It is a heavy topic. Honestly, it's one of those subjects that makes people want to look away immediately because the physical reality is just so visceral. But if we want to understand the "why" behind it, we have to move past the initial shock. We have to look at the "why is female genital mutilations performed" question through a lens that isn't just about cruelty, but about deep-seated social mechanics that have trapped millions of women for centuries.
More than 200 million girls and women alive today have undergone some form of this practice. That’s a staggering number. It’s not just one country or one religion. It's a massive, tangled web of tradition, fear, and a desperate desire for social belonging.
The weight of social "belonging" and the marriageability trap
If you talk to mothers in communities where this happens, they aren't trying to hurt their daughters. At least, not in their minds. They’re trying to save them. It sounds backward, right? But in many places, a girl who hasn't undergone the procedure is considered "unclean" or "promiscuous." She’s basically an outcast.
In rural parts of countries like Egypt, Ethiopia, or Somalia, marriage is the only path to economic security. If a girl isn't cut, she might be deemed unmarriageable. This is a massive driver. Parents see it as a necessary evil to ensure their daughter has a future. It’s a prerequisite for adulthood. A rite of passage. Without it, you’re just not a "woman" in the eyes of the village. It’s peer pressure on a lethal, generational scale.
The World Health Organization (WHO) breaks this down into four types, ranging from partial or total removal of the clitoris to the more extreme infibulation, where the vaginal opening is narrowed. Why go to such extremes? Control. Pure and simple. By reducing a woman’s libido, the community believes they are "protecting" her virginity and ensuring her fidelity to her future husband. It is a physical manifestation of a social contract that demands female chastity above all else.
Misconceptions about religion and the "sunna" debate
There is a huge misconception that this is a purely Islamic requirement. It’s not.
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While some practitioners call it "sunna" (referring to the traditions of the Prophet Muhammad), the reality is that the Quran never mentions it. High-ranking religious leaders, including those at Al-Azhar University in Cairo, have issued fatwas against it, stating it has no basis in Sharia law. Yet, the myth persists. You’ll find it in Christian communities in Ethiopia and among practitioners of traditional African religions too. It predates both Islam and Christianity.
It’s more of a cultural parasite that has latched onto religious identity to justify its existence. People conflate "being a good believer" with "following the ancestors," and that’s where the confusion starts. When a practice is wrapped in the flag of religion, it becomes incredibly hard to dismantle because questioning the practice feels like questioning God.
The "medicalization" of the practice: A dangerous new trend
One of the most alarming shifts in recent years is that doctors are now doing it. This is what experts call "medicalization." Families think that if a trained nurse or a doctor performs the procedure in a clinic with sterile tools and anesthesia, it’s "safe."
It’s a trap.
Organizations like UNICEF have been sounding the alarm on this for years. Using a scalpel instead of a piece of glass doesn't change the fact that healthy tissue is being removed. It doesn't stop the long-term psychological trauma, the chronic pain, the cysts, or the complications during childbirth. In places like Egypt, more than 70% of these procedures are now done by medical professionals. This gives a "veneer of legitimacy" to something that is fundamentally a human rights violation. It makes the practice harder to fight because it hides behind the white coat of medicine.
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Why it persists despite the laws
Almost every country where this happens has a law against it. But laws are just paper.
Take The Gambia, for example. They banned it in 2015, but just recently, there was a massive political push to overturn that ban. Why? Because the people performing the "cuts"—the circumcisers—often hold high social status. They are the gatekeepers of tradition. When you ban the practice, you aren't just banning a procedure; you're attacking a person's livelihood and their role in the community.
And then there's the fear of "becoming like the West." In some communities, efforts to stop the practice are seen as colonial interference. It becomes a matter of cultural pride. "Don't tell us how to raise our daughters," is a common refrain. This is why top-down laws often fail. Real change happens when the grandmothers and the village elders decide that the harm outweighs the tradition.
The physical and psychological toll
The "why" is often social, but the "what" is physical destruction. We aren't just talking about a moment of pain. We’re talking about:
- Recurrent urinary tract infections.
- Infertility caused by infections that scar the fallopian tubes.
- Dermoid cysts that can become as large as a grapefruit.
- The psychological "flashbacks" during sexual intimacy or childbirth.
There’s a term for it: obstetric fistula. When a woman who has been infibulated goes into labor, the baby's head can’t pass through the narrowed opening. The resulting pressure can create a hole between the birth canal and the bladder or rectum. It's devastating. These women are often shunned because they leak urine or feces constantly. The very practice intended to make them "marriageable" and "honorable" ends up making them outcasts for a different reason.
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Shifting the narrative: How change actually happens
What works? Not lecturing. Not shouting from a podium in Geneva.
What works are "Community Declarations." This is where an entire village decides together to stop. If only one family stops, their daughter is an outcast. If the whole village stops, the "marriageability" problem disappears because all the boys in the village will eventually marry girls who aren't cut.
Tostan, an NGO working in West Africa, has seen massive success with this. They don't even mention the procedure for the first few months. They talk about human rights, health, and hygiene. They let the community come to their own conclusion that the practice is hurting their daughters. It’s a slow process. It’s messy. It’s frustratingly incremental. But it’s the only way the "why" finally loses its power.
What can actually be done
If you’re looking for ways to engage or help, the focus has to be on supporting local leaders. Change has to come from within.
- Support grassroots organizations: Look for groups like the Inter-African Committee on Traditional Practices (IAC) or Orchid Project. They focus on community-led abandonment rather than just legal bans.
- Education over Condemnation: Understand that for many, this is seen as an act of love or protection. Approaching the conversation with empathy for the parents’ intent—while remaining firm on the harm caused—is the only way to get through.
- Advocate for Reproductive Health Access: When women have better access to general healthcare, the "medicalization" of the practice is easier to spot and stop.
- Listen to Survivors: The movement is being led by women like Jaha Dukureh and Leyla Hussein. Their voices are the ones that carry the most weight because they’ve lived it.
The question of why is female genital mutilations performed doesn't have a single answer. It's a mix of myth, economics, and the human need to belong. Ending it requires breaking those links one by one, village by village. It’s about replacing a "rite of passage" that cuts with one that celebrates a girl’s transition into womanhood without harming her body.