FGM Testimony: Tradition Should Not Mean Harm
In many parts of the world, harmful traditional practices such as female genital mutilation (FGM) continue to affect women and girls. In this powerful FGM survivor testimony, Ana, a teacher, mother, and advocate from the Embera community in Colombia, shares her journey of resistance against FGM. Through her story, Ana highlights that true cultural heritage lies not in harm, but in the beauty of Embera traditions like language, dance, and weaving. This inspiring story of reclaiming culture, protecting daughters, and ending FGM shows how one voice can spark change and build a future free from violence.
Discover other stories in our report “The Time is Now: End Female Genital Mutilation/Cutting (FGM/C)”.
In our community, women have often been told to stay silent, to obey, and to accept life as it is. Decisions are usually in the hands of our husbands, and for a long time, I thought this was simply the way of things. My husband, unlike many men, has supported me in pursuing work and education. He’s a good man, different from others who dominate or mistreat their wives. I count myself fortunate for that, but I still feel that women’s voices are undervalued. As I grew older, I began to question why things are the way they are, especially when it comes to our daughters.
One of the secrets kept by the women in our community is something I can only describe as a hidden wound, a practice we call ‘the cure.’ This practice, which others call female genital mutilation (FGM), is done to newborn girls, often without the mother’s knowledge or permission. My first encounter with it came when my first daughter was born. After the birth, my mother-in-law, a midwife, took her, saying she would care for her while I rested. When they brought her back, she looked hurt, and she cried inconsolably. My questions were met with silence or dismissed as things I ‘wouldn’t understand.’
Over time, I came to understand what “the ablation” really was. The idea behind it is that girls who aren’t ‘cured’ will grow up to be promiscuous or undesirable for marriage. In our community, a girl who is different, who hasn’t undergone this ritual, faces judgment and even violence. The fear of this violence drives many families to carry on with the practice, even if they feel uncomfortable about it. But I can’t ignore the pain it causes, the harm that lasts a lifetime. This is not part of our true Embera culture; our culture is in our dances, our language, our weaving. This practice is something else, a dark inheritance from colonial times.
I am a survivor of FGM, though I didn’t know it until I was much older. My body bears the evidence of it, though I didn’t fully understand until I began to learn more. I’m one of the lucky ones. In 2007, the issue gained national attention after several newborn girls died in the hospital following ‘the cure.’ Government representatives visited our communities to talk about it, and that’s when I realised how widespread and dangerous this was. I started speaking out, first to my family and then to my community.
It was with my fourth daughter that I could finally make a decision. I told the midwife, ‘No. You will not do this.’ That moment marked a turning point, and since then, I have worked tirelessly to protect my daughters and granddaughters from the same fate. It hasn’t been easy. In my community, FGM is shrouded in secrecy. Midwives don’t speak openly about it, and men often claim they know nothing of it. Even bringing up the topic was met with resistance. I was warned that I could be punished and threatened with being put in the stocks for daring to question our customs. But I couldn’t stay silent, not when I knew the pain this practice caused.
My daughters now understand the dangers of FGM. I’ve spoken to them, to my daughters-in-law, and even to my nephews and their wives. I tell them that this tradition is not ours to keep and that no one has the right to harm a girl’s body. I have found support among other women who, inspired by my actions, have started to say, ‘If Ana can do it, so can we.’ Together, we are building a quiet resistance, one conversation at a time.
As a teacher, I have a platform to reach more people. But I want to do more than just talk. I’m training to become a midwife so I can prevent this from happening to other girls. I attend meetings organised by the Colombian Congress, where a bill is pending to address FGM. I believe change is possible. Our community needs education about women’s rights, body autonomy, and the consequences of FGM. We need safe spaces to talk openly, with fire and food, where elders and young people alike can share their perspectives.
The journey is not easy. Our people face many challenges: displacement, malnutrition, forced marriages of girls as young as twelve, and a lack of education. All of these issues create a cycle of poverty and violence that keeps practices like FGM alive. If we can address these root causes, I believe we can create a future where girls are safe and where they grow up whole and unscarred.
For now, I remain a voice in the darkness, speaking out against a harmful practice that others wish would stay hidden. I am not afraid of what they might say or do because I believe that if men are right, women are too. And we have every right to be heard, to protect our daughters, and to keep them safe from harm. This is my mission, my promise to the next generation, and I will not give up.