Shattering Myths: Confronting the Cultural and Religious Misconceptions that Sustain FGM
The belief that FGM is a
religious requirement, particularly within Islamic communities, is widespread
but incorrect. Many argue that FGM, particularly the Sunna cut is mandated by Islam. The term
"Sunna" refers to the practices of the Prophet Muhammad, leading to
the misconception that this form of FGM is a religious obligation. However,
Islamic scholars are divided on the issue. While some hold onto traditional
practices, the majority, including authoritative voices in the Islamic world,
have clarified that FGM has no basis in Islam.
Islamic scripture does not
mandate FGM. In fact, key Islamic texts, including the Quran and Hadith do not mention FGM as a requirement for
women or girls[1].
The Prophet Muhammad's teachings emphasize the importance of mercy, dignity,
and respect for the human body, none of which align with the practice of FGM.
Yet, in many Somali communities, FGM has been passed down through generations
as a cultural tradition, which over time has been conflated with religious
duty.
This misconception stems from a
lack of clear religious guidance in rural and undereducated areas, where
religious and cultural practices blend into one another. FGM is seen as a rite
of passage into womanhood, falsely believed to promote cleanliness and
morality, ideals mistakenly linked to religious purity. Leaders in these
communities, who often hold significant influence over families, perpetuate
these beliefs, sometimes endorsing FGM as a way to preserve a girl’s modesty
and ensure her marriageability. The argument that FGM is religiously required
remains powerful, even though the practice is more deeply rooted in pre-Islamic
tribal customs than in Islamic theology[2].
I wrote this article as both a
personal reflection and a call to action, stemming from the profound experience
of watching my daughters, Dheeman and Aragsan, fall victim to a practice I have
spent my entire career opposing. As a lawyer and human rights defender, I have
fought against harmful traditions like FGM, believing that I could shield my
own family from these violations. However, this experience has shown me that
even in the most personal of battles, cultural norms can overpower individual
conviction, leading to devastating consequences. Sharing this story, I aim
to highlight the pervasive nature of these traditions and to underscore the
importance of continuous advocacy—not just in public spaces but within our own
homes and communities.
Moreover, I wrote this article to
expose the dangerous misconceptions that allow FGM to persist under the guise
of religious obligation. The widespread belief that the Sunna cut is a
religious mandate has created a powerful barrier to change, even among those
who otherwise reject harmful practices.
As a lawyer, human rights
defender, and advocate for the rights of women and girls in the Somali
territories and the Horn of Africa, I never imagined that my own daughters, would one day experience the very violations I have spent
many years fighting against. My advocacy has always been grounded in the belief
that every girl should be free from the oppressive practices that undermine her
dignity and bodily integrity. Yet, to my profound shock and sorrow, this
violation happened within my own home.
For years, my colleagues and
fellow advocates often commented on how "lucky" my daughters were,
given that their father was a committed women's human rights activist. They
believed my profession and passion for justice would safeguard my family from
the harmful practices that are so deeply entrenched in our culture. In many
ways, this assumption was justified: I ensured that Dheeman and Aragsan had
access to education and were raised with the same opportunities as boys. This
was not difficult for me to enforce, as my own father was also a staunch
believer in equal education for both his male and female children. This mindset
was, in fact, a family tradition—one that I took great pride in continuing.
However, there was one area where
I failed to protect my daughters, and that failure weighs heavily on my heart.
Despite my dedication to human rights and my staunch opposition to female
genital mutilation (FGM), I was unable to prevent my daughters from undergoing
this harmful practice. FGM, in all its forms, is a violation of human rights,
and I was certain that my personal and professional stance against it would be
enough to protect Dheeman and Aragsan from this atrocity. However, the power of
culture and tradition proved to be stronger than my convictions.
The conflict escalated when my
wife and my mother began discussing subjecting our daughters to what is
referred to as "Sunna. I was adamantly opposed. I made it clear that I did not want my daughters
to undergo any form of cutting. I believed that, as a father, husband, and son,
I could carry enough weight to convince my family that we could defy this
dangerous tradition. Unfortunately, my mother—firmly rooted in cultural norms
and deeply entrenched in the customs of our ancestors—did not agree. She
questioned how I, as a man, could dare to intervene in what she saw as a
"woman's affair." In her eyes, this was not my decision to make—it
was a long-standing family tradition that she was determined to uphold.
In an attempt to mediate, I
suggested that we let the girls grow up until they were 18 years old, allowing
them the autonomy to decide for themselves whether they wanted to undergo the
procedure. I also reminded my wife and mother that FGM was not a religious
obligation, as many falsely believe. Yet, my wife found herself torn. On one
hand, she was opposed to FGM, but on the other, she found it difficult to
oppose my mother, especially given the persistent belief that the Sunna cut was
linked to religious practice.
Despite my objections and my
attempts to offer alternatives, I found myself at a disadvantage. Cultural
expectations, coupled with the deep respect I held for my mother, prevented me
from pushing my argument further. I did not want to disrespect her. I tried to
convince my mother that times were changing, and that our daughters deserved
the opportunity to grow up free from the harmful traditions that had scarred so
many girls before them. But in the end, tradition triumphed over reason.
The most devastating part of this
experience is that the cutting took place while I was out of the country. When
I returned home, I was met with the shocking and heartbreaking news that my
mother had taken matters into her own hands. The Sunna cut had been performed on
my daughters without my knowledge, without my consent, and against everything I
stood for. The realization that this violation had occurred in my own home,
despite all my efforts to prevent it, was a profound shock.
The aftermath has been nothing
short of heartbreaking. Dheeman and Aragsan now carry the physical and
emotional scars of a practice that I have spent my entire career trying to
eliminate. As their father, I feel an overwhelming sense of guilt. I ask myself
repeatedly: Could I have done more? Could I have been more forceful in my
opposition, and more persuasive in my arguments? Did my absence during this
crucial time create the space for my family to make a decision that I would
never have agreed to?
I hold deep respect for my
mother, and I know that her intentions were not malicious. Like many in our
culture, she believed that FGM was a necessary rite of passage, a tradition
that prepares girls for womanhood. But as a human rights advocate, I know that
FGM is a harmful practice that causes needless pain and suffering and violates
the fundamental rights of girls and women. My daughters' experience has opened
my eyes to just how deeply ingrained these cultural norms are. Even within my
own family, where I thought my advocacy would hold sway, tradition proved too
strong to overcome.
What this experience has taught
me is that the battle against FGM is not only fought in public arenas—through
advocacy, policy changes, and legal reform—but also within our own homes and
families. Cultural traditions run deep, and change is often met with
resistance. But this is where we must begin. If we are to eradicate FGM, we
must challenge the beliefs and practices within our own communities, even when
that means standing up to the people we love most.
In Somali culture,
decision-making around practices like FGM is often viewed as a matter for
women, excluding men, even fathers, from the conversation. This belief that men should not interfere in "women's affairs"
presents a major obstacle to eradicating FGM. In many cases, this cultural
taboo reinforces the idea that issues related to girls' bodies and rites of
passage, including FGM, are strictly within the domain of female family
members, especially mothers and grandmothers.
This creates a paradox where
fathers, who are protectors and providers for their children, are sidelined
when it comes to decisions about their daughters' bodies. Even when men are
educated on the dangers of FGM and oppose it, their voices are often drowned
out by the collective pressure of tradition, which places the decision squarely
in the hands of female relatives. In the case of Dheeman and Aragsan, despite
my clear opposition as their father, my mother upheld the practice, believing
it was her cultural responsibility to ensure that her granddaughters underwent
the Sunna cut.
This belief is particularly
dangerous because it silences those men who might otherwise advocate for their
daughters' well-being. Even when men, like me, take a stand against FGM,
they are often seen as overstepping their boundaries, questioning the wisdom
and authority of the women in their family. In Somali society, respect for
one's elders is paramount, and going against the decisions of a mother or
grandmother can be perceived as a serious offense, further complicating the
efforts of men who want to protect their daughters from FGM.
This intersection of cultural,
religious, and gendered expectations creates a deep-rooted system that is
resistant to change. Women, particularly older generations, become gatekeepers
of harmful practices like FGM, while men are discouraged from intervening. Even
in families where there is clear opposition to the practice, like me, the
combination of cultural pressure, religious misconceptions, and the taboo of
male interference makes it difficult to protect girls from undergoing FGM.
To challenge these
justifications, both cultural norms and religious misconceptions need to be
addressed simultaneously. Religious leaders who speak out against FGM and clarify
that it is not an Islamic requirement play a crucial role in debunking myths
surrounding the practice. Additionally, challenging the cultural belief that
FGM is solely a "woman's affair" can help fathers and other male
family members play a more active role in protecting their daughters. This
shift requires community-wide education and dialogue that encourages men and
women to jointly oppose harmful practices that violate the rights and dignity
of girls.
FGM is a harmful practice with no
basis in Islam, yet it continues to be justified under the guise of religious
and cultural traditions. The exclusion of men from decision-making on their
daughters' bodies further complicates efforts to eradicate FGM, as it
reinforces the power of women who uphold this practice. To protect girls like
Dheeman and Aragsan, a collective approach that includes both men and women, as
well as religious leaders and human rights advocates, is essential in
challenging these beliefs and practices. This experience has reminded me just
how personal this struggle is, and how much work still lies ahead.
Islamic Perspective on FGM
Islamic scholars across the
Muslim world have consistently argued that FGM has no basis in Islamic
doctrine. Neither the Quran nor the Hadith—the sayings and practices of the
Prophet Muhammad—prescribe any form of genital cutting for women. In fact, Islam
emphasizes the protection of bodily integrity, dignity, and health, all of
which FGM directly violates.
Key Islamic scholars, such as
those in Saudi Arabia, Egypt, and other Muslim-majority countries, have
clarified that FGM is a cultural tradition, not a religious obligation. For
instance, in Saudi Arabia, a country known for its adherence to Islamic
teachings, FGM is not practiced or sanctioned by religious authorities[3].
The absence of FGM in Saudi Arabia provides a compelling case that Islam does
not mandate the practice.
Prominent scholars from Egypt’s
Al-Azhar University, one of the most prestigious Islamic institutions, have
also issued fatwas against FGM[4].
In 2007, Egypt criminalized FGM, a significant step in dismantling the cultural
association of FGM with Islam. These examples show how countries with a deep
commitment to Islamic values have publicly rejected FGM, providing clear
religious guidance to their populations.
In Somali communities, the belief
that FGM is part of Islamic practice, particularly the Sunna cut is widespread.
The term "Sunna" itself refers to the traditions of the Prophet
Muhammad, which reinforces the misconception that this form of FGM is a religious
requirement. However, as shown in countries like Saudi Arabia and Egypt, FGM is
not aligned with Islamic teachings.
The persistence of FGM in Somali
communities stems from a blend of cultural and religious confusion. In rural
areas with limited access to religious education, local leaders often propagate
FGM as a moral and religious obligation, confusing pre-Islamic cultural
practices with Islamic beliefs. This is where Somalis could benefit from the
approach taken by other Muslim-majority countries that have separated religious
practices from harmful cultural traditions.
Somalis can learn from the
religious clarity provided by scholars in countries like Saudi Arabia and
Egypt. Public education campaigns led by religious authorities in these
countries have helped to dispel the myth that FGM is an Islamic obligation. Involving
religious scholars in discussions about FGM, Somali communities can begin to
differentiate between religious practice and harmful cultural traditions.
Religious leaders could take
similar steps by issuing clear and unequivocal statements denouncing FGM,
emphasizing that it is not supported by Islamic teachings. Community engagement
through mosques and religious gatherings could serve as powerful platforms to
educate families and dismantle the belief that FGM is necessary for religious
or moral reasons.
Beyond religious clarification,
Somalis must also challenge the cultural perception that decisions about FGM
are solely within the domain of women, excluding fathers and male family
members from the conversation. The example of countries like Egypt shows that
national legislation, backed by religious support, can play a critical role in
changing societal attitudes. Fathers and male family members need to be
empowered to protect their daughters from this harmful practice.
FGM is a human rights issue, not
a religious mandate. Somalia’s path to eradicating FGM lies in aligning with
the Islamic values of bodily integrity and dignity, as demonstrated by
countries like Saudi Arabia, while challenging the cultural norms that
perpetuate this harmful practice
[1] Islamic scripture does not mandate Female Genital Mutilation (FGM), and it is not mentioned in the Quran or authentic Hadiths as a requirement for women or girls. Al-Azhar, one of the most respected Islamic authorities, has issued a fatwa stating that FGM is not a religious practice and is prohibited in Islam. The misconception that FGM is tied to religious duty stems from cultural traditions that have, over time, been conflated with religious beliefs. The practice predates Islam and Christianity, yet persists in some regions due to deep-rooted cultural and social pressures, not religious obligations.
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