By: Anonymous  

Prior to attending my first Activists’ Retreat this past February, I could tell you that being a survivor of female genital cutting (FGC) means something different to each person it’s been done to, but I think it would’ve lacked a certain authority and understanding. What stuck with me the most from this retreat was listening to my fellow community members and survivors talk about what it has meant for them, their unique grief and their unique journeys. In turn this has made me reflect on my own experience through a lens that hadn’t occurred to me before, and has granted me a much stronger sense of the weight and the truth in the statement, that each survivor’s story is different.

I was raised in Karachi, Pakistan within the Dawoodi Bohra community. I remember being 7 years old and being taken to a clinic. I remember how scared I was, and I remember the physical pain during and after. Then for a long time I never thought about it again, almost the same way I never thought about how scared I was the first time a dentist pulled out my loose tooth. But in time I had enough conversations to realise that those two experiences weren’t the same, that something had been taken from me. It was a betrayal, and it affected my relationship with my faith, my community, and even my family. But even with that awareness and anger, I felt a dissonance, as if it had happened to someone else and not to me. I couldn’t put my finger on why I felt this way and I’d question if I was aware enough of what myself and other survivors had experienced and lost.

Hearing my fellow attendees talk about their experiences was eye opening and emotional. Specifically when I got to understand how FGC had complicated and introduced grief into the already confusing and overwhelming journeys of navigating sexual orientation and gender identity. This made me reflect more deeply on my own journey.

I was born female and I identify as a trans man. My relationship with my body is naturally not straightforward, but one way I try to explain it is by saying that if I had a magic wand right now, and there were no physical, emotional or social consequences to consider, I would flick the wand and change my body. That doesn’t mean I don’t feel connected to or invested in my current body, but it does mean that not all of it feels like it belongs to me.

Again it’s different for everyone, but I grew up sure of this feeling. And for most of my life it was a secret. I got so used to the idea that no one wanted to know, no one cared and that there was no space for me to express it, that I almost forgot it was a real part of me that affected my life and meant something. And even now, when I get to live my day to day life fully as myself, I still sometimes catch myself forgetting to consider my gender when thinking about my experiences and interactions. Hearing other survivors at the retreat talk about their experiences as deeply as they did, reminded me that there’s a crucial intersection between how I experience my gender and my experience as a survivor. And for the first time it occurred to me to ask myself, “What does it mean to grieve a part of my body that was taken from me, but that would’ve never felt like it was mine?”

I don’t have an answer yet, I’m still a little taken aback. But I feel grateful I had the opportunity and the space to reflect on it. There are so many people like me who haven’t gotten this chance to remember all parts of themselves, within safety and community, when navigating their experiences of FGC. This to me emphasises the importance of building and engaging in spaces where we can listen to each other, and curate language and vocabulary together for our unique experiences and stories. I want to continue listening and having these conversations, particularly at this time when so many people are trying to put us aside and speak for us.

Each survivor’s story is different. And only they can tell it.