For context, please read Parts I, II, and III.
Zanzibar, Tanzania
Any person who, with intent to procure the miscarriage of a woman, whether she is pregnant or not, unlawfully administers to her any poison or other noxious thing, or uses any force of any kind, or uses any other means whatsoever, is guilty of a felony, and is liable to imprisonment for fourteen years.
Penal Code, Chapter 16 of the Laws of Tanzania, Revised Edition 2002
Permitted Exceptions: Abortion is permissible if continuing the pregnancy would endanger the woman's life or cause serious harm to her physical or mental health.
x. one week after forgiveness
The island clinic’s questions were worse than their rejection.
Yes—I have been sexually abused in the past.
No—I don’t know how many times.
Yes—I can tell you about each time I remember. Is that really necessary?
OK—there was that time… attacked in the parking lot… pinned down in his home… preyed upon by my supervisor… there was also my teacher…
No—of course I didn’t know what Maulid was planning.
Yes—I track my menstrual cycle each month.
I know—But I had panic attacks this month.
Well, exactly—I didn’t realize panic attacks could delay my ovulation by two weeks.
I’m not sure—because I’ve experienced a lot of changes, I guess.
Yes—Recently divorced, left my career, sold my things, shaved my head, left the continent…
Yes—I know it seems unlikely that I could be pregnant, but I’m sure about it.
Yes—I’m sure I am pregnant.
Yes—I’m sure it was abuse.
Yes—I’m sure I want an abortion.
But the clinic staff told me what I experienced wasn’t abuse enough. My psychological harm not severe enough. They wouldn’t help me. No doctor would help me without risking losing their license and practice. Imprisonment.
I began to sense an invisible cage forming around me, around the island. I felt stuck. Abandoned. Without options.
xi. two days after I fired my therapist
“Mom, Dad, I’m pregnant,” I told my parents on FaceTime, with a rabbit racing in my chest. Even at thirty-five-years old, it was nerve-wracking. I didn’t know what to expect.
But I’ll never forget the soft way they looked at me, searching me for clues, deciding whether to express excitement and gratitude or woe and commiserate.
“We’re happy no matter what you decide to do,” My dad said.
“We love you. Come home, Tifanei,” my mom invited me.
And so, I did.
It was the safest I ever felt on a flight back to the U.S.
Part IV will be posted on August 22, 2024.
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