I could hear my own heartbeat and feel sweat starting to form on my palms. This was exactly the kind of question that tied my stomach in knots because there was no safe answer, no way to respond without potentially offending someone or revealing too much of your own beliefs.
“Come on,” Dr. Chen pressed. “Someone must have an opinion. This is philosophy, not a random tea party.”
Before I could talk myself out of it, my hand went up. Years of my Nigerian upbringing had hardwired the reflex into me, demanding that I show respect to the teacher by participating, which was a common thing back home.
“Yes, Ms…?”
“Kelechi Obi.”
“Ms. Obi, what’s your take?”
I cleared my throat, acutely aware that every eye in the room was now fixed on me.
“I think we have to be very careful about imposing our own cultural standards on practices we don’t fully understand. What looks wrong to us might carry deep spiritual or social meaning in another context. We can’t just dismiss thousands of years of tradition because it makes us uncomfortable.”
“So you’re defending the practice?” Dr. Chen asked, her tone neutral but probing.
“I’m defending the right of cultures to self-determination,” I said. “I think it’s arrogant to assume that Western perspectives on bodily autonomy or women’s rights are automatically superior or more enlightened than traditional practices that have sustained communities for generations.”
As soon as the last word left my mouth, I heard a sharp intake of breath from the back of the room, followed by what sounded like a muttered, “Unbelievable.”
I turned, and sure enough, the airport woman was staring directly at me, her face tight with barely controlled irritation.
“Ms…?” Dr Chen prompted.
“Hoffmann,” she completed in that voice of hers.
“You seem to have strong feelings about Ms. Obi’s opinion.”
The woman—Hoffmann—didn’t hesitate. She leaned slightly in her chair, those green eyes boring into mine.
“I think hiding behind cultural relativism can become a convenient way to avoid taking a moral stand when it matters most,” she said. Her tone wasn’t loud, but it carried easily across the room. “Some practices are objectively harmful, regardless of their cultural significance. When we say ‘who are we to judge,’ what we’re really saying is that the suffering of women and girls is acceptable as long as it’s wrapped up in tradition.”
The room temperature seemed to drop several degrees.
Heat crept up my neck, and the familiar anger and irritation returned.
Now, who the hell did she think she was?
“That’s overly simplistic,” I said, turning in my seat to face her fully. “You’re reducing complex cultural systems to neat categories of good and evil. Morality is not some equation we can solve from a position of Western privilege.”
“Western privilege?” Her eyebrows shot up. “So now caring about human rights is Western privilege?”
“Imposing your definition of human rights on cultures you clearly don’t understand definitely is,” I shot back, my usual politeness slipping. “That same mindset has justified colonization and cultural erasure for centuries. When you dismiss traditional practices outright, you’re basically saying entire civilizations were too backward to know what’s good for them.”
Even I heard the words coming out of my mouth, and I couldn’t believe them. I was having a fight in my first class over something I didn’t really believe in.
If it were anyone else in this class, I wouldn’t be doing this.
Hoffmann’s jaw tightened.
“And when you hide behind relativism,” she replied, “you’re saying women’s pain doesn’t matter as long as it serves culture. Sounds to me like fear dressed up as tolerance.”
“Fear?” I stood before I realised what I was doing, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. “How dare you?—”
“Ladies.” Dr Chen’s voice cut through our exchange. “While I appreciate the passion, let’s remember we’re in a classroom, not a boxing ring.”
I realised the entire room was staring at us, some faces shocked, others intrigued, a few clearly entertained by the drama.
