FGM testimony: A journey toward ending FGM/C from Somalia to the Netherlands
Istahil was just six years old when she was taken from Mogadishu to a remote village, unaware of what awaited her. The experience left her with deep physical and emotional scars, compounded by years of silence. Now living in the Netherlands as a refugee, Istahil’s story exposes the intersections of gender-based violence, forced migration, and medical neglect. Her voice stands as a powerful reminder that FGM is not merely a cultural practice, it is a systemic form of violence, sustained by misinformation and the control of women’s bodies.
Hear from other brave survivors in our report “The Time is Now: End Female Genital Mutilation/Cutting (FGM/C)”.
I was born and raised in Mogadishu, Somalia, in a large family with one brother and 5 sisters. We grew up with strong family ties, but war tore us apart. When I was nearly 20, I left Somalia to play basketball nationally thinking I will come back 14 days later but I never came back. When the war erupted, I ended up as a refugee, traveling through Kenya, and eventually found myself alone in the Netherlands. That’s been my life, a journey of survival, adaptation, and resilience.
In the Netherlands, I started a new life. I met my husband in a refugee camp, and against all odds, we fell in love. We married and had three children; one son and two daughters they are young adults now. When I had my first child, no one in the medical system understood my experience. I went through my pregnancies without any doctor acknowledging the scars of FGM or asking me about my past. It was as if my story, my trauma, didn’t exist. Here I was, thinking every woman in the world had gone through it, until I spoke to my husband, a Dutchman. I realised FGM was not universal. I asked him if his mother and his sisters had been cut. He looked at me with confusion, and only then did I begin to understand the extent of my isolation.
When I was six, I was taken to a small village far from Mogadishu. My mother didn’t tell us what would happen. She gave us candies and nice dresses, and we traveled, happy and innocent. When we arrived, they separated me from my sister. My mother led me into a room where a woman was sitting, holding a razor blade. No one said anything. They didn’t explain; they didn’t warn me. Suddenly, I was on the ground. They held my hands and legs, and then I felt the pain, the unimaginable pain. I screamed and cried, but they stuffed my mouth with cloth, and then they stitched me up. After I was cut, I couldn’t urinate because they had sealed everything. When my mother discovered this, she brought someone who heated a metal object and used it to reopen my stitches so I could urinate.
I didn’t understand what had happened to me. Back in Mogadishu, there was a celebration. People were happy, but inside, I was broken. For years, we didn’t talk about it. It was a hidden pain, a silent trauma that lived inside me. Even as I grew older, I still didn’t know why it had been done or even what exactly had happened to me. When I finally found the courage to speak out in 2019, it was like a weight had lifted. I had carried this silence for too long. I forgave the people who did this to me but couldn’t let it continue. I began sharing my story in Dutch and Somalia, and I was determined to break the taboo and make people understand. I am not afraid anymore. Storytelling changes the world, and if my story can bring awareness, it has served a purpose.
FGM is deeply rooted in cultural and religious beliefs. Growing up, I was told it was necessary, that it was a part of being a Muslim woman. But I’ve since learned that’s not true. Religion was used to justify this harmful practice, to manipulate and control. In my community, girls are told they will be unclean and unworthy of marriage if they are not cut. They believe they have no choice. I want to show them there is another way.
There are times when people in my community challenge me, saying FGM is an old tradition and an essential part of our culture. But I don’t care what people say. I know my truth, and I know the pain I endured. I speak up because I don’t want my girls and any other girl to go through what I went through. I have two daughters and I didn’t circumcise them. Today, I advocate for education and awareness. I want healthcare professionals to recognise the signs, ask about them, and address FGM with sensitivity and understanding. Now, things are changing, but we have a long way to go.
I dream of a world where we don’t have to talk about FGM because it no longer exists. I know the United Nations aims to end FGM by 2030, but we need the support of men in positions of power, both in Africa and in Europe. Women’s voices must be heard, and our stories must be valued. It’s a difficult journey, but I believe that by sharing my story and speaking openly, we can challenge the silence and end this practice once and for all.