The cut that divides: Why FGM persists despite campaigns

World Health Organisation says female cut has no health benefits. [Courtesy]

For generations, a cut has marked the passage from childhood to womanhood in some Kenyan communities. It has been celebrated as tradition, guarded as a cultural rite and, for many families, treated as a ticket to acceptance and marriage.

But for girls who fear the blade, the same ritual can mean pain, fear, stigma and the possibility of being cast out for refusing to conform.

This tension has kept female circumcision, widely referred to as female genital mutilation (FGM), at the centre of debates on women’s rights, health, dignity and culture for decades.

Campaigners against FGM argue that it violates the rights of girls and women and exposes them to serious health and psychological consequences. Yet its persistence shows that laws and awareness campaigns alone cannot easily dislodge a practice embedded in identity, family expectations and community life.

In some communities, the cut is not viewed simply as a medical procedure but as a ceremony through which a girl is welcomed into adulthood. Supporters say it can be accompanied by teaching, grooming and preparation for adult responsibilities.

Steven Mutwiri Mungania, a Meru elder and member of Njuri Ncheke, has defended the practice while acknowledging the controversy surrounding it. “The reasons behind the practice must be understood within the culture of the people,” he says, arguing that describing it only as FGM can shut down conversations with communities that call it female circumcision.

Mungania also challenges the argument that the procedure is inherently unsafe because it is often carried out using crude instruments in unhygienic surroundings. “The practice can still be performed in a clean and hygienic environment by a trained surgeon in a hospital,” he says, comparing it with male circumcision, which has also historically been performed outside medical settings.

The World Health Organisation (WHO), however, describes FGM as a harmful practice with no health benefits. Depending on the type and circumstances, it can cause severe pain, bleeding, infection and other complications, while some forms can result in long-term reproductive and childbirth difficulties. The most severe form, infibulation, involves narrowing the vaginal opening and can cause particularly serious complications. For opponents, therefore, moving FGM into hospitals misses a fundamental point.

Walter Odede Nyakwaka, director of Africa Alive-Kenya chapter, says the age of those subjected to the practice is another critical concern. “When it is performed on young girls, they are denied the right to make choices and decisions about their own bodies,” he argues.

Mungania counters that age alone cannot settle the debate because male circumcision is also performed on children in some cultures.

But Odede says the comparison fails to address the social pressure surrounding girls in communities where refusal can lead to stigma or ostracism.

John Manyara, another Njuri Ncheke official, argues that communities must be allowed to discuss the practice without feeling that their culture is under attack. He proposes allowing the practice in clean and hygienic conditions, setting a minimum age where possible and encouraging less severe forms rather than infibulation. We must recognise the rights of communities, however small they may be,” Manyara says.

A woman from the Kuria community who supports female circumcision, and asked not to be named, frames the issue as one of bodily autonomy. “You have a right to ask a doctor to put a silicone bag in your breast. Why should I not have the right to also ask a doctor to alter my body the way I find acceptable to me?” she asks.

For anti-FGM campaigners, however, consent becomes complicated when the person undergoing the procedure is a child. A child may not have the power to refuse a decision made by parents or elders, particularly where refusal carries the threat of rejection. That is why campaigners increasingly argue that men must be part of the solution.

Odede says men occupy an influential position in many Kenyan households and communities. “Yes, men can help in the elimination of FGM because it is men who are the decision makers in homes and the executors,” he says. “Women are meant to be voiceless and submissive in certain decision-making.”

His observation points to an often-overlooked reality: although FGM is performed on girls and women, the social structures sustaining it can involve men and elders.

In some communities, FGM has traditionally marked a girl’s transition into adulthood and may be accompanied by lessons on family responsibilities, sexuality, marriage and community values. Supporters argue that removing the practice without addressing these wider expectations could leave a cultural vacuum, while opponents say cultural preservation cannot justify physical harm or denying children control over their bodies.

Campaigns have made progress. In 2001, Maendeleo ya Wanawake Organisation established centres for girls who fled their homes to avoid circumcision. But such interventions highlighted a bigger challenge: what happens when girls return home?

Increasingly, the focus is shifting towards changing community expectations through education, dialogue and the involvement of men, women, elders, religious leaders and young people. Alternative rites of passage can preserve cultural teachings without causing physical harm.

For girls at the centre of the debate, however, the issue is ultimately about whether they can enter adulthood without being forced to surrender control of their bodies.