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Like other village children, I spent my evenings at the local prayer house learning to recite the Quran. Nothing could have pleased us more than to be there. For recitation lessons we paid two and a half cents per week, which was used to buy oil for the lamps. Lessons began at five thirty in the evening and continued until nine; they were the one and only excuse we had for getting out of doing our homework.

What I’m calling recitation lessons was actually nothing more than telling jokes, talking in fevered whispers about sex, and annoying other devotees who came to say their sunset or evening prayers while we waited for our own turn to be called. This was my world at the age of nine.

Like my friends, I wanted to be a good Muslim, though few of us, at our age, had been circumcised. But then, one day, one of my friends did get circumcised and a large celebration was held for him. This is when I began to think, if I hadn’t been circumcised was I really a Muslim? I mulled over this question but didn’t let anyone know what I was thinking.

In my small hometown of Blora, boys were usually circumcised somewhere between the ages of eight and thirteen, generally in as grand a style as family circumstances permitted. Girls underwent symbolic circumcision at the age of fifteen days, without any kind of celebration.

One night, my father came home and talked to me about circumcision. I had no idea where he had been, but he was in a very buoyant mood. The house was dark; all the lamps had been extinguished except for one in the central hall, where I was sitting with my mother, listening to her tell me a story about an old man — a pious one, presumably, since he had been to Mecca and was called haji to indicate that he had made the pilgrimage to Islam’s most holy seat — who kept on getting married. The story was a good one, but because of my father’s sudden return it died then and there.

“Do you think you’re brave enough to be circumcised?” he asked me, a hopeful smile on his lips.

I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to be a good Muslim, but my father’s surprise offer terrified me. Then again, my father always terrified me. But, for some reason, his smile that night made all my fears disappear.

“Yes, I am!” I told him.

His smile broadened and he laughed congenially. “What would you like to wear for your circumcision, a wraparound kain, or a sarong?”

“A kain” I answered.

He then turned to my seven-year-old brother, who was also in the room. “And what about you, Tato? Are you brave enough, too?”

Tato laughed happily: “Sure I am!”

Father, too, laughed contentedly and the light from the lamp illuminated his even white teeth and pink gums.

Mother rose from the mat she had rolled out on the floor earlier, before starting her bedtime story.

“When do you want to have them circumcised?” she asked.

“As soon as possible,” my father replied.

He then rose from his chair and walked away, into the darkness of the house and his bedroom.

Mother stretched out on the mat again but did not continue her story about the marriage-happy haji. Instead, she looked at us: “You boys must give thanks to God that your father is going to have you both circumcised.”

“We will, Mother,” we answered in unison.

“Your dear departed grandmother and all your other ancestors in heaven will be very pleased to know that you have been circumcised.”

“Yes, Mother,” we said again.

* * * * *

That night I could scarcely sleep as I thought of how much the circumcision would hurt. But then I also began to think of the new kain and new pair of sandals I would likely receive — along with all the other new clothes, and a headcloth and prayer mat as well. On top of that, I wouldn’t have to go to school and there would be numerous guests. I was almost sure to receive lots of gifts.

I imagined the happiness I would feel from owning my own kain and headcloth, for these items were not only a sign of being a good Muslim; they were a sign of being a good Javanese as well, something I also wanted to be.

I was sure to be given at least one sarong, maybe two or even three. My uncircumcised friends would be jealous; that thought, too, gave me a thrill.

The next morning I rose from my bed full of excitement. Tato and I set off for school with plenty of time to spare. Usually, our legs balked at walking to school, but that day they flew. All of our classmates soon heard the news, and the boys who weren’t circumcised, especially the older ones, looked on us with newfound respect. Even the teachers cast a kindly gaze on us, for soon we were going to be true Muslims, bona fide circumcised Muslims. And when that happened — and this was the most important thing of all — we would have the right to a place in heaven. We’d no longer have to wish for the many beautiful things that we’d always hoped for but had never been able to obtain, for they would be ours.

At the prayer house, the news also created a sensation among my friends, and our religious teacher gave me the same kindly look that my teachers at school had displayed. I suddenly felt taller, more important than my friends. I could see it very clearly: heaven’s gates standing wide open for me. And sure enough, just as our religious teacher had also promised, there they were — the beautiful houri, young maidens waiting to tend to my needs. Each one was as beautiful as a certain girl at my school that all the boys talked about.

“After I’m circumcised, I’ll be a true Muslim,” I told the kiai. “I’ll have the right to go to heaven!”

The man laughed cheerfully. “And you’ll have forty-four houri to wait on you!”

“But I don’t want any who has six or eight breasts, like a dog,” I told him. “I want them to look like Sriati, my classmate at school. She’s beautiful.”

The kiai laughed again.

“And I’ll go fishing in rivers of milk every day,” Tato chimed in.

Our teacher’s mouth opened wider with laughter, baring a disgusting set of teeth that looked like they’d never been brushed.

Our older and uncircumcised friends listened to this conversation silently. I could see fear in their eyes: the fear of missing out on their share of houri and the fear of going not to heaven but to hell.

Starting that evening, we followed our recitation lessons diligently and we made sure to finish our homework in short order too. We also fasted, every week, from Monday to Thursday, until the end of the school year. As a result of this extra labor, I easily passed to the next grade.

Two weeks before the end of the school year, my father, the principal of our school, decided to stage a play with the children as actors. Our circumcision ceremony would be held the following day. Father had decided, then and there, to make this an annual event. That way, the poorer boys in school whose parents could not afford to hold a separate celebration would have the chance to get circumcised as well.

For this, my father’s first attempt at starting a new tradition, the response of the townspeople was not what Father had expected it to be. Many parents with sons of circumcision age were apparently embarrassed to have someone else pay for their sons’ circumcision ceremony. In the end, there were only six boys to be circumcised: my brother Tato and I, a ten-year-old cousin of ours, a sixteen-year-old foster brother, and two boys from poor families who lived outside of town. Another foster brother, who was eighteen and had already had a child with our servant, refused to participate. He insisted that his own father would arrange a ceremony for him.

Five days before the celebration, the boys who were to be circumcised were made to memorize a panembrama, a Javanese welcome song. On the night of the play, we were to appear onstage and announce to the audience in song that we were to be circumcised the next day; we were also to request that they offer their prayers for a successful event.

One of our teachers wrote a play about a lost goat in which all the roles were played by the male students.

Finally, the day that we had long awaited approached. The evening before, our grandmother gave Tato and me green silk sarongs. Our mother gave us lacquered wooden sandals and blue shirts. The girls in school gave us switches for keeping flies away during the ceremony, and our father gave us eight Dutch language children’s books. All these gifts made us forget about the pain we were to feel the following day.

* * * * *

On the night of the play, the school was jam-packed with spectators. Food was served: sweet potatoes and boiled peanuts, fermented cassava, gemblong made of sweetened sticky rice, and other snacks. Before the performance was to begin, the six of us who were to be circumcised were made to line up on stage. I was outfitted in a kain and headcloth, as was my brother, Tato. The other boys were bareheaded. When the curtain opened, the gamelan orchestra began to play, and we bowed in respect to the audience. I felt so incredibly proud of myself at that moment. All eyes were focused on us as we sang out that tomorrow we were to be circumcised. The girls looked on us with awe; there would soon be six more eligible men in town.

After our song the audience clapped loudly and we took another bow. The curtain was then closed and we were relieved from further responsibility.

In my hometown, there was very little public entertainment, which is why, I suppose, people came from all parts of the city to watch our performance of The Lost Goat. The school’s large central classroom, which was usually subdivided into four sections during the regular school day, had been transformed into one large hall that was now filled with people.

The musical entertainment that night varied greatly; besides gamelan orchestral works, there were new popular songs such as “Peanut Flower” and “Rose Mary,” cowboy songs, theatrical tunes, and older popular songs with a Western influence.

After the performance, many people from the audience patted our shoulders or pounded our backs, giving all six of us greater encouragement and making us feel very special. Later that night, after we had returned home, Tato continued to sing in his bed until he could stay awake no longer; his voice grew softer and softer until it finally died and he drifted to sleep.

In my hometown, the day of a boy’s circumcision was a day of great significance, as important as one’s birthday or wedding day, the anniversary of a person’s death, or even a public holiday. Although my mother had sent out no formal invitations, news of the ceremony had spread far and wide, and she received contributions for the event from all parts of town.

As was usually the case with major life rituals, even though we had stayed up late the night before, on the day of our circumcision we woke up extra early; by four thirty in the morning the house was already very busy. The candidates for circumcision bathed and were then each dressed in his new kain and a prayer cap or headcloth. My sisters wore new clothes and my mother dressed in a new kain with a parang rusak motif. For a top, she wore a long blouse with embroidered lapels and edging, a gift from an aunt who taught at the girls’ school in Rembang. A green rainbow-motif shoulder sash completed her outfit.

My father had on his school uniform: a wraparound kain with a broken dagger motif that matched my mothers and a long-sleeved button-up jacket. As usual he was barefooted. (My father never wore shoes; only at home might he sometimes wear wooden cloppers or sandals.)

As if infected by my family’s state of readiness, our neighbors rose early too. All dressed in new clothing as well, they then gathered at our house to escort us to the school, where the ceremony was to be held, about a half kilometer away.

Inside the school a small tent-like shelter with sides made of mosquito netting had been erected for the circumcision ceremony. The six of us who were to be circumcised occupied a row of chairs nearby. As the time for the ceremony approached, the number of visitors around the shelter grew larger, both adults and children too. The girls remained at a slight distance.

Finally, a circumcision specialist, the calak, arrived, and proceeded to unwrap three straight-edge blades from their handkerchief covers. As he was doing this, an older man offered us words of advice: “Don’t be afraid. It won’t hurt. It’s a bit like being bitten by a red ant. I laughed when I was circumcised.”

His was only one of many comforting voices, but no matter how reassuring the tone, we couldn’t completely expunge our anxiety and fear.

Then came the time for the ceremony to begin. My father and mother, who were seated in a pair of large chairs among the crowd of visitors, rose and approached the netted shelter. Pride and elation showed on their faces.

The first boy to enter the hut was my parents’ foster son, the sixteen-year-old, because he was the oldest one among us. The other foster son, the one who had refused to be circumcised, was nowhere to be seen in the crowd. The children who had come to witness the ceremony crowded so close to the shelter that the adults were forced to shoo them away.

I was incredibly scared. I wanted to be a good Muslim, but that wasn’t enough to still my terror. And when the calak suddenly began to bawl out an incomprehensible prayer, the pounding of my heart in my chest grew all the more strong. When my foster brother was led out of the hut, he could scarcely walk. His face was drained of blood and his lips looked almost white. He had no strength. The ushers seated him in his chair and placed a large earthenware saucer that was filled with fine ash from the kitchen hearth between his legs to catch and sop up the blood that was dripping from his penis.

One by one, the older boys entered the shelter. As with my foster brother, when they reemerged they looked pale-faced and walked with an unsteady gait. As I stood up to enter the tent, I felt several people take hold of my shoulders, as if they were afraid I would try to run away. I was then ushered inside the hut, where the calak was waiting impatiently, with a ferocious gleam in his eye — at least that’s how he looked to me.

I was placed in a chair and my head pulled backward so that I was now facing up, toward the roof of the tent. While one of the ushers, an older man, held my shoulders tightly to steady me, another pair of old hands attached themselves to my temples so that I could not look down. Below me, on the floor, was an earthenware bowl filled with ash. I felt a hand grope my penis, and then my foreskin being twisted tightly until it began to sting and feel very hot. Just at that moment, a razor severed that knot of my skin. It was over; I was circumcised. The old man who had been holding my temples back released his hands. I looked down to see blood dripping from the end of my penis.

“Don’t move,” one of the men said.

“You have to wait until the first flow of blood has stopped,” another added.

I stared at the stream of blood — a blackened cord as it began to coagulate — and watched it as it slowly fell and disappeared into the fine ash in the saucer directly below.

Because Tato was the youngest, he was the last to be circumcised; and when his operation was over, he too was led out from the shelter and put back on the seat beside me. Blood continued to drip into the earthenware dishes below our legs. All eyes were upon us. Mother came to me and kissed my cheeks; her display of affection caused tears to well in my eyes. She kissed Tato on the cheek too. Then Father came over to congratulate us: “Well done, well done.”

The visitors began to leave, first the children and then the adults, who took their leave one by one. After that, the six of us who had just been circumcised made our way home on foot as well.

We were treated like kings that day. Our wishes were commands. The families of the two poor boys who had also been circumcised came to our home bearing gifts of chicken and rice.

“Now that you’ve been circumcised, do you feel that something’s changed?” my mother asked me.

“I feel really happy,” I told her.

“And do you feel like a true Muslim?” she then inquired.

Her question gave me pause; the fact was, I didn’t feel any different.

“I feel like I did yesterday,” I tried to explain, “…and the day before. I still don’t feel like a true Muslim.”

“Could it be because you don’t perform the daily prayers?” Mother then asked.

“No, I always do all five,” I told her.

“Your grandfather’s been to Mecca. Maybe if you made the pilgrimage, you’d feel the change, and know that you were a true Muslim.”

“Would we go by ship?” Tato chirped.

“Yes, you’d sail to Arabia,” Mother answered.

“Wouldn’t we have to be really rich to do that?” I then posed.

“Yes, you would,” Mother said.

And with that all my hopes of becoming a true Muslim vanished. I knew that my parents weren’t well off and that we could never afford to make the pilgrimage.

“Why hasn’t Father ever been to Mecca?” I asked.

“Because your father doesn’t have the money.”

Although I suddenly wanted to be rich, I also knew that this would never be the case. And after I had healed, the thought of becoming a true Muslim never again entered my mind.