Young girls endure act of breast ironing

BEHIND THE CLOSED DOORS of Cameroon's homes, mothers are torturing their pubescent girls with grinding stones, mortar pestles, coconut shells or even hammers heated over hot coals.

These painful and humiliating episodes are designed to halt or delay the development of their girls' breasts and to destroy any indication of emerging womanhood.  The mothers believe the resulting disfiguration prevents the young girls from becoming objects of male desire, and so protects the daughters from rape and premarital pregnancy.

The list of offenses against women in Cameroon grows long: genitals are mutilated; breasts flattened; bodies battered; hair cut off for rituals; and minds deprived of education. There is no compensation for hard labor that lasts from dawn to dusk in fields and backyards. Women are working the most, yet they are benefiting the least. The hands that rock the cradle that rules the world are described by many as a “necessary evil”.

And now the breast itself - a feminine symbol and the pride of womanhood - has become a target. Yet very few women who have been victims of breast ironing will acknowledge the fact. Many claim never to have heard about it.

That was Lindsay’s reaction when I first questioned her. Looking at her chest, I noticed a deformity and so suspected she must have “been there”. I kept visiting her in her tailoring workshop and talking about the need for women to share their sad experiences with others in order to help find solutions. I told her about my personal fight with my grandma which freed me from being a victim of breast ironing.  And I told her about my cousin who dropped out of school as a result of the act.

One day I dared to ask Lindsay again if she had ever been subject to breast ironing, and she nodded, her eyes fixed on her toes. She related the experience she had at the age of 11:

“On my way back from evening classes one day, I noticed my trousers were wet. I hid myself in a nearby bush to find out if I had unconsciously urinated in my pants. To my greatest surprise, it was blood. I was so frightened and ran to inform mama so we could go to the health center. I was so sure I had been wounded by a nail which was hanging out of the bench on which I sat in class that day.

I found mama slicing vegetables and chatting with my aunt. I began screaming right away, telling them I had a big wound in my private parts. Mama pulled me to the bathroom and asked me to show her the wound, when I did, she asked me if any boy had 'touched me' and I said no.