The Unseen Battle: Why Ending FGM Demands a Revolution of Healing and Social Change.
For Catherine Mootian, the pursuit of justice is a concept that remains tragically incomplete. As a survivor of female genital mutilation (FGM) and the director of AfyAfrica, a Kenyan-based NGO, she has spent years navigating the complex aftermath of a practice that claims the bodies and spirits of millions. While the global community often celebrates the passage of laws and the prosecution of perpetrators, Mootian points to a glaring void in the current framework of human rights. “When perpetrators are taken to court, that is important,” she observes. “But what happens to the girl who was cut? Who supports her healing, her education, her future?”
Her question strikes at the heart of a global crisis. For millions of women and girls, the mere existence of a ban is not synonymous with justice. True justice is a multifaceted pillar; it requires the ability to heal from profound trauma, access to specialized medical care, long-term psychological support, and the dismantling of the social structures that make the practice feel inevitable. For too many, these components remain out of reach, leaving survivors to carry the physical and emotional scars of their experience in a vacuum of silence.
The reality of life after FGM is a narrative seldom explored in mainstream discourse. The damage does not conclude when the physical wound heals. Instead, for many survivors, the act of being cut marks the beginning of a lifelong struggle for autonomy and protection. In the communities where FGM is most prevalent, the practice is deeply interwoven with the concepts of identity, marriageability, and social belonging. This cultural entanglement creates a paradox where laws may exist on paper, but the social cost of following them remains prohibitively high.
In many regions, a girl’s refusal to undergo FGM is not viewed as an exercise of her rights, but as an act of social suicide. Refusal can lead to total exclusion from the community, the loss of marriage prospects, and the forfeiture of economic security. When a woman’s survival is tied to her status as a “marriageable” member of society, and that status is contingent upon being cut, the concept of consent becomes a myth. Tony Mwebia, the director of the Kenya-based organization Men End FGM, argues that the practice cannot be dismantled without directly confronting the expectations of men.
“Men are not just bystanders,” Mwebia explains. “They are the ones expected to marry. They negotiate dowry. They decide what is acceptable. If men continue to expect women to be cut, the practice will continue even if it is illegal.” Mwebia’s work focuses on the silent majority—men who may personally oppose the practice but feel pressured by elders and tradition to demand it in their own households. He describes a cycle of compliance where fathers refuse to provide cattle for dowries unless a girl is cut, and young men, fearing social ostracization, remain silent. By encouraging men to publicly reject the practice, Mwebia aims to break the social pressure that makes FGM feel like a mandatory rite of passage.
The psychological impact on men who witness the reality of the procedure is often profound. Mwebia notes that when men are educated on the biological and traumatic specifics of the cut, the reaction is often one of horror. “When men see what really happens, they say it feels like watching a horror movie,” he says. This shift in perspective is vital for creating a world where girls can refuse the practice without fear of retribution or loneliness.
Despite Kenya’s robust legal ban on FGM, which has been in effect for over a decade, enforcement remains a significant challenge. In rural enclaves where traditional authorities hold more sway than the state, the practice has simply moved underground. Families may cross borders into neighboring countries to perform the ceremony or carry it out in secret, often at younger ages to minimize the chance of a girl seeking help. Mwebia is blunt about the limitations of the legal system: “You cannot arrest your way out of FGM. If the social incentives remain, families will find ways around the law.”
Catherine Mootian’s own story serves as a harrowing testament to how even “protected” children can fall victim to the practice. Despite being raised in an educated household—her father was a medical doctor—she was not spared. At the age of 12, in her Maasai community, she and her sisters were subjected to a pre-dawn ambush. “We were woken up at three o’clock, men were in our room,” she recalls. “Nothing was explained to us. We were told to shower with cold water. The next thing we realized, they removed the surgery blades. And yes… we were cut.”
The immediate physical pain was only the beginning. What followed was a decades-long journey through shame and self-censorship. In school, while other girls spoke with a forced sense of pride about their “womanhood,” Mootian hid her trauma. The silence continued into her university years, where she encountered men who viewed cut women through a lens of harmful myths—believing they lacked sexual feelings or were fundamentally “abnormal.”
The long-term consequences of FGM often resurface during the most vulnerable moments of a woman’s life. For Mootian, childbirth became a secondary trauma. Due to the scarring and physical alterations caused by the cut, she was forced to undergo Caesarean sections. For other survivors, the complications are even more dire, including chronic infections, psychological distress, and a high risk of maternal and infant mortality. A 2023 study across 15 countries revealed a chilling statistic: a girl dies every 12 minutes due to complications arising from FGM. This makes the practice not only a human rights violation but a global public health emergency.
Today, Mootian is turning her pain into a catalyst for change through AfyAfrica. Founded by survivors in Narok, the organization provides the very things Mootian lacked as a young girl: a safe space to speak and the resources to heal. “Healing started when I realized I was not alone,” she says. However, the scale of the need vastly outweighs the available resources. In her county, Mootian points out that there are only three government-employed psychologists to serve over 500 registered survivors. Without sustained funding for counseling and protection, the legal victory of a ban remains a hollow one for those left to carry the psychological burden alone.
The fragility of legal progress is currently being tested in The Gambia. While FGM was banned there in 2015, the law has come under sustained political and judicial attack. In 2024, a highly publicized attempt by lawmakers to repeal the ban was narrowly defeated in parliament, a move that was celebrated by UN Women and international human rights advocates. Yet, the victory was short-lived. In January 2026, religious leaders and a member of parliament took the battle to the Supreme Court, arguing that the ban violates constitutional and religious rights.
The Gambian case serves as a warning to the world. If the Supreme Court were to overturn the ban, it would effectively strip women and girls of their primary legal shield. It would signal that their bodily autonomy is negotiable and that the state is no longer a guarantor of their safety. This judicial challenge underscores that access to justice is not a static achievement but a constant battle that requires the defense of laws as much as their creation.
UN Women remains at the forefront of this defense, working to strengthen legal frameworks while simultaneously supporting the grassroots organizations that provide direct care. The organization emphasizes that justice must be restorative. This means ensuring that when a perpetrator is held accountable, the survivor is also given the tools to rebuild her life. It involves financing education for girls at risk, providing specialized healthcare for survivors, and engaging in the long-term work of shifting cultural paradigms.
Ending FGM requires a global commitment to seeing the woman behind the statistic. It requires acknowledging that a surgical blade leaves marks that no courtroom can erase on its own. As Mootian continues her work in Kenya, her message is clear: the law is the starting point, but the destination is a society where no girl has to trade her physical integrity for a sense of belonging. “If we want justice,” she says, “we must make sure both sides are catered for. That means psychosocial support, education, and the support women need to heal and achieve their dreams.” The path forward is long, but it is paved by the voices of those who refuse to stay silent any longer.
