By: Dr. Zinia Afrin Doza (MBBS, MPH)
I first heard about female genital cutting (FGC) when I started volunteering with the NGO called the Inter-African Committee (IAC), which worked to eliminate harmful practices, specifically child marriage & FGC. As a medical doctor and public health professional from Bangladesh, I thought I understood most of the major issues related to women’s health. But FGC was something I had never come across in an in-depth way.
The first time I read about it, I was shocked. The description sounded cold and clinical—“partial or total removal of external female genitalia for non-medical reasons”. Behind those words were stories of pain, fear, and silence. I couldn’t comprehend how something so harmful could continue for generations, often defended as a form of culture, purity, or protection. Listening to survivors’ experiences turned my confusion into determination. I realized that the harm wasn’t only physical; it was also about control, inequality, and taking away a woman’s right to choose what to do with her own body.
That understanding changed my life. Over the past decade, I’ve dedicated myself to working to end FGC, sometimes through NGOs like Sahiyo, sometimes with UNICEF, and sometimes independently. Along the way, one initiative that deeply impressed me was Ethiopia’s Care program, which was a part of the nation’s project to end FGC. It brings together healthcare, law, and community dialogue in a way that feels both compassionate and effective.
Understanding the Harmful Practice:
In many communities, FGC is performed by traditional circumcisers, women who are trusted and respected in the local community. However, some health workers are performing it, believing that a medical setting makes it “safer.” But as any doctor knows, there is no safe way to remove healthy tissue from a girl’s body for no medical reason.
FGC is not a medical act—it is a violation of human rights. It strips girls of bodily autonomy and can lead to lifelong complications, from infections and childbirth problems to lasting psychological trauma.
In Ethiopia, FGC is still widespread, though the prevalence of it and the form in which it takes varies by region. In areas like Afar and Somali, many women have undergone one of the most severe forms of FGC known as infibulation, which involves sealing the vaginal opening. The physical pain is intense, but the emotional scars often cut deeper.
Ethiopia’s Care Approach:
Ethiopia has set an ambitious goal to end FGC by 2030, through collaboration between UNICEF, government bodies, and local health authorities. The Care component of this project focuses on healing and prevention—making sure survivors receive both medical treatment and emotional support.
Hospitals and clinics are better prepared to deal with cases of FGC, and health workers are being trained to care for survivors with empathy and skill. Community awareness has grown, with survivors finding the courage to speak out and local leaders starting to take a stand. Even small steps like reporting cases or enforcing existing laws represent meaningful change in places that were once silent.
Lessons from the Field:
Learning about how this project in Ethiopia evolved reminded me of the challenges I’ve seen in my own work. Progress rarely moves in a straight line. In the Somali region, for example, drought, insecurity, and social tensions make it difficult to sustain programs that address FGC. Sometimes organizations and partners disagree, or local leaders hesitate to accept outside ideas. Yet, despite all that, people continue to document, care for survivors, and speak out against FGC.
I’ve learned that true progress happens when health systems and communities move together. Training doctors and nurses is essential, but so is helping them build trust and communicate with care. Laws can help, but change really takes hold when people start believing that their daughters deserve better.
The Way Forward:
Ethiopia’s experience offers important lessons for anyone working to end FGC. Real change depends on constant dialogue with families, religious leaders, teachers, and young people. Health workers need regular support and training so they can continue to care for survivors confidently and compassionately.
Hospitals and clinics must be well-equipped, because a single missing tool or medication can mean a survivor leaves untreated. And perhaps most importantly, men and elders must be part of the conversation too. Protecting girls is not a woman’s issue; it’s a community responsibility.
A Personal Reflection:
I still remember the first day I came across FGC in a training manual in my NGO office in Addis Ababa. I closed the book and sat quietly, overwhelmed by disbelief and sadness. Ten years later, that feeling has transformed into something else: a strong belief that awareness and compassion can bring change, even to the most deeply rooted practices.
Ethiopia’s story gives me hope. It shows how care itself can become a form of resistance. When doctors, nurses, community leaders, and survivors come together, they do more than treat wounds—they restore dignity.
Ending FGC may take time, maybe even generations, but every girl who escapes the cut, every survivor who gets care, and every community that says “no more”, moves us forward. For me, as someone who once knew nothing about this issue, one truth stands out clearly: when we listen with empathy and act with courage, change is always possible.
