The scales of justice are often measured by the weight of a gavel, but for Catherine Mootian, a survivor of female genital mutilation (FGM) in Kenya, the courtroom is only the first step in a much longer journey toward restoration. As the director of AfyAfrica, an NGO dedicated to eradicating the practice, Mootian frequently poses a question that strikes at the heart of the global human rights movement: “When perpetrators are taken to court, that is important. But what happens to the girl who was cut? Who supports her healing, her education, her future?”
For millions of women and girls across the globe, the criminalization of FGM is a necessary shield, but it is not a cure. True justice, according to survivors and advocates, requires a holistic ecosystem of protection, including access to specialized medical care, long-term psychological therapy, and robust social support networks. Yet, in many of the world’s most affected regions, this comprehensive version of justice remains a distant dream. The trauma of FGM does not end when the physical wounds close; for many, the psychological and social battle for survival has only just begun.
The silence surrounding life after the cut is one of the greatest obstacles to ending the practice. While the international community focuses on prevention and legal frameworks, the lived experience of survivors—the decades of shame, medical complications, and social exclusion—often remains in the shadows. To understand why FGM persists despite being illegal in many nations, one must look at the complex intersection of marriageability, patriarchal expectations, and the heavy price of social belonging.
In many traditional communities, FGM is not viewed as a choice, but as a prerequisite for existence within the social fabric. Refusing the procedure can lead to immediate ostracization, rendering a girl “unmarriageable” and effectively stripping her of economic security and social status. This is where the attitudes of men become the ultimate pivot point. Tony Mwebia, the director of the Kenya-based organization Men End FGM, argues that the practice cannot be dismantled without directly challenging the expectations of the men who sustain the marriage market.
“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 reveals a frustrating paradox: while many young men claim to oppose FGM in principle, they often succumb to the weight of tradition when it comes time to choose a wife. The pressure from elders, the threat of being denied family inheritance, and the deep-seated myths regarding a woman’s purity create a culture where silence becomes a form of compliance.
Campaigns like Men End FGM seek to break this cycle by encouraging men to publicly reject the requirement of the cut. By vocalizing their preference for uncut partners, these men help dismantle the social pressure that makes the practice feel unavoidable. However, the transition from legal prohibition to cultural transformation is slow and fraught with resistance. Even in Kenya, where a ban has been in effect for over a decade, enforcement remains a challenge. Families often resort to “underground” cutting, crossing borders to neighboring countries with more lenient laws, or performing the procedure in the middle of the night to avoid detection.
Catherine Mootian’s own story serves as a harrowing reminder of how easily these protections can be bypassed. Despite being the daughter of a doctor and growing up in an educated household, she was not spared. At the age of 12, in her Maasai community, she and her sisters were ambushed. “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 precursor to a lifetime of trauma. In her school years, Mootian found herself caught between two worlds. While other girls spoke with a misplaced sense of pride about their circumcision—viewing it as a rite of passage into womanhood—Mootian felt only a deep, abiding shame. She hid her experience, carrying a secret that felt like a physical weight. As she moved into adulthood and university, the trauma evolved but never vanished. Men would ask if she was cut, fueled by myths that such women were “abnormal” or lacked sexual feeling.
“The event is always fresh in our minds,” Mootian says, describing the visceral physical reactions she still experiences today. “To this day, if I see blood or a surgical blade, my body reacts. The trauma is still there, under the surface.” For Mootian and countless others, the consequences of FGM resurface during the most vulnerable moments of life, particularly during pregnancy and childbirth. Because of the scarring caused by the cut, Mootian was forced to undergo Caesarean sections for her deliveries. For women with less access to medical care, the results are often fatal.
The medical reality of FGM is a public health emergency. A 2023 study spanning 15 countries revealed a terrifying statistic: a girl dies every 12 minutes due to complications from female genital mutilation. These deaths are rarely attributed to the practice in official records, often masked as infections, hemorrhages, or obstetric failures, yet they are the direct result of a tradition that prioritizes cultural compliance over human life.
Today, Mootian is turning her pain into a catalyst for change through AfyAfrica, which provides safe spaces for survivors in Narok, Kenya. The organization focuses on the healing that laws cannot provide. “Healing started when I realized I was not alone,” she says. However, the resources available are woefully inadequate. In her county, there are only three government-employed psychologists to serve over 500 registered survivors. Without sustained funding for mental health and recovery, survivors are essentially left to carry the psychological burden of their trauma in isolation.
The fragility of legal progress is currently being tested in The Gambia, where a landmark ban established in 2015 is under unprecedented threat. In 2024, a group of lawmakers attempted to repeal the ban, sparking an international outcry. While the Gambian parliament ultimately voted to uphold the protections, the victory was short-lived. By 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.
This ongoing case in The Gambia serves as a stark warning to the global community: legal rights are not permanent. If the Supreme Court were to overturn the ban, it would send a clear message that the state no longer stands with women and girls. It would strip away the legal foundation required to report abuse and hold perpetrators accountable, effectively legitimizing a human rights violation under the guise of religious freedom. The Gambian case highlights that access to justice is not a static achievement but a continuous battle that requires the constant defense of existing laws.
UN Women continues to play a pivotal role in this global struggle, working on multiple fronts to ensure that the progress made over the last several decades is not rolled back. The organization’s strategy involves a three-pronged approach: strengthening national laws, supporting grassroots women’s organizations that provide direct survivor services, and maintaining international pressure on governments to uphold their human rights commitments.
Ultimately, the fight to end FGM is about more than just stopping the blade; it is about redefining what it means to be a woman in a changing world. It is about ensuring that a girl’s value is not tied to a physical modification and that her community offers her protection rather than coercion. For Catherine Mootian, the work will not be finished until every survivor has the resources to heal and every girl has the right to grow up whole. “If we want justice,” she insists, “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.”
