Exiled by war, Sudan鈥檚 women find freedom from female genital mutilation
| Cairo
On the bare floor of a crumbling apartment, Fatma Ahmed鈥檚 5-year-old daughter, Yara, sketches the doll she dreams of owning. Their one-room home on the outskirts of Egypt鈥檚 capital holds little: a chair, two mattresses, and a broken cupboard.
But for Ms. Ahmed, this space represents a life-changing new beginning. A little over a year ago, she and her children fled their home country of Sudan to escape a spiraling civil war. But that uprooting has had a profound silver lining. In Egypt, Yara and Ms. Ahmed鈥檚 two other daughters will be spared a trauma that shaped their mother鈥檚 entire life: female genital mutilation (FGM).
鈥淲hen the war came ... it saved my daughters,鈥� Ms. Ahmed says.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onFemale genital mutilation has long been a critical rite of passage for girls in Sudan. But now, exiled by civil war to Egypt, their mothers are quietly breaking with this harmful tradition.
Unraveling tradition
Ms. Ahmed is not the only mother who has found this new freedom in exile. In Sudan, nearly 90% of women between the ages of 15 and 49 have undergone , a term for a variety of procedures that remove or maim parts of the female genitalia without medical reason. Though FGM is outlawed in Sudan, enforcement is inconsistent. Meanwhile, religious and cultural beliefs, often , drive its persistence.
But in Cairo鈥檚 refugee enclaves, far from home and its traditions, some Sudanese women are turning their backs on this dangerous procedure that has long defined their womanhood.
Although it is too early to tell how widespread the change is, many experts believe FGM is on the decline among Sudanese in Egypt. The reasons are varied, explains Rayan Alsadeg, an anti-FGM activist working with Sudanese refugees in Egypt.
Mothers are often separated from extended family and the midwives who would perform the procedure back home. Meanwhile, although Egypt also has high rates of FGM, the practice , and punishments are severer and more consistent than in Sudan. All this 鈥渕ake[s] a real difference,鈥� Ms. Alsadeg wrote in a WhatsApp message to the Monitor.
Ms. Ahmed, who is in her mid-30s, was cut as a young girl. She says that her mother was initially against the procedure, but relented under pressure from Ms. Ahmed鈥檚 paternal grandmother. She tried to run, she says, but her uncle and neighbors held her down. And the pain of the cut itself was only the beginning. Intimacy with her husband became strained, and the emotional scars lingered.
When Ms. Ahmed鈥檚 own daughters neared the time for FGM, which is typically performed between the ages of 5 and 9 in Sudan, she faced the same pressure her mother had from her husband鈥檚 family. So she stalled, pleading that they wait until the school year ended. Then the war began, and in the chaos of escape, the ritual was forgotten.
Today, when Ms. Ahmed鈥檚 eldest daughter, 12-year-old Yasmin, is asked what she thinks of FGM, she says simply, 鈥淚鈥檝e never heard of [it].鈥�
Her mother beams. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 what I wanted,鈥� she says, 鈥渢o erase it from our lives.鈥�
Crackdowns and advocacy
Experts say part of the reason FGM is down among Sudanese women in Egypt is the law. FGM is illegal, and in recent years, the country has introduced harsher penalties. Medical professionals carrying out FGM now face a prison term of .
鈥淭hese crackdowns have had a chilling effect鈥� on Sudanese migrants considering FGM, says Ms. Alsadeg, who conducts her anti-FGM outreach for the Farah Foundation for Development in Alexandria.
Still, many of the more than 1 million Sudanese migrants who have come to Egypt since the start of the war live in refugee communities where old social norms can easily be rekindled, according to Yussra Mohammed, co-author of on beliefs about FGM among Sudanese in Egypt.
鈥淲ithout accurate knowledge, harmful traditions can persist quietly,鈥� Dr. Mohammed says.
Fatma Bakr is among those trying to ensure that Sudanese women have that knowledge. A university student before she fled Sudan, Ms. Bakr remembers her own FGM experience vividly. 鈥淚 felt violated,鈥� she says.
But in Egypt, Ms. Bakr regularly attends informational meetings on the dangers of FGM organized by local and international nongovernmental organizations. She says the meetings have given her the confidence to become a vocal advocate against the practice. She has shared what she learned with her young sisters and friends.
鈥淚f I have daughters, I鈥檒l never allow [FGM],鈥� she says.
Leila Sadeeq, a law graduate in her late 30s, fled to Cairo with her husband and three children after losing her parents in a bomb strike in Sudan. The emotional and physical impact of that loss remains, but Ms. Sadeeq says at least one good thing has come of it: Her 12-year-old daughter, Maab, has access to a different life.
鈥淢y mother is against FGM,鈥� explains Maab, who dreams of becoming a doctor. 鈥淚 missed two years of school, but we鈥檙e safe [here].鈥�
Some mothers in exile say they鈥檝e deliberately chosen not to speak to their daughters about FGM. 鈥淭hey don鈥檛 need to know,鈥� Ms. Ahmed explains. 鈥淭he less they hear of it, the less chance they鈥檒l be drawn to it in the future.鈥�
But without education, some fear the practice could resurface, especially if families return home or resettle in places where FGM is more accepted.
The cost of safety
Despite the Ahmeds鈥� relative security from FGM, their life in Cairo is fragile. Though they hold refugee status, support from UNHCR, the United Nations refugee agency, is sporadic. Ms. Ahmed鈥檚 husband disappeared in Sudan last year after being stopped at a checkpoint set up by the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces, one of the warring parties in the civil war.
That means that in Egypt, Ms. Ahmed is the family鈥檚 sole breadwinner. She says she earns around 1,200 Egyptian pounds ($24) weekly selling her handicrafts on the street. But her 1,500 pound ($30) rent gobbles up much of that income, and she cannot afford tuition for her five school-age children at the community-run Sudanese schools in Cairo, which costs from around $60 to 80 per child annually. Ms. Ahmed also has a baby girl, born just after the family arrived in Cairo last year.
But amid these hardships, she finds meaning in knowing she has given her girls a life she could not have imagined even two years ago.
鈥淚 lost my husband, my home, my brothers,鈥� Ms. Ahmed says. 鈥淏ut I saved my daughters. That is enough.鈥�
This story was published in collaboration with .
