By Yousef Timacade
Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) remains deep-rooted in certain cultures, particularly in Somali regions, despite global human rights efforts to eradicate it. One of the most persistent arguments used to justify FGM is the claim that it is a religious obligation. However, this justification is rooted more in cultural misconceptions than in religious doctrine. Another complex factor is the belief that men, including fathers, should not interfere in what is considered a “woman’s affair,” such as decisions about FGM for their daughters. These dynamics present significant challenges to efforts aimed at protecting girls from this harmful practice.
The belief that FGM is a religious requirement, particularly within Islamic communities, is widespread but incorrect. Many argue that FGM, particularly the Sunna cut is mandated by Islam. The term “Sunna” refers to the practices of the Prophet Muhammad, leading to the misconception that this form of FGM is a religious obligation. However, Islamic scholars are divided on the issue. While some hold onto traditional practices, the majority, including authoritative voices in the Islamic world, have clarified that FGM has no basis in Islam.
Islamic scripture does not mandate FGM. In fact, key Islamic texts, including the Quran and Hadith do not mention FGM as a requirement for women or girls[1]. The Prophet Muhammad’s teachings emphasize the importance of mercy, dignity, and respect for the human body, none of which align with the practice of FGM. Yet, in many Somali communities, FGM has been passed down through generations as a cultural tradition, which over time has been conflated with religious duty.
This misconception stems from a lack of clear religious guidance in rural and undereducated areas, where religious and cultural practices blend into one another. FGM is seen as a rite of passage into womanhood, falsely believed to promote cleanliness and morality, ideals mistakenly linked to religious purity. Leaders in these communities, who often hold significant influence over families, perpetuate these beliefs, sometimes endorsing FGM as a way to preserve a girl’s modesty and ensure her marriageability. The argument that FGM is religiously required remains powerful, even though the practice is more deeply rooted in pre-Islamic tribal customs than in Islamic theology[2].
I wrote this article as both a personal reflection and a call to action, stemming from the profound experience of watching my daughters, Dheeman and Aragsan, fall victim to a practice I have spent my entire career opposing. As a lawyer and human rights defender, I have fought against harmful traditions like FGM, believing that I could shield my own family from these violations. However, this experience has shown me that even in the most personal of battles, cultural norms can overpower individual conviction, leading to devastating consequences. By sharing this story, I aim to highlight the pervasive nature of these traditions and to underscore the importance of continuous advocacy—not just in public spaces but within our own homes and communities.
Moreover, I wrote this article to expose the dangerous misconceptions that allow FGM to persist under the guise of religious obligation. The widespread belief that the Sunna cut is a religious mandate has created a powerful barrier to change, even among those who otherwise reject harmful practices.
As a lawyer, human rights defender, and advocate for the rights of women and girls in the Somali territories and the Horn of Africa, I never imagined that my own daughters, Dheeman and Aragsan, would one day experience the very violations I have spent many years fighting against. My advocacy has always been grounded in the belief that every girl should be free from the oppressive practices that undermine her dignity and bodily integrity. Yet, to my profound shock and sorrow, this violation happened within my own home.
For years, my colleagues and fellow advocates often commented on how “lucky” my daughters were, given that their father was a committed women’s human rights activist. They believed my profession and passion for justice would safeguard my family from the harmful practices that are so deeply entrenched in our culture. In many ways, this assumption was justified: I ensured that Dheeman and Aragsan had access to education and were raised with the same opportunities as boys. This was not difficult for me to enforce, as my own father was also a staunch believer in equal education for both his male and female children. This mindset was, in fact, a family tradition—one that I took great pride in continuing.
However, there was one area where I failed to protect my daughters, and that failure weighs heavily on my heart. Despite my dedication to human rights and my staunch opposition to female genital mutilation (FGM), I was unable to prevent my daughters from undergoing this harmful practice. FGM, in all its forms, is a violation of human rights, and I was certain that my personal and professional stance against it would be enough to protect Dheeman and Aragsan from this atrocity. However, the power of culture and tradition proved to be stronger than my convictions.
The conflict escalated when my wife and my mother began discussing subjecting our daughters to what is referred to as “Sunna. I was adamantly opposed. I made it clear that I did not want my daughters to undergo any form of cutting. I believed that, as a father, husband, and son, I could carry enough weight to convince my family that we could defy this dangerous tradition. Unfortunately, my mother—firmly rooted in cultural norms and deeply entrenched in the customs of our ancestors—did not agree. She questioned how I, as a man, could dare to intervene in what she saw as a “woman’s affair.” In her eyes, this was not my decision to make—it was a long-standing family tradition that she was determined to uphold.
In an attempt to mediate, I suggested that we let the girls grow up until they were 18 years old, allowing them the autonomy to decide for themselves whether they wanted to undergo the procedure. I also reminded my wife and mother that FGM was not a religious obligation, as many falsely believe. Yet, my wife found herself torn. On one hand, she was opposed to FGM, but on the other, she found it difficult to oppose my mother, especially given the persistent belief that the Sunna cut was linked to religious practice.
Despite my objections and my attempts to offer alternatives, I found myself at a disadvantage. Cultural expectations, coupled with the deep respect I held for my mother, prevented me from pushing my argument further. I did not want to disrespect her. I tried to convince my mother that times were changing, and that our daughters deserved the opportunity to grow up free from the harmful traditions that had scarred so many girls before them. But in the end, tradition triumphed over reason.
The most devastating part of this experience is that the cutting took place while I was out of the country. When I returned home, I was met with the shocking and heartbreaking news that my mother had taken matters into her own hands. The Sunna cut had been performed on my daughters without my knowledge, without my consent, and against everything I stood for. The realization that this violation had occurred in my own home, despite all my efforts to prevent it, was a profound shock.
The aftermath has been nothing short of heartbreaking. Dheeman and Aragsan now carry the physical and emotional scars of a practice that I have spent my entire career trying to eliminate. As their father, I feel an overwhelming sense of guilt. I ask myself repeatedly: Could I have done more? Could I have been more forceful in my opposition, and more persuasive in my arguments? Did my absence during this crucial time create the space for my family to make a decision that I would never have agreed to?
I hold deep respect for my mother, and I know that her intentions were not malicious. Like many in our culture, she believed that FGM was a necessary rite of passage, a tradition that prepares girls for womanhood. But as a human rights advocate, I know that FGM is a harmful practice that causes needless pain and suffering and violates the fundamental rights of girls and women. My daughters’ experience has opened my eyes to just how deeply ingrained these cultural norms are. Even within my own family, where I thought my advocacy would hold sway, tradition proved too strong to overcome.
What this experience has taught me is that the battle against FGM is not only fought in public arenas—through advocacy, policy changes, and legal reform—but also within our own homes and families. Cultural traditions run deep, and change is often met with resistance. But this is where we must begin. If we are to eradicate FGM, we must challenge the beliefs and practices within our own communities, even when that means standing up to the people we love most.
In Somali culture, decision-making around practices like FGM is often viewed as a matter for women, excluding men, even fathers, from the conversation. This deeply ingrained belief that men should not interfere in “women’s affairs” presents a major obstacle to eradicating FGM. In many cases, this cultural taboo reinforces the idea that issues related to girls’ bodies and rites of passage, including FGM, are strictly within the domain of female family members, especially mothers and grandmothers.
This creates a paradox where fathers, who are protectors and providers for their children, are sidelined when it comes to decisions about their daughters’ bodies. Even when men are educated on the dangers of FGM and oppose it, their voices are often drowned out by the collective pressure of tradition, which places the decision squarely in the hands of female relatives. In the case of Dheeman and Aragsan, despite my clear opposition as their father, my mother upheld the practice, believing it was her cultural responsibility to ensure that her granddaughters underwent the Sunna cut.
This belief is particularly dangerous because it silences those men who might otherwise advocate for their daughters’ well-being. Even when men, like the me, take a stand against FGM, they are often seen as overstepping their boundaries, questioning the wisdom and authority of the women in their family. In Somali society, respect for one’s elders is paramount, and going against the decisions of a mother or grandmother can be perceived as a serious offense, further complicating the efforts of men who want to protect their daughters from FGM.
This intersection of cultural, religious, and gendered expectations creates a deep-rooted system that is resistant to change. Women, particularly older generations, become gatekeepers of harmful practices like FGM, while men are discouraged from intervening. Even in families where there is clear opposition to the practice, like me, the combination of cultural pressure, religious misconceptions, and the taboo of male interference makes it difficult to protect girls from undergoing FGM.
To challenge these justifications, both cultural norms and religious misconceptions need to be addressed simultaneously. Religious leaders who speak out against FGM and clarify that it is not an Islamic requirement play a crucial role in debunking myths surrounding the practice. Additionally, challenging the cultural belief that FGM is solely a “woman’s affair” can help fathers and other male family members play a more active role in protecting their daughters. This shift requires community-wide education and dialogue that encourages men and women to jointly oppose harmful practices that violate the rights and dignity of girls.
FGM is a harmful practice with no basis in Islam, yet it continues to be justified under the guise of religious and cultural traditions. The exclusion of men from decision-making on their daughters’ bodies further complicates efforts to eradicate FGM, as it reinforces the power of women who uphold this practice. To protect girls like Dheeman and Aragsan, a collective approach that includes both men and women, as well as religious leaders and human rights advocates, is essential in challenging these beliefs and practices. This experience has reminded me just how personal this struggle is, and how much work still lies ahead.
Islamic Perspective on FGM
Islamic scholars across the Muslim world have consistently argued that FGM has no basis in Islamic doctrine. Neither the Quran nor the Hadith—the sayings and practices of the Prophet Muhammad—prescribe any form of genital cutting for women. In fact, Islam emphasizes the protection of bodily integrity, dignity, and health, all of which FGM directly violates.
Key Islamic scholars, such as those in Saudi Arabia, Egypt, and other Muslim-majority countries, have clarified that FGM is a cultural tradition, not a religious obligation. For instance, in Saudi Arabia, a country known for its adherence to Islamic teachings, FGM is not practiced or sanctioned by religious authorities[3]. The absence of FGM in Saudi Arabia provides a compelling case that Islam does not mandate the practice.
Prominent scholars from Egypt’s Al-Azhar University, one of the most prestigious Islamic institutions, have also issued fatwas against FGM[4]. In 2007, Egypt criminalized FGM, a significant step in dismantling the cultural association of FGM with Islam. These examples show how countries with a deep commitment to Islamic values have publicly rejected FGM, providing clear religious guidance to their populations.
In Somali communities, the belief that FGM is part of Islamic practice, particularly the Sunna cut is widespread. The term “Sunna” itself refers to the traditions of the Prophet Muhammad, which reinforces the misconception that this form of FGM is a religious requirement. However, as shown in countries like Saudi Arabia and Egypt, FGM is not aligned with Islamic teachings.
The persistence of FGM in Somali communities stems from a blend of cultural and religious confusion. In rural areas with limited access to religious education, local leaders often propagate FGM as a moral and religious obligation, confusing pre-Islamic cultural practices with Islamic beliefs. This is where Somalis could benefit from the approach taken by other Muslim-majority countries that have separated religious practices from harmful cultural traditions.
Somalis can learn from the religious clarity provided by scholars in countries like Saudi Arabia and Egypt. Public education campaigns led by religious authorities in these countries have helped to dispel the myth that FGM is an Islamic obligation. Involving religious scholars in discussions about FGM, Somali communities can begin to differentiate between religious practice and harmful cultural traditions.
Religious leaders could take similar steps by issuing clear and unequivocal statements denouncing FGM, emphasizing that it is not supported by Islamic teachings. Community engagement through mosques and religious gatherings could serve as powerful platforms to educate families and dismantle the belief that FGM is necessary for religious or moral reasons.
Beyond religious clarification, Somalis must also challenge the cultural perception that decisions about FGM are solely within the domain of women, excluding fathers and male family members from the conversation. The example of countries like Egypt shows that national legislation, backed by religious support, can play a critical role in changing societal attitudes. Fathers and male family members need to be empowered to protect their daughters from this harmful practice.
FGM is a human rights issue, not a religious mandate. Somalia’s path to eradicating FGM lies in aligning with the Islamic values of bodily integrity and dignity, as demonstrated by countries like Saudi Arabia, while challenging the cultural norms that perpetuate this harmful practice
[1] Islamic scripture does not mandate Female Genital Mutilation (FGM), and it is not mentioned in the Quran or authentic Hadiths as a requirement for women or girls. Al-Azhar, one of the most respected Islamic authorities, has issued a fatwa stating that FGM is not a religious practice and is prohibited in Islam. The misconception that FGM is tied to religious duty stems from cultural traditions that have, over time, been conflated with religious beliefs. The practice predates Islam and Christianity, yet persists in some regions due to deep-rooted cultural and social pressures, not religious obligations.
[2] https://www.unicef.org/protection/female-genital-mutilation
[3] Saudi Arabian Religious Council on FGM
[4] Al-Azhar Fatwa on FGM, 2007
Yousef Timacade is a lawyer, legal analyst, and commentator with over a decade of experience in program management, research, and human rights advocacy. He holds master’s degrees in both law and executive management, which have equipped him with a unique blend of legal expertise and leadership acumen. Throughout his career, he has worked with numerous national and international non-governmental organizations, driving impactful initiatives in the areas of human rights, policy development, and social justice. Currently, Yousef serves as the Country Coordinator for Somalia and Somaliland at SIHA Network, where he leads efforts to advance women’s rights and advocate for marginalized communities.
