Chapter One: I sat in jail that Friday night and thought about my vagina

Gender and Vagina Politics

OR

women’s rights in a historically religious society

I sat in jail that Friday night and thought about my vagina. I wondered if it was really worth it, all this vagina talk? I wondered why I insisted on living in Ethiopia at all. I kicked at the dirty floorboards. They threw me in jail because I tried to talk about vaginas, particularly ones who had goals, aspirations, who knew themselves and wanted more than this country, at present at least, was willing to offer.

We were worried what we think about vaginas, and even more worried that we don’t think about them. We were worried about our own vaginas. They needed a context of other vaginas—a community, a culture of vaginas. There’s so much darkness and secrecy surrounding them—like the Bermuda triangle. Nobody ever reports back from there.

The Vagina Monologues

Seven of us had been arrested that day and driven to a police station for interrogation. Now, hours later, I looked at the fat policeman sitting across the table from me in this dingy place and felt a tiny moment of pity. But he was laughing at me because he was convinced I was some sort of radical, so I refocused on what he was saying. He readied himself for his next question.

“Are you encouraging our Ethiopian women to be homosexuals?” the cop asked in Amharic. The woman next to me translated, although I understand pretty much all of what he was saying. Nine years spent in a country will do that to you. I looked at him incredulously.

“No! I’m not! I’m encouraging women to learn who they are, to learn about themselves.”

“No. You’re teaching women that they don’t need men. Good Ethiopian girls will leave your play and decide they don’t need men! All because of you,” he pointed, sitting forward and looking sternly at me.

“I am not doing that,” I stared back. “I am directing a play. I am creating art. What people interpret is up to them, the same as any song, movie, or other play shown in Addis.”

He laughed at me again.

“Are you married?” he probed.

“No. I am not.” I decided it was probably a bad idea to tell him I was divorced.

“Well, you should be. Your husband wouldn’t let you do this kind of thing,” he said. I sat back and tried not to think of my father the missionary.