Some parents see circumcising their sons as a way to stay rooted in their heritage. Sarfraz Manzoor meets some of them at a circumcision clinic

It was more than 30 years ago, but Chetin Mercan still winces when he recalls the day he was circumcised. "It was the summer holidays and I was eight years old," he tells me. "A couple of my uncles held me down and I remember screaming and shouting as the doctor tried to do the operation." He shakes his head. "It was horrible."

Mercan is now the father of a four-week-old boy, Troy, who will follow in his father's footsteps this morning and be circumcised. Mercan is Turkish while his wife Sarah is British. "If I had married someone who was not Muslim, then circumcision is not something I would have considered," Sarah says, "but it was very important to my husband so I was willing to compromise." Chetin and Sarah live in London, but with circumcision not available on the NHS for non-medical reasons they have come to Luton, to a large double-fronted red-brick building that is Britain's only purpose-built circumcision clinic.

The Thornhill clinic is on an innocuous street on the edge of Luton's predominantly Asian Bury Park neighbourhood and there are few outward signs of what goes on behind its doors. The only clue is in the number of cars outside and the parents who hurry through its doors clutching swaddled and sleeping children. The clinic was set up by local GP Ronald D'Silva, who first conducted circumcisions for his Muslim patients 20 years ago one afternoon a week. "I realised quickly there was a real demand for them," he says, "and so it escalated until I established a clinic solely for circumcisions."

D'Silva now leads a team of seven doctors – all GPs – who each work one session a week at the clinic. We mostly think of circumcision as a religious practice. It is mandatory in Judaism, and in Jewish families the circumcision – known as the brith milah – is usually conducted by a mohel. Although circumcision is not mentioned in the Qur'an, it is a strong Muslim tradition and it is aimed at improving cleanliness. Islam emphasises mental and spiritual purification, and circumcised males are considered more clean and therefore pure. While D'Silva had started out performing circumcisions for Muslim patients, these days more than half of D'Silva's customers – the clinic sees around 40 children a week – are neither Muslim nor Jewish. Prices begin at £99 and increase according to the child's age.

The clinic is also open one afternoon a week to adult men. On those days, the curtains are drawn so that passing strangers cannot peer through the window at the men nervously waiting for the one-hour operation. "The adults are sometimes religious converts," explains D'Silva, "or they have very tight foreskins and coming to see us is a last resort."

Most of the clinic's business – and it is very much run as a business – is with children. When I visited there were families who had travelled from Ireland, Scotland and across England. As they sat with their babies in the waiting room, D'Silva walked in. "The first question you will want to know is 'will it hurt my little boy?'" he says, "and the answer is no."

The technique D'Silva uses involves injecting a local anaesthetic into the penis. The baby is then fitted with a Plastibell – a plastic ring – around which the foreskin is cut with the ring falling off within a few days. "The procedure should take no more than 10 minutes," said D'Silva.

"It's very different from how they do it back home in Afghanistan," says Hamayoon, 35, who had brought his four-year-old son. "We didn't have any injections," he recalls, "they just cut it off and then showed it to us."

Hamayoon is a Muslim, as is Nozmul Hussain, who has travelled from Birmingham with his seven-year-old son Yusuf. Muslim boys are often circumcised when much younger but Hussain says they just hadn't got round to it sooner, and had only recently found out about the clinic.

From the treatment room I could hear the pained sounds of a baby howling. "Are you worried it is going to be traumatic for him?" I ask. "Not at all," he says over the screams. "He has already got some presents and he knows what's going to be happening."

"What presents have you got?" I ask Yusuf. "I got £20 and an MP3 player," he tells me. And does he know what is going to happen? He shakes his head. "He does, he just doesn't know what it is called," his father explains. Does he think he will cry? He nods.

Although circumcision is common – it's thought around 15% of British men have had the procedure – it is also controversial and its supposed health benefits are disputed. D'Silva says: "If a person has been circumcised, they are less likely to have any sexually transmitted diseases because if you have a wet foreskin it forms a culture for bacteria for viruses," and the World Health Organisation says there is "compelling evidence that male circumcision reduces the risk of heterosexually acquired HIV infection in men by approximately 60%".

However, the British Medical Association has concluded that the evidence concerning health benefits from non-therapeutic circumcision is insufficient justification for the operation. To critics, circumcision is a form of genital mutilation, and there is a growing campaign to have it outlawed in the US. San Francisco will be voting this year on whether to make it illegal to circumcise, cut or mutilate the foreskin, testicles, or penis of another person aged under 18.

Back in Luton, Thornhill clinic's manager James Neville-O'Brien admits that the clinic has its critics. "We used to get a lot of abuse on the telephone," he says, "and also on the computer, from people who think we are mutilating children. A lot of doctors are against it, and there are others who are so angry that a Molotov cocktail through our window could almost be expected."

"Circumcision used to be popular in the days of Queen Victoria," adds D'Silva, "but for some reason it's gone into decline and some people consider it child abuse." While the scientific evidence in favour of circumcision is not conclusive, those visiting the Thornhill clinic are often driven not by science but by faith and a desire to pass down cultural traditions.

"In Sierra Leone we usually kill a cow to celebrate a boy's circumcision," says retired nurse Jennifer Hardy. She is with her niece and her niece's son. "There would be a big ceremony with lots of guests – but we can't afford that, and so we are here."

Also here is Chanel Williams, who has come from Milton Keynes with her American partner, Maurice, and their little boy Marley. "He was born on the anniversary of Bob Marley's death," she explains. When I ask Chanel why Marley is being circumcised, she says it's mostly about hygiene – but then adds that her mother was Turkish and so it was also partly about tradition.

Jessica, a teacher from London, also attributes her desire to have her son Zach circumcised to tradition. "My husband and I are South African, and it's just the done thing. This is my third son and I can't not do it – but it's not nice having to see your child go through it."

I have spent many hours at the clinic but, as yet, have not seen a child being circumcised. So when Dr Amin says he has secured permission for me to sit in on the procedure, it's an offer I can't refuse. I am introduced to Tariq and his wife Samina, who have brought their 10-day-old son.

"How do parents react watching it all? I ask Amin. "Some are absolutely brilliant," he says as he unwraps the disposable sterilised clamps and scissors, "but there are others who get very emotional and start crying – we have a special fainting chair for them." The doctor explains that Anwar has already been injected with a local anaesthetic, so if he starts crying it'll be because of the bright lights or because he has been woken up and is being held down, rather than because he was about to be cut open with scissors.

Amin lays the little boy on a hospital bed and takes off his nappy, whereupon he immediately unleashes an arc of urine into the air. "He's protesting," murmured Tariq.

Using sterilised forceps, Amin opens up the foreskin, cleaning under the skin. With the forceps pulling the foreskin wide, he places a plastic ring on the top of the penis. He then ties the foreskin tight across with string. Samina busies herself with sorting out nappies, determined not to look. With the ring in place, Amin uses the scissors to make two cuts down the length of the foreskin. A male nurse holds down the howling baby's legs.

"Notice how the baby isn't crying any more than before," Amin says.

"I just want it to be over," says Tariq weakly.

Once Amin has severed the foreskin he puts it on to a silver tray. "The rest of the foreskin will fall off with the plastic ring, which will be in the next few days," he explains. He looks up at me. "You're not going to faint are you?" he asks. "You're looking awfully pale."

Finally, it's all over and a relieved Tariq and Samina carry their baby into the post-treatment room. "It was a bit nerve-racking," Tariq admits, "but the doctors didn't look worried, so that was reassuring." The baby is sleeping soundly.

D'Silva comes in to give them advice on post-circumcision care. "They must pee within four hours," he tells them. "If there is any bleeding you can call me anytime, otherwise rub a little bit of Vaseline on to the penis and give them a bath every day." Tariq cradles his son tenderly.

The afternoon session is coming to an end, the clinic is shutting its doors for another day and it's time for me to leave. The most fascinating thing about spending time at the clinic is seeing how the past and present, ritual and religion, are entangled in the lives of those who have come from around the world. They have come from Sierra Leone, Afghanistan, Turkey and Ghana – and yet, somehow, end up in a detached house in Luton.

Circumcision is, for them, a way to stay rooted in their heritage – but that connection comes at a price. As I step outside the clinic I catch a glimpse of seven-year-old Yusuf, who is heading to his parent's car. He is walking very slowly – bow-legged and leaning on his father – with a pained expression in his eyes and a lollipop in his mouth.

{loadposition user38} source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2011/aug/27/circumcision-children-religion-sarfraz-manzoor

source: http://www.europerank.com/lifestyle/lifestyle/56186-i-want-it-to-be-over