Every culture tells itself stories.
Stories of who we are. Of where we come from. Of what it means to be a “good” man or woman. These stories are stitched into ceremonies, etched into rituals, and passed from generation to generation like heirlooms. But some stories don’t age well.
Female Genital Mutilation is one of them.
It happens quietly — not in public forums, but in backrooms, secluded villages, and hush-hush ceremonies where resistance is betrayal and compliance is survival. It’s tradition, yes, but not the kind to be romanticized.
FGM is often framed as a cultural rite of passage. But beneath that soft phrasing lies a brutal truth: it is the forced alteration of a girl’s body — often without consent, anesthesia, or understanding. And yet, in many parts of the world, it’s still seen as normal. Even necessary.
So how does a practice so harmful endure?
The Answer is Culture.
Culture isn’t just language, food, or fashion. Culture is default behavior. It’s the invisible script we follow without knowing we’re reading it. It tells a mother that her daughter must be cut to be accepted. It tells a father that a “clean” girl is a good girl. It tells a girl: this pain is your pathway to belonging.
And this is where the tragedy lies: FGM survives not because people are evil, but because systems are unchallenged.
Most people don’t wake up and decide to perpetuate harm. They simply don’t question what’s already been done. They inherit the ritual and pass it on like a family recipe — unaware it’s laced with poison.
Here’s the uncomfortable truth:
FGM doesn’t persist because of ignorance. It persists because of silence.
We’ve been taught not to interfere. Not to speak. Not to ask, “Why?”
But silence is never neutral. In matters of harm, silence is complicity.
Now, the good news: cultures are not static.
Culture is not a stone tablet. It’s wet clay. It changes when we shape it differently — with new stories, new rituals, and new forms of honor.
I’ve seen it in communities where brave women return from exile to say: “This ends with me.”
I’ve seen it in elders who, after decades of defending tradition, say: “We didn’t know better. Now we do.”
Change never begins with everyone. It starts with someone. Someone who raises a hand. Someone who says, “No more.”
That’s what this fight is — not a war against culture, but a reimagination of it.
So, what do we do?
We speak. We educate. We listen to survivors, not just as victims, but as agents of change. We fund community leaders, not just NGOs. We challenge the narrative, not just the practice.
And maybe most importantly — we dare to tell a better story.
A story where a girl’s worth is not measured by pain endured, but by dreams pursued.
A story where tradition doesn’t bind, but uplifts.
A story where culture evolves.
Because the best traditions are the ones we’re proud to pass on.
Every culture tells itself stories. Stories of who we are. Of where we come from.…