I Reclaimed My Body After Genital Mutilation and A Forced Marriage

This piece contains graphic descriptions of sexual abuse.

Fos, 37, was born in Somalia. All her life, she was required to be submissive and silent, while the male figures in her community – her father and her husband – made all decisions for her, including about her body.

Fos, who didn’t want to share her full name for fear of retaliation, has undergone Female Genital Mutilation (FGM), a practice where the external parts of female genitals are partially or totally removed. About 200 million women and girls worldwide have experienced FGM due to cultural traditions aimed at preserving female virginity before marriage and enhancing male pleasure. In this case, Fos was infibulated, meaning her labia was sewn shut to create a narrower vaginal opening.

In this testimony, an extract from the podcast Perle by Yasmina Hamlawi (only available in French), she took us back to her forced marriage and how she reclaimed her wounded body after fleeing to Belgium in the early 2000s. Fos hopes that sharing her story will help other women who went through similar experiences feel seen and understood.

This was another world. When I was in Africa, in Somalia, everyone was Black. Here, everyone was white. I was lost. Nobody understood me, nobody at all. I didn’t know what to expect. I felt very insecure when I arrived in Belgium and thought I was going to end up in prison. My mum didn’t know where I was; she only knew I’d gone to Europe.

There were times I regretted coming here. I thought, “Why did I leave my country?” But then I’d tell myself, “You ran away from a forced marriage, mutilation, and civil war.” 

After I applied for asylum, I was referred to a centre for minors and I had to go to school. I was there when I had my period for the first time. I couldn’t get up in the morning because I was in so much pain. A social worker knocked on my bedroom door asking why I wasn’t ready for school. I replied that I had been infibulated and I was in a lot of pain. “What does this mean?” the social worker asked. I explained it the best I could and she sent me to a gynaecologist. 

During the check-up, I asked the gynaecologist, “What happened? What’s wrong?” It was all normal to me: In Somalia we’re taught women all over the world undergo circumcision. The gynaecologist left the room and called everyone in. Everyone was staring at me and I was staring at them. I was scared. I thought I was sick. 

Then, she called a Somali interpreter and asked her to explain to me that what had happened to me wasn’t normal. “We’re going to reverse the procedure so you can urinate and have your period more comfortably,” she told me. But I refused, “No! Who will marry me then? Who will want me? An open woman? None will touch me!” She gave me some time to think about it. Could I live with this pain for the rest of my life? I had nobody to talk to. I couldn’t even call my mum.

I missed school several times because of this. And one day, they told me that if I missed another day, I’d be kicked out. That’s when it clicked: Six months after I saw the gynaecologist, I agreed to have the surgery. From that moment on, my life changed. I felt more comfortable, I was going to school, doing gymnastics… I had a normal life and felt alive again.

The day I got married was the saddest day of my life, worse than the day of the circumcision. I was 16 and my husband was very old – he was 70. I was his fourth and youngest wife. I was fresh. My dad wanted me to marry this man because he had money. He didn’t see me; he just saw the money. 

On the wedding day, everybody dressed up nicely. In the afternoon, I was put in a little white dress to show that I was a young virgin. I was just like a doll in the middle of it all.

I was scared. I thought about the moment I would be taken to his house. What was he going to do to me? How was I going to react? The more time went by, the more my stomach hurt. I couldn’t even feel the air I was breathing. In the evening, he was waiting for me at his house while everyone was shouting with joy.

On the first wedding night, I struggled against my husband. He slapped me so I’d do what he asked. He tried to get it in, but he couldn’t. It was too small. Too closed. I was in so much pain. He kept slapping me every time. Every single time. I said that it hurt, that he should stop, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to wait. He told me to shut up.

The next day, the family arrived to see if there was blood on the white sheets – to prove I was a virgin. There was blood. He had raped me. I was so broken I couldn't move. My mum took the sheet off the bed and showed it to the whole family. She couldn’t see that I was suffering. “Mum, you’re slowly killing me,” I told her. “It happened to me and I’m still alive, so you’ll get through it as well,” she replied.

My mum didn’t protect me. At the age of six, she was the one who took me to be circumcised. She didn’t protect me on my wedding day either. I didn’t understand why she did it to me. Every time I asked her questions, she’d tell me to shut up or change the subject. At some point, I started acting cold towards her. She had put me in danger. In my mind, mothers were supposed to protect their children.

Later on, I understood a bit better why she had done this: She didn’t have any power. If she hadn’t done these things, my aunts on both sides of the family would have taken care of it. I realised that when my father passed away [20 years ago]. He was the one who had the power and decided who would marry who. “Now I can tell you how I feel,” my mum told me. “Every time you suffered, I suffered with you without showing it because I had no power to help you.”

I told her I couldn’t stay there with my husband, that I didn’t want him, and that he wanted to force me to do things. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll speak to my brother,” she replied. “We’ll see what we can do for you. We’ll find a solution.”

She left to find my uncle who put me in touch with a smuggler straight away. Five days later, I arrived in France with fake documents. I asked the smuggler if I was going to stay in France. He replied, “No, you’re going to Belgium. Don’t worry, your husband will never find you there.” That sentence has stayed with me ever since.