FGM testimony: a survivor’s story from small-town America
Female genital mutilation (FGM) is often seen as a distant issue, but it also affects women in countries such as the United States. Dr. A. Renee Bergstrom was subjected to FGM at the age of three in a small South Dakota town. Her experience, rooted in religious beliefs, highlights how harmful practices can be perpetuated anywhere when obscurantism goes unchallenged. Today, she uses her voice to support survivors and remind the world that FGM is a global issue.
Her testimony is part of a series included in our report “The Time is Now: End Female Genital Mutilation/Cutting (FGM/C)” co-written with Equality Now and the US End FGM/C Network.
“My name is Dr. A. Renee Bergstrom. I am 80 years old, a mother of three, grandmother of ten, and great-grandmother of one. I grew up in South Dakota, United States, surrounded by the plains and a tight-knit family of five children. My brother was just thirteen months older than me, and I had twin sisters who were 18 months younger. My parents had another daughter ten years later. We were a busy household, and life was not without its challenges.
My husband and I have lived in Minnesota for over 60 years, and we currently live in Lanesboro, a small town in Southeast Minnesota. It’s a beautiful place, known for its art and theater scene, and it suits my passions well. I’m an artist, a photographer, a weaver, and a watercolour painter, and I find peace in creative expression. My life is rich with friends, reading, and discussions. I’ve retired from my career as a patient educator at the Mayo Clinic, but I remain active in advocacy and education, especially on a deeply personal issue that shaped my life: female genital mutilation (FGM).
When I was three years old, a doctor cut my body. My mother had taken me to the clinic after noticing I was touching my genital area while playing. Concerned, she sought advice from a doctor who was a member of the Seventh-day Adventist church. At the time, their teachings were strict about masturbation, viewing it as sinful. The doctor told my mother, “I can fix that,” and performed what I now know was FGM, removing my outer clitoris.
I remember the pain. I remember lying on the table, seeing my mother at the foot of it, and feeling betrayed. When we got home, she told me, “Never talk about this.” From that moment, I carried a secret that wasn’t mine to bear, protecting her from shame.
The physical consequences were immediate and lasting. Some sensitive tissue fused with my inner labia, causing a constant tugging sensation that I endured for decades. At 15, I drove myself to the family clinic, not realising it was the same place where I’d been cut. I told the doctor, “Some stupid doctor cut me, and now I have this problem. Can you fix it?” Instead of helping me, he handed me a brochure on the “sin of self-pleasuring.”
The emotional toll was just as profound. In my late teens, as I grieved the loss of my brother, I also began to grieve for the loss of my body. When I gave birth years later, the scar tissue didn’t stretch, causing significant complications. The medical team didn’t inform me of what was happening; they anesthetised me and performed an extensive episiotomy. Recovery was painful, and intercourse afterward was excruciating. A doctor told me, “You don’t look like other women,” and explained how the cutting had altered my anatomy. I lived with discomfort until menopause when the scar tissue finally began to separate.
For years, I didn’t share my story, not with friends, not with my siblings, and not even with my children. The silence was isolating. When I became a mother, I couldn’t talk about my birth experiences as other women did. It wasn’t until my thirties, after moving to a new town, that I found the strength to confront what had happened. Looking out my window one morning, I saw a nearby church and broke down in tears. The realisation that a religious institution had played a role in my cutting overwhelmed me. I spoke to my pastor, who referred me to a social worker. That was the beginning of my healing.
Speaking out wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. I began sharing my story publicly, first with organisations in Geneva working to end FGM. Over time, I connected with other survivors from diverse backgrounds, and we formed a unique bond. Despite our differences, we all understood the shame and stigma forced upon us.
One of the most challenging parts of my advocacy has been the impact on my family. When I finally told my children about my experience, my daughter, who was very close to my mother, struggled to reconcile the truth. My grandchildren learned about my story through an article published in The Guardian. While the timing was unexpected, I was relieved that the conversation had started. I’ve been fortunate to receive overwhelming support from my family and friends, but I understand why others might stay silent.
FGM is shrouded in secrecy, often perpetuated by shame. I know that in the small North Dakota community where I was cut, other girls must have experienced the same, yet I’ve never connected with them. Silence is powerful; it isolates us and protects the systems that harm us. Breaking that silence takes courage but is the only way to create change.
Today, I work to raise awareness and support survivors. I’ve collaborated with a Somali woman to create brochures for infibulated women, helping them plan labor and delivery to avoid unnecessary cesarean sections. I speak to medical students annually, emphasising the importance of cultural sensitivity and trust-building with patients who’ve experienced trauma. I also write op-eds and participate in programs like the Public Voices Fellowship on Advancing the Rights of Women and Girls.
Education is key to ending FGM. Healthcare providers must be trained to recognise and support survivors. Communities need to challenge the cultural and religious norms that perpetuate these practices. And we must create spaces where women can share their stories without fear or shame.
Though I’ll never know what my life might have been like without FGM, I find purpose in sharing my experience. I want other survivors to know they’re not alone and that their voices matter. Together, we can break the silence and ensure no child endures what we have.”