“When perpetrators are taken to court, that is important,” says Catherine Mootian, her voice carrying the weight of both personal history and professional urgency. As a survivor of female genital mutilation (FGM) in Kenya and the director of AfyAfrica—a non-governmental organization dedicated to eradicating the practice—Mootian is intimately acquainted with the limitations of the legal system. “But what happens to the girl who was cut? Who supports her healing, her education, her future?” Her questions strike at the heart of a global crisis that persists long after the physical wounds have closed and the courtroom lights have dimmed.
For millions of women and girls across the globe, the mere existence of a ban on FGM does not equate to justice. True justice is a multifaceted spectrum that includes the right to heal, access to long-term psychological protection, specialized medical therapy, and a robust social support network that prevents ostracization. Yet, for the vast majority of survivors, this comprehensive form of justice remains an elusive dream. Life after female genital mutilation is a narrative rarely explored in mainstream discourse; the damage does not conclude when the blade is put away. For many, the true struggle for survival, protection, and self-reclamation is a lifelong endeavor that begins only after the trauma has been inflicted.
### The Social Architecture of Silence
In many traditional communities, FGM is not merely a ritual but a prerequisite for social existence. Girls often undergo the procedure not out of a belief in its inherent value, but because the alternative is total social excommunication. In these environments, being “marriageable” is synonymous with being cut. When a woman’s economic security, social belonging, and physical safety are tied to her marital status, the concept of “consent” disappears, replaced by a brutal form of social coercion.
This is where the role of men becomes a pivotal, if often overlooked, factor in the fight for eradication. Tony Mwebia, director of the Kenya-based organization Men End FGM, argues that the practice cannot be dismantled without directly addressing the expectations and silence of the men within these communities. “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 breaking the “silent compliance” that often characterizes younger generations of men. While many young men may privately oppose the practice, they frequently succumb to the crushing weight of ancestral tradition and family pressure when it comes time to choose a wife. Fathers may refuse to provide the necessary cattle for a dowry, and village elders may insist on the “purity” of tradition. By encouraging men to publicly reject these expectations, organizations like Men End FGM are helping to dismantle the social incentives that keep the practice alive, creating a cultural environment where a girl’s refusal to be cut does not lead to her abandonment.
### The Failure of Legislation Alone
Kenya has maintained a strict legal ban on FGM for over a decade, yet the practice persists in the shadows. The persistence of FGM in the face of criminalization highlights a sobering reality: you cannot arrest your way out of a deeply rooted cultural phenomenon. When the social rewards for compliance remain high and the penalties for refusal include lifelong poverty and shame, families find ways to bypass the law. This often involves “underground” cutting, where the practice is performed in secret, or “cross-border” cutting, where girls are taken into neighboring territories with more lenient enforcement.
The lack of genuine choice is a theme Catherine Mootian knows all too well. Despite being raised in an educated household—her father was a medical doctor—she was subjected to the cut at the age of 12 within her Maasai community. Education and professional status offered no shield against the weight of tradition. “We were ambushed. We were woken up at three o’clock; men were in our room,” she recalls. The clinical precision of her father’s profession stood in stark contrast to the primitive brutality of the event. “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 Lifelong Echo of Trauma
The immediate physical pain of FGM is frequently followed by decades of psychological scarring, shame, and self-censorship. In the aftermath of her procedure, Mootian found herself living a double life. While other girls in her school spoke with a sense of conditioned pride about their “transition to womanhood,” Mootian retreated into silence. The fear of being judged as “abnormal” or “emotionally cold”—myths frequently perpetuated by men in her community—haunted her through her university years.
“The event is always fresh in our minds,” she says. “In university, the first question from men was often about whether you were cut. I couldn’t talk about it. I carried something I didn’t know how to name.” This trauma is not static; it is reactive. Mootian notes that even decades later, the sight of a surgical blade or the smell of a clinical environment can trigger a visceral physical reaction.
The consequences of FGM often resurface with devastating clarity during a woman’s reproductive years. The physical alterations caused by the procedure can lead to catastrophic complications during pregnancy and childbirth. Mootian herself had to undergo Cesarean sections because of the scarring from her cut. For others, the results are even more tragic: chronic infections, miscarriages, and the high probability of maternal mortality. A 2023 study across 15 countries revealed a terrifying statistic: a girl dies every 12 minutes due to the immediate or long-term health complications of FGM. This makes the practice not just a human rights violation, but a global public health emergency.
### Reclaiming the Narrative: The Gambia and Beyond
While activists in Kenya work to deepen the impact of existing laws, the situation in other regions serves as a warning of how fragile legal progress can be. In The Gambia, where FGM has been illegal since 2015, the legal protections that women and girls rely on have come under sustained political attack.
In 2024, a highly publicized attempt by lawmakers to repeal the national ban on FGM sent shockwaves through the international human rights community. Although the Gambian parliament ultimately voted to uphold the ban following intense pressure from survivors and global partners like UN Women, the victory was short-lived. By January 2026, the battle moved from the legislature to the judiciary. A group of religious leaders and a Member of Parliament brought a case before the Supreme Court, arguing that the ban violates constitutional and religious rights.
This ongoing legal challenge represents a critical tipping point. If the Supreme Court were to overturn the ban, it would effectively strip away the legal foundation women use to report abuse and seek protection. It would send a clear, devastating message: the state no longer stands with the survivors. The Gambian case serves as a stark reminder that justice is not a static achievement; it is a constant struggle that requires the persistent willingness of a society to defend its most vulnerable members.
### A Holistic Vision for the Future
For Mootian and the team at AfyAfrica, the path forward must be paved with more than just legal documents. It requires a massive investment in the human infrastructure of healing. AfyAfrica, founded by survivors in Narok, Kenya, focuses on creating safe spaces where women can finally break their silence. Mootian herself did not share her story for 23 years, illustrating how deep the roots of shame can run.
However, the resources available are nowhere near sufficient to meet the demand. In Mootian’s county, there are only three government psychologists tasked with supporting over 500 known survivors. “Most women have no access to therapy at all,” she explains. “If justice is to work for women, we have to finance the support that allows women to heal. Laws matter, but without sustained funding for counseling, protection, and recovery, survivors are left to carry the consequences alone.”
The work of organizations like UN Women remains essential in this ecosystem. By partnering with local governments to strengthen legal frameworks while simultaneously supporting grassroots organizations that provide safe houses and psychosocial care, they bridge the gap between policy and personhood. They apply the necessary pressure to ensure that hard-won protections are not diluted by political shifts or judicial challenges.
Ultimately, the end of FGM will not come from a single court ruling or a piece of legislation. It will come when the social architecture that demands the cut is dismantled from within. It will come when men like those in Mwebia’s organization stand up and declare that a woman’s worth is not defined by a blade. And it will come when survivors like Catherine Mootian are given the resources not just to survive, but to thrive, ensuring that the next generation of girls can wake up at 3:00 AM without fear, safe in the knowledge that their bodies are their own.
