is practiced by animists, Christians and Muslims, as well as Jews. The origins of the tradition are in the distant past, even before the arrival of the Muslim religion here. The men wanted this for several reasons: they were trying to strengthen their power, they wanted to make sure that their wives would not leave for other men, and that men from enemy tribes would not rape their wives. Other explanations, even more absurd, were that the female genital organs are supposedly dirty, devilish, and the clitoris, also devilish, is capable of coming into contact with the head of a newborn child, dooming him to God knows what kind of misfortune and even death. Some thought that this false replica of a small penis cast a shadow on male power.

But only the desire to dominate was the real reason. And women were subjected to execution, since there was no question of “seeing” or “touching” this intimate part of female nature.

At seven years old, I have no idea, like other girls my age, that I have a clitoris and what it serves. I have never noticed it and will never see it again. The only thing I think about this morning is the impending unbearable pain, about which I had heard some rumors, but which, as it seemed to me then, would not affect me. I remembered how someone’s mother or grandmother threatened some naughty little boy, holding a knife or scissors in her hands, took out his little “appendix” and shouted words that were terrible for him: “If you don’t listen, I’ll cut it off for you! » The boy always ran away from this “threat of castration,” apparently remembering the pain and torment. However, having experienced them once, he will not suffer later: in his case we are talking about a purely hygienic tradition.

But I saw girls walking with a strange gait, like geese, sitting down with difficulty and crying for two or three days, and sometimes whole week. Then I felt protected because I was still little.

Back in 1967, I didn’t know what this bleeding intimate cut would mean for me in the future. He will lead me, however, along the long path of a difficult and sometimes bitter life, to the United Nations, where I will end up in two thousand and five.

My heart starts pounding. They try to convince us that there is no need to cry when “cleansing” occurs. You need to be courageous. Grandmothers understand perfectly well that we are still small and will definitely scream and cry, but they do not talk about pain. They explain: “It won’t last long, it will hurt you just a little, but then it will be over, so be strong.”

There is not a single man next to us. They are in the mosque or in the field before the heat comes. There is no one with whom I could take refuge, and most importantly, my grandfather. In that era, traditions in the village were still strong, and our mothers and grandmothers needed to do this with us. And period. They didn't ask any questions. For example, about whether it is necessary to do this when living in a city, or about what happens in other homes, among other ethnic groups. On our street there were only two families practicing “carving”: the one that came from Casamance, the Manding family, and ours, the Dreamnik family. The Tikulers and Bambaras who lived at a distance also observed traditions. Our parents planned to marry us off later to cousins from our own family. They needed real Soninka wives, traditional ones. Nobody thought that one day there would be mixed marriages between different ethnic groups.

Soninke, Serer, Peul, Bambara and Tukuler are ethnic groups that migrated from the village to the city. And in every such family, parents make every effort not to forget their native village and pass on the customs to their children. There are many good traditions there, but this one is terrifying.

The girls freeze with fear to such an extent that they could probably wet themselves. But not a single one tries to escape - this is unthinkable. Even if we keep looking for someone who can take us away from here. Grandfather could have been such a person... If he had realized the seriousness of what was happening, he could have intervened. But I don't think he was aware of what was happening. Women accuse men of incitement, but in many villages nothing is said to them, unless the “cutting” becomes collective and the whole village knows about it. In big cities, this is done at home, and even secretly, so that the neighbors do not know. My dad was not around, no one asked either his opinion or the opinion of my maternal grandfather. These are women's affairs, and we must become the same as mothers and grandmothers.

They deployed two large mats, one in front of the door to the room, the other at the entrance to the shower. The room resembles all the other rooms of the mothers of families: a large bed, a small sideboard and an iron chest where each woman’s property is kept. In the room there is a door leading to a small shower room, there is a hole in the cement floor and a jug of water, and there is also a pantry for storing food. Other clothes intended for us are laid out on the bed. I don’t remember which of us was called first, I was so scared. We wanted to see what would happen, but our grandmothers strictly forbade us from doing so:

- Get out of there! Go sit down! Sit on the floor. We have no right to watch what is done to others. There are three or four women and one little girl in the room. My tears began to flow. There were four or five of us waiting in line. I sit on the threshold with my legs outstretched, trembling and my whole body shrinking from the screams of others.

Finally my turn comes. Two women lead me into the room. One holds my head from behind and puts all the weight of her body on my shoulders so that I don’t move; the other, spreading my legs, holds me by the knees. Sometimes, if the girl is tall and strong, you need more women to calm her down.

The lady performing the procedure has her own blade for each of the girls, specially purchased by the mother. The lady pulls with all her might a small piece of flesh with her fingers and cuts it off, as if she were chopping zebu meat into pieces. Unfortunately, she is not able to do this in one motion. She has to shred.

My screams are still ringing in my ears.

I cried and screamed:

“I’ll tell my father about this, I’ll tell my grandfather Kizima!” Kizima, Kizima, Kizima, come quickly, they will kill me, come for me, they will kill me, come... Ay! Come! Baba, baba, where are you, baba? When dad comes, he will kill you all, he will kill you...

The woman cuts, shreds and taunts with a calm smile, as if to say: “Well, yes, when your dad comes, he will kill me, it’s true.”

I call my whole family for help, grandfather, dad and mom too, I need to do something, I need to shout about my protest against injustice. My eyes are closed, I don’t want to look, I don’t want to see how this woman mutilates me.

Blood splashes into her face. The pain is indescribable, unlike any other, like my guts are being pulled out, like a hammer is hitting my head. After a few minutes I no longer feel the pain below, it is all over my body, which has suddenly become a haven for a hungry rat or an army of mice. The pain permeates everything - from head to toe, passing through the stomach.

I began to faint when one of the women splashed cold water on my face to wash away the blood that had splashed on it. This prevented me from passing out. At that moment I thought that I was going to die, that I was already dead. And in fact, I no longer felt my body, only a terrible shudder of all the nerves inside and a heaviness in my head, which, as it seemed to me, could burst.

For a full five minutes, this woman cuts, shreds, pulls, and then does it again to make sure she has “cleaned” everything. I hear like a distant prayer:

- Calm down, it’s almost over, you’re a courageous girl... Calm down... Don’t move... The more you move, the more painful it will be for you.

Having finished cutting, she began to wipe away the flowing blood with a piece of cloth soaked in warm water. I was told later that she adds a product of her own production to it, probably something disinfectant. Then she smears oil on the wound karite, diluted with black soot to avoid infections, but no one explains anything either before or during the operation.

When it was all over, they told me:

- Now get up!

They help me up because I can hardly feel my legs. I feel pain only in my head, where the hammer is beating furiously, and nowhere else. My body was cut into two parts.

I hated that woman, and she was already approaching another girl with a blade to cause her the same pain.

The grandmothers took care of me, wiped me new fabric and put on a loincloth. Since I can't walk, they carry me on a board and put me on a mat next to the other, already "cut" girls, who are still crying. And I cry too, while the next one takes my place in horror in the torture room.

It's a pain I could never describe. I have never experienced anything more painful in my life. I gave birth and suffered from renal colic - there are no similar pains. But that day I thought I would fall asleep and never wake up, the pain was so severe. The violence committed against my child's body was incomprehensible to me. Nobody warned me about anything - neither older sisters, nor adult friends, no one. What happened was even more unfair and cruel because it had no explanation. Why was I punished? This thing that they cut off for me with a razor blade, what did it serve? Why was it removed if I was born with it? I probably carried evil within me, something devilish, if I had to get rid of it in order to gain the right to pray to God? Unclear.

We remained sprawled on the mat until the last one collapsed on top of him, crying. When the lady finished her job and “cut out” everyone, the women, before leaving the torture room, washed it of the blood of the “purified”. Then mothers and grandmothers came to console us:

- Stop crying, you are strong, they don’t cry like that. Even if you are hurt, you need to be courageous, because it is over, everything is behind... Stop crying.

But we can't stop. It is necessary to cry - this is our only defense.

And the boys from the neighboring houses look at us in silence, stunned by the traces of blood and tears from their playmates.

I knew the woman who cut me out. She is still alive today. Grandmother Nyontu, from the blacksmith caste, was the same age as my grandmothers, she went to the market at the same hour as them, and regularly met with them as a woman from the caste devoted to our family. The wife of a blacksmith, she was responsible for the "cutting" of girls, and her husband was responsible for circumcising the boys. So at that time this tradition moved from village to city and reached the second most important large city in the country - Thies.

Grandma Niontu returned that evening to care for us, then came the next day. And so on every subsequent morning. On the first day there was unbearable pain. I lie there, unable to turn either to the left or to the right, only on my butt, helping myself with my hands to raise myself a little and try to relieve the pain. But nothing helps. The need to urinate when you cannot do so is another torment. No consolation helps. Our traditional breakfast is varnish, a decoction of millet and sour milk - made in our honor. But neither of us can swallow a crumb. Even the dance of one of the grandmothers, who claps her hands with jokes to praise our courage, does not inspire us. What kind of courage? I didn’t have it and couldn’t have it. Meanwhile, mothers, aunties and grandmothers give our “cutter” either fabric, rice, oats or bubu, or a small banknote. At lunchtime I realized that to mark the occasion, one or two sheep had been slaughtered. This means that the men knew about the execution. And after they brought us a dish that we were unable to eat, I saw a celebrating family.

I haven't eaten anything for almost two days. Only in the evening of the second day we were given some soup, which was supposed to relieve the pain. I also needed to drink water because of the heat. Fresh water provided relief for two or three seconds.

Treatment procedures are very painful. The blood is baked and the lady scrapes it off with a blade. Washing eases our suffering, but first she must tug and scrape with that damned razor. And I can’t sleep, I lie with my legs spread apart - I’m instinctively afraid to put them together, so as not to cause pain. Everyone around is trying to calm us down, but nothing works. Only water saves me; I want to immerse myself in it, but this is impossible, since the scar has not yet healed.

- Get up and try to walk.

This is impossible, I refuse. I never stop falling into a doze from fatigue and despair, because no one came to save me. In the evening I am forced to get up to sleep in a room with others - a dozen cripples, stretched out on a mat with their legs spread. Nobody talks, it seems that lead shackles have shackled our joyful childhood. Each has its own pain, similar, of course, to what the other experiences, but it is unknown whether she suffered it in the same way. Maybe I'm not as courageous as others.

Everything in my mind is in a fog. I don't know who to blame for what happened. The lady I came to hate? My parents? Aunties? Grandparents? I think I blame everyone. I'm offended by the whole world. When I realized what awaited me, I was very scared, but I didn’t think it would be so scary. I didn't know that they would cut so deep and that the pain would be so intense and last for several days before it began to subside. The grandmothers brought herbal tincture to moisten our foreheads and hot broth.

Days go by, and the pain gradually passes, but psychologically it is still difficult. Four days later I feel physically better, but I still have a headache. It's splitting from the inside, as if it's about to burst. Maybe it was because I couldn’t turn from one side to the other while stretched out on the mattress, or because I couldn’t urinate for two days. This was the hardest part. The grandmothers explained to us that the more we endure and do not go to the toilet, the more painful it will be for us. They are right, but you need to be able to do it. And I’m scared, because the first one who tried to urinate screamed as if she was being cut again. After that, others endured. Some were more courageous and “released” that same evening. I was able to make up my mind only after two days; I was in a lot of pain. I screamed and cried again...

Week of care – regular wound treatment, morning and evening with oil karite and crushed herbs with the same mysterious names as the words of the woman muttering something under her breath while using this black, like ash, mixture. Her lamentations, interspersed with prayer, are intended to distance bad fate from us and are intended to help us recover. And we believe in it, even if we don’t understand anything. The woman brainwashes me by muttering words known only to her. As soon as the blood stops flowing, I will be safe from the evil eye.

Gradually the grandfather and other men appear. I guess they heard the screaming and crying stop. I remember my grandfather placing his hand on my head and saying a prayer for several minutes. No other consolation.

But I don't tell him anything. I no longer call him for help, everything is over, the grief has passed. However, his gaze was not the same as on cloudless days. When I think about it again, I tell myself that maybe he was sad that day... Grandfather could not do anything: it was impossible to prohibit women from the ritual that they themselves went through.

There's nothing you can do, you have to trust women.

“Soon you will forget everything, you will be able to walk and run as before.”

One day, when the pain passes, everything will be forgotten. And that's exactly what happened a week later. Something had finally changed in me, but I was not aware of it. It took me a while to dare to look at the scar. I was probably just afraid, and besides, this is not in the traditions that women teach us. They teach how to wash an organ about which we only know that it must be kept clean. We must never forget about him because of the threat of unpleasant odor. Mothers often repeat this.

Three or four weeks later, when my cousins had gone to Dakar and each of them had returned to their former lives, one day, while washing, I decided to see what they had cut out for me. The scar has already become hard. I lightly touched it with my hand, because it was still painful, and assumed that it was there that something had been cut off. But what?

For about a month and a half, I felt pain, as if I had a bud inside me and it just couldn’t bloom. Then I stopped thinking about it altogether and didn’t even ask questions. I didn’t ask them to myself either. The grandmothers were right, this is forgotten. No one warns us that our future life as a woman will be different from others.

One day, a lady from our neighborhood, who belonged to the Wolof caste, came to our house. She had traveled around Mali and knew local customs well. Two of my little cousins were “cut out” that day. And I heard the lady say loudly: “You, Soninke, continue to observe barbaric customs?” You are left wild!

She said this laughing, as if she was joking. This is in the traditions of Africa. This is what they say when they do not want to offend their interlocutor. I didn’t attach any importance to her words then. And this went on for many more years until I began to understand that my destiny as a Soninke woman originated from there, from this intimate “cutting out”, which forever deprived me of a normal sex life. It was as if an unknown flower was growing inside me, but it was not destined to bloom.

And among us Africans there are many who believe that this is in the order of things. The transformation of us into women is subject only to the whim of men, who can only pick up a young, cut flower and watch it wither before time.

In one corner of my memory, I am still sitting under the mango tree at my grandmothers' house, where I was happy and physically safe. Ready to become a teenager, then a woman. Ready to love, which I dreamed of so much... I was not allowed to do this.

Crippled

I dedicate this book to my mother, my grandparents, brothers and sisters, my children, without whom I would never have had the strength and courage to fight, my companion.

I want to thank everyone I have met along the way and who have touched me with their involvement in the fight for human physical and moral dignity, fundamental rights and especially women's rights.

I want to thank all the people who have supported me, near or far, in my struggle, as well as all those who helped me make this book a reality.

The cold here is not for me, an African. I'm coming. I've always walked a lot. So much that I often got it from my mother:

- Why are you walking? Stop! The whole neighborhood is gossiping about you!

And sometimes she even drew an imaginary line at our doorstep.

– Do you see this line? From now on you will not cross it!

-Did you drop it? Well, you'll get it from me!

-Are you protecting her? Now I'll show you!

– Hadi, if you are sent to do something, you must concentrate on what you are doing! I'm sure you were playing with your friends and didn't see the basket turn over.

It's nice to live in a big house on the outskirts of Thies, a quiet town with wide green streets. It is located at the foot of the mosque where grandfather and other men go to pray at dawn.

There are three boys and five girls in our family, and there are cousins, nieces, and aunts in the tribe. We are all each other's brothers and sisters, aunts and nieces, to one and all at once. It’s impossible to count us; I don’t even know some of my cousins. My family is from the noble Soninke caste. Previously, the Soninke traded in cloth, gold and precious stones. Grandfather worked on the railway in Thies. He also placed my father there.

I was born shortly before the country gained independence, in nineteen fifty-nine, on one of the October days. And in October 1966, at the age of seven, I crossed the school threshold for the first time. Until that time, I lived happily, surrounded by love. They told me about the cultivation of fields, national cuisine, and the seasonings that my grandmothers sold at the market. By the age of four or five I had my own bench. Grandma Fuley made it for me because here every child has their own bench. He sits on it when he eats couscous, and leaves it in the room of his mother or grandmother, the one who raises him, bathes him, dresses him, caresses him or punishes him. The bench is the cause of quarrels between children: “You took my bench!”, “Give her the bench, she’s older than you!” It is stored for a long time until the tree dries out or its owner grows up and becomes the owner of a new, larger bench. Then you can pass on your bench “by inheritance” to your younger brother or sister.

Cola Brunion, the character of the famous French writer Romain Rolland, called his wife, who was always screaming at him, his “wealth”, and her screams as “songs”. Truly a stoic worldview! But for most men, women's screams only cause an obsessive desire to run away to hell. And since screaming is not at all a burden for most women, the life of such a husband very quickly turns into a nightmare.

First of all, you need to understand the reasons for this domestic tyranny. What makes a woman mutate into a siren so often? Well, there may be many reasons, but in the end they can all be called one general concept- dissatisfaction own life. And there can be many different dissatisfactions.

Let's start with the one that comes to mind first - with sexual dissatisfaction. Many modern women live year after year without receiving sexual satisfaction and the necessary regular release. Is it any wonder that they are so angry and nervous and want to yell at someone? But sometimes they themselves don’t want to have sex with their husband, because they have long stopped seeing him as a real man.

Why don't they see him? object sexual arousal? Often the reason for this is simple disrespect. How many men do we have today lying on the couch, while the woman supports herself? How many alcoholics, lazy people and parasites do nothing but drink away their property while their wife, almost howling, drags out the children? Of course, there is nothing you can do to help such people, and all that remains is to sympathize with these unfortunate people.

Dissatisfaction It can also be a consequence of hard, nervous work. Smiling at clients all day, the woman often leaves the office very worried, anxious, and begins to have breakdowns. To prevent them from recurring too often, the psyche includes defense mechanisms, one of which involves the release of negative emotions through aggression. And her husband’s lack of attention to this problem of hers makes him an ideal target for retribution for all the hardships of her life.

It happens that no less a woman " get stuck"and everyday issues. Mountains of unwashed dishes that are always on it, maintaining the house, constant cleaning, washing, ironing, and even children around the neck. Here, any eye twitches in a nervous tic and the uninterrupted functioning of the psyche cannot be guaranteed.

It is also impossible to ignore the features education. A girl who grew up in a house where it is customary to solve all problems by shouting and swearing will transfer this stereotype of behavior into her own life. new house. Here she will also begin to practice the same behavior, lashing out at everyone at the slightest provocation.

So what to do in such a situation? How to deal with the "kulak-baba"? After all, coexistence with such a person is sometimes truly painful. The whole life turns into a complete hell, and the man runs away from home to appear there less and less, or not to appear at all, joyfully falling into the arms of some less noisy lover.

Useless try to talk down your wife, this will not give anything in the long run (however, most likely, it will not give anything in the short term either), but will only aggravate the situation and make the scandal more destructive. Having understood the reason, you need to act.

Let's take, for example, sex life. For most of our compatriots it is boring, gray and wretched. We need to add some fresh colors to it. Bold experiments, role-playing, why not? A visit to a sex shop will help you come up with some interesting idea, which will satisfy both of you both literally and figuratively.

But what if woman lost interest in you as a man? Well, you need to change, change your attitude towards her. Start small - give her a small bouquet of flowers. Just like that, not for an anniversary, not for the eighth of March, not for Mother’s Day. Just give her flowers on a random day. Because you have it. Because she's so good. And already on the same day there will be a little less screaming. Then take another rule: kiss her every morning. Before breakfast, for example. Pair tender words and just kiss loving husband on the cheek - this is a completely different start to the day, incompatible with screams and hysterics.

Likewise, ask her work. Give her a good time to complain to you, maybe even cry. And it will be easier for her, at least from the fact that you care, that you understand her, that she is not alone in this world and is a kindred spirit to whom you can come with your problems. And perhaps you can convince her to quit this nervous activity and save her nerves. There is a lot of work these days, there is no need to cling to one that spoils your health and takes away your vitality.

In case this cultural feature- everything can be solved by shouting, then we must take up re-education. First of all, let her know that you will not tolerate screaming and are not going to communicate with her when she is screaming alone. Just ignore her every cry, calmly repeating that you are ready to communicate with her only when she calms down and stops being hysterical.

Find time talk to your wife about this problem, not when she is angry, but on the contrary, when she is in a calm mood. Then you will come to a peaceful agreement and mutual understanding much faster. Agree on certain rules that will apply in your home from now on. About the fact that raising your voice is now an action outside the law, about the fact that it is impossible to solve a matter by shouting.

Be prepared to go for some yourself concessions to his wife. Promise that you will pay more attention to her than you currently do. That you will listen more often to what she tells you and treat her words with greater responsibility. And don’t expect everything to get better right away - it will take some time. At first, out of habit, she will still break down often, but don’t get angry and don’t escalate the situation. Calmly encourage her to follow the rules. If you both show enough patience, then over time, screaming and yelling will become a thing of the past. And your life will become much easier.

Rita Gracheva is still in Moscow Clinical Hospital No. 71. On December 11, in Serpukhov near Moscow, the husband, with whom a 25-year-old woman decided to divorce, took her into the forest and chopped off her hand. Capital surgeons were able to save left hand- they literally assembled it in parts (fractures in eight places) and sewed it on. Now all that remains is to wait to see if it will take root. With the right hand everything is difficult. To save the patient’s life, doctors had to form a stump, “closing” the vessels. Now all hope is that the family will be able to purchase a prosthesis.

The couple has two children. Boys three and five years old. They are still hiding from them what really happened to their dad and mom.

There are still many blank spots in this story. Why did a girl from an intelligent family choose a boy from a disadvantaged one, who was even expelled from school for his behavior? Did Rita really write a statement to the police a month before the tragedy - after he took her into the forest for the first time and threatened her with a knife? And could she in six years life together never suspect that he lives with a real sadist?

The victim’s mother, Inna Sheikina, spoke on Radio “Komsomolskaya Pravda” (97.2 FM in Moscow) exclusive interview. First things first.

GIRLS CHOOSE BAD BOYS

Rita and Dima studied together in the same college in Serpukhov to become cooks,” says the woman. - We met there. He began to court. It was immediately clear that he was on his own. Although he knew how to please, he dressed neatly. In college, for example, his teachers loved him. Didn't drink, didn't smoke. At the same time, he is quite cocky by nature. Rita says to me now: Mom, now I understand that for some reason many girls really try to choose bad boys.

Grachev’s mother raised her alone. As they say, Dmitry's father - also Dmitry Grachev - was imprisoned in the late 90s for 15 years as a participant in a bloody showdown with shooting, where two groups of men were sorting out their interests. After this “arrow”, nine corpses were taken to the morgue from the outskirts of Serpukhov. Article - “Murder of two or more people.”

- Did you know what his family was like?

Rita and I learned that dad was imprisoned only after the wedding. Dima's mother divorced him when the boy was little. This was before landing. I once asked her why they got divorced. She admitted that her husband raised his hand to her. However, I cannot say that they have a dysfunctional family. My mother’s sister is a lawyer and lives in Moscow. Their grandfather is a musician. Paternal grandmother in kindergarten works. I also only found out later that Dima was expelled from school and finished his studies in evening classes.

Rita's mother Inna Sheikina. Photo: TV channel "Russia"

- How did they live?

There are mothers and mothers-in-law who try to fit into the family and teach the young how to live. It seemed to me that this was wrong. I then asked Rita - maybe I didn’t know something, didn’t notice? She says that in the first five years he never laid a hand on her. The crisis began when Rita said she wanted to leave him.

- Why did she decide to leave?

She's tired of him. At Dima's complex nature, he never wanted to compromise. Rita adjusted to him. Lately Dima stopped helping altogether. Even the issue of changing the tires on the car had to be resolved by myself, and I asked my brother to help. Rita says that thoughts about divorce have crossed their minds before. But while she was on maternity leave, she doubted that she would be able to bear two children on her own. And when I went to work - I became a marketer in our Serpukhov newspaper - I realized that at the very least, I would be able to provide for my children.

DID THE POLICE PERSUADE TO WITHDRAW THE STATEMENT?

At first there were scandals, so Grachev began to raise his hand against his wife, tore up her passport so that she could not apply (the passport was restored, the registry office set the date of divorce for January 9), took her to a lie detector - tried to find out if Rita had another man . On November 11, a month before that very day, he was taken into the forest for the first time and threatened with a knife. Rita wrote a statement to the police and took it to the local police officer.

As far as I know, Dima received the first call from the police only 19 days later,” continues Inna Sheikina.

- How did you find out?

From my daughter. When we submitted our application, we waited for his reaction. He broke down for any reason. And after 19 days he started making a fuss: why did you report it to the police? He said he got a call. They called, you understand! It turns out there wasn’t even a personal conversation? After submitting the application, we ourselves waited for them to call us, when they would question us. We filmed the beatings that were inflicted before. And in response there was silence. I called the police, reminded them, they told me: wait, they will call you back! As a result, only a couple of weeks later we were called. We left information about the beatings to the local police officer. And we were tactfully asked to withdraw the application: “Think about it, do you need this? Your boys will grow up. Suddenly they want to go to work in the authorities. If a criminal case is opened against their dad, many paths will be closed.”

Dima suspected Rita of cheating... They say there was some kind of meeting with a colleague. Has Rita started any kind of relationship?

This happened after Rita announced a divorce and she and Dima separated. Rita says that after such stress she needed someone's support. There is a man at work who recently got divorced and left his daughter. They had two meetings. Just meetings, in public places. One time his daughter was with him, the second time one of Rita’s sons was also with him, they went to the cinema with the children. Probably, if you wish, you can call it light flirting. But no kissing, no intimacy. Yes, she did not consider this man as her man in the future. During their discord, I met Dima several times. Yes, he felt bad. He didn’t like that his usual way of life was collapsing. And he found the culprit: since Rita leaves, that means she is bad, a cheater. Dima began to become paranoid. He decided that Rita had a lover. There have been many different threats over these months. He said: “If you don’t live with me, I’ll take you to the forest and bury you,” “I’ll throw acid,” “I found out from my dad where you can get a weapon.” “I’ll put you in the car, accelerate and we’ll crash together.”

“FOR AN ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE, I WAS HEATED WITH AN AXE”

I think for the last week he clearly knew what he would do to Rita,” the woman continues. - He planned everything. For several days he behaved very correctly in order to lull her vigilance. That day he dropped the children off at kindergarten, then took Rita to me - we were going to go with the children to Kostroma to the Snow Maiden’s residence for our grandson’s birthday. Rita took the bag from me in which she was supposed to pack things for this trip. She’s telling me now: she wanted to put the bag in the trunk, but Dima got nervous: no, no, put it in the back seat. Now it’s clear that there was an ax and tourniquets in the trunk, and he didn’t want Rita to see them ahead of time.

When Rita didn't show up for work, her colleagues called her mom. Grachev several times staged scenes of jealousy in front of everyone, so they worried about Rita. Inna Vladimirovna called her daughter, Dima, but neither of them answered the phone.

I dialed his mom's number. She said: “I drink valerian. He just sent me a text…” He sent a message to all his relatives. The meaning is something like this: “Sorry, I can’t live in deception.” I think my mother knew about his plans. Because on THAT day she cried into the phone: “I told him, I told him a hundred times, that he didn’t have to do anything...”

Sheikina started calling the police and rushed to the police department. On the way, she received a call: “Your daughter is in the hospital. She’s alive, but... Come.”

- What does Rita remember about that terrible day?

Having driven further into the forest, he stopped. He took an ax out of the trunk and threatened to kill him. He tied Rita's hands with tourniquets - in front of him. He forced them to lower them onto the stump. She says that for the first forty minutes he simply made threats - he asked her to confess to treason, and told her what he would do to Rita now. She remembered one phrase: “I’ll cut off your hands now. You loved petting children with them! But now you won’t have any hands.”

- Did she try to escape?

Yes. For this, he beat her on the legs with an ax - there are three chopped wounds on one of the legs. The worst thing is that Rita was conscious all this time. She says that when he started chopping his hands with an ax, she looked at them - there was a complete bloody mess. I looked once and didn’t look again. So as not to go crazy. I don’t know what kind of strong psyche you need to have to survive this.

“I WILL COME BACK AND FINISH WHAT I UNFINISHED”

Apparently, Dmitry Grachev did not intend to kill his wife. After cutting off her hands, he put Rita in the car and drove her back to the city, to the hospital.

On the way, he asked: “Have you died there yet?” And he promised: “I will sit down, but if you don’t wait for me from prison, I will come back and finish what I haven’t finished. I will cut off the hands of your mother and all your relatives.” He took her to the hospital and immediately went to surrender to the police. He filed a confession. He cooperates with the investigation - he even helped look for a severed hand in the forest. He says he repents. Legally, all of this will be considered mitigating circumstances. All this will be taken into account at the trial and will shorten its final term. Lawyers say he will only be given 6-7 years. Under this article there is a conditional literal release. Theoretically, he could return to Serpukhov in three years. I am seriously afraid that he will return to take revenge on us. I don't know what to do? Who will protect us? Some friends advise me to leave Serpukhov and get lost. But how to do that? We have big family: me, Rita, children, I also have a younger son. It is now impossible to hide without being found - there are links to some documents. And after what happened, I have no doubt that if he has such a goal, he will be able to find us, no matter where we go!

AND AT THIS TIME

Whether the hand has taken root - it’s too early to say

- We already wrote that Rita began to move the thumb of her sewn hand. Does this mean that the hand has taken root?

Doctors explain that this cannot yet be said. After such operations, several crises must pass. The first one is in 5-7 days. He's already behind. Rejection, thank God, did not happen.

- Will all the normal functions of the hand return after this?

Doctors are not talking about this yet. They don't want to give hope. The operation was very difficult.

- Did you manage to choose a prosthesis?

We already had a prosthetist. There is a company in the Moscow region that is ready to provide a prosthesis at a maximum discount. And we were told that there was a sponsor, a businessman, who would pay for it. We were shown three models. They explained that there are several nuances. The prosthesis is designed to last two to three years. Plus, every year it will need to be removed and sent for maintenance to Germany. Along with shipping, this takes at least two months. One is probably not enough. A suitable prosthesis costs 1.8 million rubles. But it allows you to move only two fingers - the thumb and index. There is a more functional option, but it is such a large man's palm, quite noisy. Everything needs to be weighed and thought through. They transferred us an impressive amount. But I don’t yet know how they will have to be distributed.

- Who is with the children now?

With Rita's friend. I told the children that mom had an accident and her hands are now being treated. Of course, the guys miss Rita very much. We want to bring them on Saturday. The hospital said that children of that age cannot be brought into the ward. We want to try to take Rita outside somehow so that they can talk at least a little.

BY THE WAY

Why did Grachev study to become a psychologist?

The point is not that he wanted to be a psychologist, says Inna Sheikina. - I just needed to get a higher education. He entered the correspondence course at the Serpukhov branch of the National Institute of Catherine the Great (a small Moscow university - Auto.). I studied for four and a half years. Of course, Rita helped him, even wrote some papers for him. Three quarters of his diploma is her merit.

QUESTION - RIB

Why didn’t the local police officer react?

An obvious question. Perhaps, if Rita’s statement had been allowed to proceed, this bloody execution would not have happened?

When this topic was discussed on Radio Komsomolskaya Pravda, a listener, himself a former detective officer, called on the air. He asked not to rush to draw clear conclusions about the actions of the district police officer.

Unfortunately, in this particular story, everything depends not only on the actions of the police officer,” Alexander said. - The statement was written on the fact of being taken into the forest and threatened with a knife. But at the same time, the district police officer could not attach anything to this statement, there is no “evidence” - there are no witnesses, no video recordings, no damage. I assure you: even if he had opened a criminal case, the prosecutor’s office would have canceled the decision to initiate it. Because there is no reason. Only words. I understand that it sounds crazy after something like this, but it’s a fact.

How should potential victims act in this case? Wait until the knife goes into the stomach and only then contact the police?

It is a fact that reports of domestic violence to the police are most often received with difficulty. Nobody wants to do extra work. Because, as they say, 95% of such applications are taken back by women the very next day. Either out of pity, or figuring that if her husband was imprisoned, there would be no one to feed her and the children.

Moreover, this happens not only after beatings and minor harm to health, says former investigator and now famous lawyer Vadim Bagaturia. - An investigator I know was investigating a case: a husband attacked his wife with a knife. The woman was very seriously injured and spent several weeks in the hospital. She came out and... Ran to the investigator. She begged to let her husband go and close the case. Loved it. And this was not a marginal family at all.

The Moscow region police headquarters "KP" confirmed that Margarita Gracheva's statement was indeed accepted by the district police officer. But they are not yet ready to discuss the actions of their employee there. An internal check is being carried out. Now they are finding out whether the policeman acted strictly according to the letter of the law or not. The results of the audit are planned to be announced within the next week.

Domestic violence - survey. Apester is a platform that offers an assortment of free online storytelling tools that enable publishers to engage with their audience.

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The crippled wife screams. Continuation: A jealous man from the Moscow region brought his children to kindergarten before the massacre of his wife

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