By Anonymous 

Age: 26

Country: United States 

(Read the Hindi translation of this article here.)

I remember hearing about it for the first time in my Saturday school class. A male teacher was taking our class that Saturday morning, and the topic was circumcision. At the ripe age of 14, I didn’t really know what that meant, but I did know it involved something that was related to sex-ed. I awkwardly sat with the girls in my class on the right side of the room, separated from the boys by a wide space, who sat on the left side of the room. The teacher began to speak about male circumcision; that skin was surgically removed from a boy for hygienic reasons. He then went on to explain female circumcision; that it was done to curb a girl’s sexual desire. Girls were meant to be chaste, quiet, and obedient. Circumcising little girls was the only way to keep them from being promiscuous. It was the only way to stop them from bringing shame to their families.

I remember sitting there, having no idea what my teacher was talking about. I was sure I had never undergone this procedure, or whatever my 14-year- old brain could comprehend from the Gujrati he was speaking – it was not my first language. I felt extremely uncomfortable and unsettled as I sat in that room that day.

I remember going to a sleep-over at an older girl’s house that same Saturday, where the topic inevitably turned to what we had heard at Saturday school earlier that day. I sat quietly as one girl, a bit of a know-it-all, explained why this procedure was done on girls, and how it made us better Muslims and better Bohris – because circumcision ensured that we would never be tempted by sexual desires and pre-marital sex; it cleaned us, purified us. I listened intently as other girls relayed their circumcision stories, all the while feeling like a fraud because I knew that I had never undergone this “rite of passage”. I know now that I still didn’t understand then, what this rite of passage truly meant. All it meant to me was that I didn’t fit in, that I was a “bad girl”, that I was dirty, and that I was just pretending to be a good Muslim. 

I remember finally working up the courage to ask my mom about it a few weeks later. I watched awareness dawn in her eyes, as I relayed what we had learned in class. I saw the look on her face when I hopefully asked her if I had had this procedure done, and just didn’t remember. She shook her head. She had always meant to take me to get it done, when we were in India but had just never gotten around to it. I told her the stories I had heard from my friends and asked her if she could explain this procedure to me since I had had trouble understanding it in my class. She proceeded to explain the process of khatna to me; the removal of skin from a girl’s clitoris, to make her clean and pure. As I heard the explanation, I cringed. She watched me for a few minutes and then stated with authority that the next time we went to India she would take me to my aunt, a doctor, who would perform the procedure on me. I sank to my knees in front of her, begging her not to do this to me, begging her not to make me undergo what sounded like an unimaginably painful procedure. I promised her that I would be good, I would be clean, I would do anything she wanted if she would just forget this whole thing. She exhaled, saying “we’ll see” in a soft, resigned voice.

I remember getting older, doing more research on what khatna even meant, listening to my cousin passionately talk about how wrong it was, and realizing what a monumental loss my mother had spared me from. As an adult, I view the practice of khatna very differently than I did as an impressionable teenager. So many young girls have had this choice stolen from them.

No one has asked them if this is something that they want. Their families have decided to steal a part of who they are, without any regard for what it will do to them, and often times make the decision to bring their precious little girls to unsterile and inexperienced hands to do something so serious to their bodies. 

I remember seeing a huge Facebook discussion break out months ago, where a very outspoken girl I know accused people who work to stop khatna of “airing the dirty laundry” of the Bohri community in such a public way. In that moment I had never felt so much shame at someone in my community. This practice is wrong, and the non-consensual nature of it makes it even more heartbreaking and deplorable, to me. When your community is doing something questionable and touting it as a religious practice revered by the Prophet (PBUH), you don’t close ranks and hide deeper in the shadows. You open the floor to debate and discuss how we can become better as a community. You discuss how we can protect the young girls and young women of our community and give them the chance to make their own choices, rather than taking their choices away from them.

We can do better as a global community to stop this. My mother saved me. She put her love for me first, and I am the woman I am today because of her. I am forever grateful for her protection and guidance. All young women deserve the same protection, the same love, the same respect, and the same autonomy over their bodies. It’s the least we can do. 

(This article was originally published in English on November 5, 2016. Read the English version here.)

उम्र: 64

देश: संयुक्त राज्य अमेरिका

महिला जननांग विकृति या FGM के खिलाफ खड़े होने का समय आ गया है। यह लंबे समय से बाकी है। यह तब भी सही नहीं था जब मेरी माँ इससे गुज़री, यह तब भी सही नहीं था जब मैं इससे गुज़री और यह तब भी सही नहीं था जब मैंने अपनी बेटी के साथ यह होने दिया (मेरे माता-पिता के दबाव में)।

जिस दिन भारत में मेरे साथ एफजीएम किया गया था, मुझे उस दिन की याद है। मैं लगभग छह या सात साल की थी। मेरे भाई, जो मुझसे उम्र में बड़ा था, उसको एक दोस्त के घर पर खेलने के लिए दूर भेज दिया गया था एक महिला, जिसे मैंने पहले कभी नहीं देखा था, वह आयी और मुझे मेरे माता-पिता के बेडरूम में ले जाया गया जहां एफजीएम किया गया था।

मुझे लगता है कि उस घटना और उस दिन की असहज स्मृति को मैंने दबा दिया है – बस उस महिला और मुझे नीचे लिटाए रखने वाली मेरी माँ की तस्वीर को छोड़कर। मुझे याद नहीं है कि खतना के पीछे का कौनसा कारण मुझे बताया गया था। लेकिन मुझे याद है कि मेरी अनुमति के बिना मेरे शरीर के सबसे गुप्त अंग के साथ जो किया गया था, उससे मैं बहुत नाराज़ थी। यह मेरे जिस्म पर अतिक्रमण था। सबसे अधिक, मुझे इस बात पर नाराजगी है कि जिस व्यक्ति पर मैंने उस छोटी उम्र में जीवन में सबसे अधिक भरोसा किया था, उनहोंने मेरे साथ ऐसा होने दिया। हो सकता है, इसीलिए, मेरा एक हिस्सा है जो मेरी माँ को माफ नहीं कर सकता है और मुझे आश्चर्य है कि मेरी बेटी ने मुझे उसी काम को करने के लिए माफ कर दिया है।

एफजीएम को सही दिखाने के लिए इसे धर्म के लिबास में ढका जा रहा है। पर जल्द ही साहियो जैसे संगठन इस क्रूर प्रथा को बंद कर देंगे। जब तक सैयदना एफजीएम की निंदा नहीं करते हैं, और अपनी बात अमल नहीं करते हैं, तब तक मुझे खुद को दाउदी बोहरा कहने में शर्म आएगी।

Age: 64

Country: United States

(Read the Hindi translation of this article here.)

It’s time to take a stand against Female Genital Mutilation. It’s long overdue. It wasn’t right when my mother went through it (I assume she did but I never asked her about it), it wasn’t right when I went through it and it wasn’t right when I put my daughter through it (under pressure from my parents).

I have a hazy recollection of the day the FGM was performed on me back in India. I was approximately six or seven years old. My brother, who was older than me, was sent away for the day to play at a friend’s house. A lady, who I’d never seen before, came over and I was taken to my parents’ bedroom where the FGM was performed.

I seem to have blocked the uncomfortable memory of that event and day – except for that image of the lady and my mom holding me down. I’m not sure what explanation was given to me about the reason why this had to be done. I remember deeply resenting what was done to the most intimate part of my body without my permission – akin to being violated. Most of all, I resent the fact that the person whom I trusted the most in life at that young age, allowed it to happen. Maybe, that is why, there is a part of me that cannot forgive my mom and I am amazed that my daughter has forgiven me for doing the exact same thing that I resented being done to me.

FGM is an insidious custom using the cloak of religion to appear correct. It’s only a matter of time when the untiring work of organizations like Sahiyo will stop this barbaric tradition rooted in a twisted interpretation of Islamic traditions. Till the Syedna denounces FGM, and puts his words into action, I will be ashamed to call myself a Dawoodi Bohra.

(Cover photo courtesy: ‘A Pinch of Skin’)

(Originally posted by BEYONDHIJABSG on 6 FEBRUARY, 2016. Republished here with permission.)

Country: Singapore

Community: Malay

By: Nurul Fadiah Johari

I have a memory of my little sister going through circumcision. It is all vague to me now. I was 4, and she was a baby. I only remember being brought over to the house of an old masseuse who provided my mother with post-natal care. I remember hearing my sister, who was 8 months old at the time, wailing loudly and then something was buried in a pot of soil outside my home. I had naively thought that my sister was born with a penis and had to be circumcised, just like male babies. Later, I learnt that this was not the case.

In The Hidden Face of Eve, El Saadawi documents the gory and painful practices of FGM in the Arab world. This can be compared to findings from the Malay world. Though the practices here are slightly different, it is still done with the oft-quoted intent of controlling female sexuality, or the presumption that it is a religious obligation. This is ironic, given that the term sunat, in Islamic textual traditions, actually means “something that is not obligatory”.

In Islam, the body is sacred. It is neither a source of temptation nor sin. It is an amanah, or trusteeship from God. It simply just means that as souls, we humans have been entrusted to honour and beautify the body. It means that any form of harm contravenes Islamic principles. Muslims celebrate beauty of creation by preserving and protecting it. Hence, as a Muslim woman, I believe that my body is sacred and thus I honour it by exercising my full agency as a human being.

There are too many taboos and misunderstandings which have been perpetuated within an increasingly conservative Muslim community. Nonetheless, I choose to remain optimistic through the work I do and the voices of young Muslims (especially women) that I hear from many parts of the world. Social media has made it easier to hear the voices of women, which has traditionally been silenced. We are living in the 21^st century after all. It is the age of youth and where the disempowered demand their voices be heard. One day, our collective prayers will be heard. And for that, I am thankful that changes will happen, one step at a time.

Age: 34

Country: USA

I was six years old when my mom explained to me that I had to undergo the procedure of khatna – that a small surgery would happen on my private parts. I simply understood that it was one of the many rituals that I, as a Muslim girl, would experience. So one night when my parents and I were at the markaz for an event, my mom took me with her to the back room storage area where a young woman introduced herself as a doctor. The cutting happened so quickly – I do not remember any pain. I do not remember being afraid. I was given a maxi pad to wear which felt awkward. And was then asked to go into the men’s section to tell my dad we were ready to go home.

While physically, I was not severely damaged, emotionally the experience of khatna has held a sobering cloud over my understanding of sexual health. The practice of khatna reinforced the idea that a woman’s sexuality is to be protected and hidden and not talked about. This is compounded by the policing of menstruating women – that we cannot touch the Qur’an or enter the Masjid while on our period. This all serves to define female genitalia as dirty things to be cut, cleaned or controlled.

It took me years to unlearn this internalised oppression and find a way to practice Islam in a way that allows me to feel empowered by my sexuality instead of ashamed of it. I am also grateful that my parents are part of this journey with me and are speaking out against the practice of khatna. I know my mom especially regrets that she caved to the pressure from her parents and allowed khatna to be performed on me. I wish I could take that burden of guilt away from her. I can only hope that as she sees me in a healthy relationship with my husband now, she knows that I am OK and that we can work together to ensure the practice of genital cutting ends with my generation.

Country: Singapore

Community: Malay

By: Afiqa Ab Rahman

Recently I attended a workshop where participants from Singapore, Malaysia, India, and Thailand shared their experiences and discussed Female Genital Mutilation (FGM). Variations of the term include Female Genital Cutting (FGC) or “Sunat Perempuan”.

It was intriguing to hear the experiences and research findings from various countries. But what intrigued me the most was to find that FGM was not considered a problem in some countries. The participants from Thailand, for example, shared that 100% of their women have been cut as it is seen as an identity marker of being Pattani Malay and nobody questioned it.

From speaking to women, the researcher from Malaysia offered some reasons that were given on why FGM is done. She explained that some mothers thought that it was an empowering choice for the mother to decide on her daughter’s circumcision because it wasn’t the father’s or any male family members who decided. A participant from India opposed this “empowering choice” concept. What I understood from her comment was that patriarchy was to blame for having women internalise FGM as “ideas of women” and think that the choices they make for their daughters are empowering. I couldn’t agree more.

In my opinion, what is empowering is accepting that your daughter has personal agency and that they can choose what to do (or not) to their bodies. What is empowering is also to have the courage to question the practice.

Personally, I had been cut as a child. In fact, all the women in my family have been cut. The doctor used a sharp knife to nick my clitoral hood. And in all honesty, if I hadn’t asked my mother whether I was circumcised, I wouldn’t have known. I thought my vulva showed no signs of circumcision. When I asked my mother why she had me circumcised, she explicitly stated that it was to “decrease my libido” – the very same reason why all the women in my family have gotten circumcised.

Let’s think about this – as a woman, and as a mother, does that sound right? Doesn’t nicking the clitoral hood, expose it to external stimulations? How would it “decrease the libido”? Isn’t it also very patronizing that the reason for circumcision is to prevent girls from “becoming promiscuous and going astray”? And if the purpose of circumcision is to decrease women’s libido, what is being done to decrease men’s libido?

I think what we should be doing is not just accept this practice without questioning. Why is “sunat perempuan” so shameful to discuss and deemed a taboo? I think it’s about time people are open to discussing this so as to decide whether it’s really beneficial and necessary. This could save people a lot of money (from not having to pay for the procedure). And in some countries, it could save many lives too.

On October 6, Sahiyo co-founders Insia Dariwala and Aarefa Johari were given an opportunity to introduce the topic of Female Genital Cutting to a host of grassroots social workers in Mumbai. This opportunity came through an invitation from the Justice and Peace Commission, one of many organisations run by the Catholic Church in Mumbai to work with local communities across religious lines. The Commission runs community centres across the city, but the session that Sahiyo conducted with more than 20 social workers was held at JPC’s headquarters at St. Pius College.

Most of the participants in the session were grassroots activists working in their respective communities and neighbourhoods on a range of issues, particularly women and children’s rights. The topic of FGC or khatna was new to many of them, and they were keenly interested in Sahiyo’s introduction to the issue, the explanation of the reasons cited for practicing khatna and how FGC is essentially a social norm like so many others.

Participants were then encouraged to discuss various social norms in their own cultures and how they could possibly be combatted. This was an enthusiastic and very involved audience, and the topic of social norms led to very lively discussions. Predictably, the women grew more lively while talking about menstrual taboos and one woman shared a heartening story of how her young daughter changed the norm in their home by refusing to follow her grandmother’s menstrual restrictions.

Most of the participants were women, but the few men in the audience spoke of the pressures to be ‘masculine’ as a social norm. One of the activists talked about how she makes both boys and girls at her NGO do household chores, even though the boys are not expected to do the sweeping or cleaning at in their own homes.

After the talk, several participants expressed an interest in discussing FGC with their own Bohra friends. We sincerely thank the Justice and Peace Commission for giving us this opportunity.