Reclaiming the Future: Why True Justice for FGM Survivors Requires More Than Just a Day in Court.
When a perpetrator of female genital mutilation (FGM) is led away in handcuffs, the world often breathes a sigh of relief, marking it as a victory for human rights. But for Catherine Mootian, a survivor from Kenya and the director of the NGO AfyAfrica, the courtroom is only the beginning of a much longer, more arduous journey. “When perpetrators are taken to court, that is important,” Mootian explains, her voice carrying the weight of decades of lived experience. “But what happens to the girl who was cut? Who supports her healing, her education, her future?” Her questions cut to the heart of a global crisis: for millions of women and girls, a legal ban on FGM is a hollow shield if it is not accompanied by the resources to rebuild a shattered life. True justice, according to survivors and activists, must include the right to heal, access to long-term psychological protection, and a social support system that treats the trauma as a lifelong concern rather than a single criminal event.
For too long, the conversation around FGM has focused almost exclusively on the moment of the “cut” and the immediate legal repercussions for those who perform it. However, the reality of life after FGM is a landscape of silence and enduring pain. The damage does not dissipate once the physical wounds close; for many, the psychological and social battle for autonomy and safety is just beginning. In many traditional communities, the practice is so deeply woven into the fabric of social belonging that refusing it is not simply a personal choice, but a form of social suicide. Girls are often forced to choose between their bodily integrity and their ability to marry, inherit property, or remain within their family units. When “marriageability” is tethered to a girl’s status as “cut,” the law becomes a secondary concern to the immediate necessity of survival.
This is where the role of men becomes a pivotal, yet often overlooked, factor in the movement to end the practice. Tony Mwebia, the director of the Kenya-based organization Men End FGM, argues that the architecture of this violence cannot be dismantled without directly challenging the expectations of the men who uphold it. “Men are not just bystanders,” Mwebia asserts. In many patriarchal structures, men are the gatekeepers of tradition; they negotiate dowries, decide which women are acceptable for marriage, and hold the economic power in the household. If the male population continues to demand that their wives be cut, the social pressure on families to comply will remain insurmountable, regardless of what the law says. Mwebia’s work focuses on breaking the “compliance of silence.” Many young men claim to oppose the practice in private, but when faced with the pressure of elders or the threat of losing a dowry of cattle, they often revert to tradition. By encouraging men to publicly reject the practice and state that they will marry uncut women, activists like Mwebia are slowly eroding the social incentives that keep FGM alive.
Despite Kenya having a robust ban on FGM for over a decade, enforcement is notoriously difficult in rural areas where social pressure remains high. Mwebia warns that “you cannot arrest your way out of FGM.” If the underlying social and economic reasons for the practice are not addressed, families simply move the practice underground—cutting in secret, performing the procedure on younger infants who cannot speak out, or crossing national borders to regions where enforcement is lax. This creates a culture of coercion rather than consent. In environments where a woman’s economic security is entirely dependent on her husband, the “choice” to undergo FGM is no choice at all. It is a calculated move for survival in a system that offers no other safety net.
Catherine Mootian’s personal history serves as a harrowing example of how even education and status cannot always protect a child. Despite being the daughter of a doctor, she was cut at the age of 12 within her Maasai community. The memory remains vivid: she and her sisters were ambushed at three o’clock in the morning, forced to bathe in freezing water, and subjected to the surgery with no explanation. The trauma of that night rippled through the rest of her life. In school, she watched other girls boast about their “bravery,” while she retreated into a shell of shame and fear. The psychological toll followed her to university, where she faced myths that women who had been cut were “abnormal” or lacked emotional capacity. For years, she carried a trauma she didn’t have the vocabulary to describe, a silent burden that resurfaced during the most vulnerable moments of her life, including childbirth. Due to the scarring from her procedure, she was forced to undergo Caesarean sections, a common complication for survivors that turns a natural milestone into a renewed medical emergency.
The statistics surrounding this practice are staggering and serve as a reminder that FGM is not just a human rights violation, but a public health emergency. A 2023 study spanning 15 countries estimated that a girl dies every 12 minutes due to complications from FGM. These deaths are not always immediate; they are often the result of long-term infections, obstetric complications, or the mental health crisis that follows the procedure. This is why Mootian founded AfyAfrica in Narok, Kenya. The organization, led by survivors, provides the one thing the legal system often fails to offer: a safe space. It took Mootian 23 years to find the courage to tell her story, and she now works to ensure that other girls don’t have to wait that long. Through peer support and counseling, AfyAfrica addresses the harm that laws cannot reach. However, the scale of the need far outweighs the available resources. In Mootian’s county alone, there are only three government-employed psychologists to serve over 500 registered survivors, leaving the vast majority of women to process their trauma in isolation.
The fragility of legal progress is currently being tested in The Gambia, providing a sobering case study for the international community. Although FGM has been illegal in The Gambia since 2015, those protections have come under sustained political and religious attack. In 2024, a movement within the Gambian parliament attempted to repeal the ban entirely. While that effort was narrowly defeated following intense pressure from survivors and international partners like UN Women, the threat shifted to the judicial branch. In early 2026, religious leaders and a member of parliament brought a case before the Supreme Court, arguing that the ban infringes upon constitutional and religious rights. This ongoing legal battle represents a critical juncture; if the ban is overturned, it would send a message to the world that the rights of women and girls are negotiable and can be rolled back at any time. It highlights the fact that access to justice is not a permanent state but a constant struggle that requires active defense.
Ultimately, the fight against FGM requires a holistic approach that mirrors the complexity of the lives it affects. UN Women remains a central pillar in this effort, working with governments to not only pass laws but to ensure they are enforced and protected from political erosion. However, as Mootian argues, the focus must expand. Justice is not served the moment a cell door closes on a perpetrator; it is served when a survivor has the mental health support to overcome her trauma, the education to secure her own economic future, and a community that respects her bodily autonomy. By funding psychosocial support, protecting activists on the ground, and engaging men in the conversation of reform, the movement can move beyond the courtroom and into the heart of the communities where change is most needed. For Catherine Mootian and millions like her, the goal is clear: to ensure that the “cut” is not the end of a girl’s story, but a catalyst for a world where no girl ever has to experience it again.
