According to Dr Hammad Malik of London Circumcision, a clinic near Harley Street, there is no way of telling how many unanaesthetised circumcisions are carried out, as no adequate records are kept. It is certain, however, that the practice is ubiquitous in the orthodox and ultra-orthodox British Jewish communities, who have an average of 6.9 children per family.
Apologists for unanaesthetised circumcision take as their defence the fact that the boy will not remember it when he grows up. These days, however, we know a great deal about early childhood and infant development. We understand that a baby must feel loved and secure; that skin-to-skin contact is important; that responding to an infant’s cries builds a vital sense of security. Can we seriously be asked to believe that taking a scalpel to baby’s genitals causes no damage? Is it really OK to cause pain to a child, on the grounds they are too young to remember it later? And isn’t cutting off part of an infant’s body without pain relief a criminal act?
My brother, who is almost 10 years younger than me, was circumcised in the traditional way when he was a newborn. I vividly remember seeing my mother handing him over to be taken into the men’s section of the synagogue for the operation. She went pale, clutched her stomach and said that she felt sick. There followed a period of waiting as she listened for his scream to indicate that the deed had been done.
Many of the progressive Jewish reformers of the 19th century rejected the practice of circumcision as barbaric. Even the legendary Theodor Herzl, the father of Zionism and one of modern Jewry’s most iconic figures, refused to circumcise his son for this reason.
When my son Isaac was born in 2009, it was our turn to confront the dilemma. Traditional circumcision was obviously out of the question. But what about having it done under anaesthetic? Neither my wife or myself are religious in the slightest, and we are both fully in touch with our non-Jewish heritage (she is half-Jewish, too). Nevertheless, I in particular have a fierce pride in my Jewish identity. There was a powerful emotional pull towards circumcision, which I can only liken to a sort of gravity, drawing me back to my roots. Not having him circumcised would mean that a link in the long chain would be lost, something that many people throughout history had given their lives to preserve. Pushing in the opposite direction, however, was the urge not to cause our boy pain.
We did some research. Modern clinics, such as the Circumcision Centre in Luton, use the Plastibell technique, which is said to be quick, easy and safe; the foreskin is bound with a tourniquet and eventually drops off, rather than being amputated with a scalpel. According to one paediatric surgeon at the centre – who wished to remain anonymous – complications arise in less than 2 per cent of cases. Those are decent odds; but the centre circumcises around 1,500 boys a year, which means that approximately 30 experience complications such as infection or haemorrhage. What if Isaac was one of them? Surely we would be unable to forgive ourselves. And given my own experience of anaesthetised circumcision, could we really believe claims that the procedure causes “minimal pain”? All in all, it felt profoundly counter-intuitive to operate on a child so tiny. It felt important to have a son that looked like his father, and who wore the permanent mark of his heritage; but how far were we willing to go?
With all this in the balance, our minds were made up by a reluctance to make the decision on Isaac’s behalf. Now, I’m no woolly liberal; children are born to a particular set of parents in a particular cultural context, and there is no point in running away from that. But this was a potentially very painful operation. Wouldn’t it be best to leave it until he was old enough to decide for himself? Some people believe that any unnecessary operation imposed upon a child amounts to mutilation. A respect for Isaac’s right to choose, combined with our other hesitations, led to our decision not to have him circumcised.
I would like to be able to conclude this article by claiming that I am at peace with this decision. But this would be untrue. After all, I have allowed this ancient covenant to die in my hands. Yet I comfort myself with the thought that this emotional and moral dissonance is, perhaps, the price of living on the cusp of a new time. And in the final analysis, I am proud that my wife and I have not caused Isaac any unnecessary pain, and allowed him the freedom to decide.
In the Bible, Isaac was placed on a sacrificial altar by his father Abraham, who was under filicidal instructions from the Lord. In the event, an angel stayed his hand; it had all been a test of faith. Had I been in Abraham’s place, I would have willingly failed the test, and I would have taken pride in having done so. God, hear this: when my Isaac grows into a man, I will be able to look him in the eye.
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