For Catherine Mootian, a survivor of female genital mutilation (FGM) and a prominent advocate in Kenya, the definition of justice is often dangerously narrow. In the halls of power and the chambers of international courts, justice is frequently measured by the number of arrests made or the length of sentences handed down to perpetrators. But for the woman standing in the aftermath of the blade, the legal system often feels like a distant, incomplete remedy. “When perpetrators are taken to court, that is important,” Mootian reflects, her voice carrying the weight of both personal experience and her role as the director of AfyAfrica, an NGO dedicated to ending the practice. “But what happens to the girl who was cut? Who supports her healing, her education, her future?”
This question sits at the heart of a global movement that is beginning to realize that criminalization, while necessary, is merely the first step in a much longer journey toward restoration. For millions of women and girls across the globe, the cessation of the cutting is not the end of the trauma. The damage inflicted by FGM does not vanish once the physical wounds close; it ripples through a woman’s life, affecting her health, her relationships, her economic standing, and her psychological well-being. True justice, advocates argue, must be holistic—encompassing protection, long-term therapy, social reintegration, and the dismantling of the cultural frameworks that allow the practice to persist.
In many communities where FGM remains a deep-seated tradition, the practice is not viewed through the lens of violence, but through the lens of belonging. Girls are often subjected to the procedure not because their families wish them harm, but because they believe it is the only way to ensure a girl’s future. In these social ecosystems, being “cut” is synonymous with being “marriageable.” To refuse the practice is to risk social death: exclusion from the community, the loss of marriage prospects, and the forfeiture of economic security. When a girl’s very survival depends on her compliance with a harmful tradition, the concept of “consent” becomes a facade. As Tony Mwebia, director of the Kenya-based organization Men End FGM, notes, “That is not consent. That is coercion.”
Mwebia’s work highlights a critical and often overlooked dimension of the fight: the role of men. In patriarchal structures where men negotiate dowries and set the standards for social acceptance, their attitudes are the primary drivers of the demand for FGM. “Men are not just bystanders,” Mwebia explains. “They are the ones expected to marry. They decide what is acceptable. If men continue to expect women to be cut, the practice will continue even if it is illegal.” He points out a disturbing trend of “silent compliance,” where young men may claim to oppose the practice in private but succumb to the pressure of elders and fathers when it comes time to marry. By publicly rejecting the requirement that a woman be cut, men can effectively dismantle the social incentives that keep the practice alive.
The personal toll of this “tradition” is best understood through the lived experiences of survivors like Mootian. Despite being raised in an educated household—her father was a medical doctor—Mootian was not shielded from the practice. She recalls being “ambushed” at the age of 12 in her Maasai community. The memory remains vivid: being woken at three in the morning, the presence of men in her room, the chilling instruction to shower with cold water, and the sight of surgical blades. “Nothing was explained to us,” she says. The immediate physical pain was only the beginning. What followed was a lifetime of shame and self-censorship.
The psychological scars of FGM often manifest as a lifelong struggle with identity and fear. In school, while other girls boasted about their “transition to womanhood,” Mootian hid her trauma. In university, she faced the invasive curiosity of men who held damaging myths about circumcised women—claims that they lacked sexual feelings or were somehow “abnormal.” This culture of silence allows the practice to fester. “The event is always fresh in our minds,” Mootian says, describing how her body still reacts viscerally to the sight of blood or surgical instruments. The trauma often resurfaces during major life milestones, particularly childbirth. Because of the scarring caused by FGM, Mootian was forced to undergo caesarean sections, a common complication for survivors who also face higher risks of miscarriages and chronic infections.
The scale of this crisis is a public health emergency of staggering proportions. A 2023 study spanning 15 countries revealed a haunting statistic: a girl dies every 12 minutes due to complications from FGM. These deaths are the result of immediate hemorrhaging, sepsis, or long-term obstetric issues. Despite these risks, the practice persists in the shadows. In Kenya, where a ban has been in place for over a decade, enforcement is a constant battle. Families often find ways to circumvent the law, moving the practice across borders or performing it in secret, late-night ceremonies. Mwebia warns that “you cannot arrest your way out of FGM.” If the social and economic rewards for the practice remain, the law will always be one step behind.
The fragility of legal progress is currently being tested in The Gambia. After banning the practice in 2015, the country has become a battlefield for women’s rights. In 2024, a legislative attempt to repeal the ban sent shockwaves through the international community. While the Gambian parliament ultimately voted to uphold the protections, the victory was short-lived. By January 2026, religious leaders and political figures took the fight to the Supreme Court, arguing that the ban violates constitutional and religious freedoms. This judicial challenge represents a terrifying possibility: that hard-won rights can be stripped away with the stroke of a pen. If the ban is overturned, it would send a clear message to survivors that the state no longer stands with them, effectively removing the legal foundation required to report abuse or seek protection.
This is why organizations like UN Women emphasize that justice must be transformative. It is not enough to simply punish the person with the blade; the system must provide the infrastructure for recovery. This includes funding for psychosocial support, education for girls who are often pulled out of school to be married after being cut, and economic empowerment programs that reduce a woman’s dependence on “marriageability” for survival. Mootian’s organization, AfyAfrica, operates on this principle. Founded by survivors, it provides the safe spaces and counseling that the state often fails to provide. In Mootian’s own county, there are only three government psychologists for over 500 survivors—a gap that leaves hundreds to carry their trauma in isolation.
The path toward ending FGM requires a multi-generational shift in consciousness. It involves survivors like Mootian finding the courage to speak—a process that took her 23 years—and men like Mwebia challenging their peers to redefine masculinity and tradition. It requires international bodies like UN Women to maintain relentless pressure on governments to not only pass laws but to defend them against the tides of political and religious backlash.
Ultimately, the fight against FGM is a fight for the right of every girl to own her body and her future. Justice is not found in a courtroom alone; it is found when a girl can grow up in a community that values her for her mind and her potential, rather than a physical modification. It is found when survivors are given the tools to turn their trauma into advocacy. As Mootian asserts, justice must cater to both sides of the tragedy. “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.” Only then can the cycle of violence truly be broken, and the healing of a generation begin.
