Illustrations by Singha Hon
Words by Dena Igusti

Over 200 million women and girls have undergone female genital mutilation as of 2020, and I don’t know if I’m included in this statistic. Truthfully, I know I probably am, but I am listed as “woman” or “girl.” Not “non-binary person.” I am a non-binary person who uses she/they pronouns, and my “she” pronouns reflect my experiences as a survivor of female genital mutilation.

Every family gossips. Every family gossips especially when it comes to girls reaching puberty.  

“She’s getting older.”

“She’s becoming a woman soon.”

“You need to watch out for her.”

“She might break some hearts.”

I have heard these comments everywhere - from TV shows to neighbors to school teachers. So, when I was 8 years old and my family started making these same comments I honestly didn’t think much of it. 

I always knew what circumcision was. Indonesians call it “sunat,” referring  to the foreskin being cut from a  penis. But I did not know what it would mean for me. The week before my own “circumcision”, my brother was circumcised. After he came home from the operation, he was met with cheers, laughs, and handfuls of money. 

At 9 years old, I had been in Indonesia for a little more than a month. I learned how to ride a bike without training wheels and rode all over Jelambar. I went to almost every shopping mall and adjacent markets in Jakarta. I would always take a taxi with my aunt to go to the supermarket and practically knew the hills, roads, and turns it would take to get to there. My aunt would sometimes tell me not to join her on shopping trips because she feared me getting lost and not knowing where to go because I didn’t speak Indonesian very well. One day, however, my aunt was a little more insistent on me coming along for the shopping trip.

“Dena, let’s go to the supermarket. Now. Hurry up, get ready.”

It’s not that I wasn’t eager to go, but I just didn’t understand why she was so adamant on me coming with her this time. 

“Don’t worry about how you’re dressed. Let’s go.”

I ended up staying in my house clothes and threw on a pair of sandals. It was eerily quiet as my aunt hailed us a cab. The supermarket was about 20 minutes away by car. We would usually make a right and deal with the ongoing traffic and a dirt road crowded with outdated cars, bikes, and motorcycles. This time around, we make a left, and go down various long and empty roads. Somehow, this ride stretched for over two hours. I assumed we were trying to avoid traffic. I fell asleep most of the way there. 

Finally, we ended up in front of a back alley. We continued to the end of its winding path before reaching a small doorway on the left hand side. Everything happened in slow motion yet all at once. I’m shoved inside. I’m led to a living  room. A woman says, “She can definitely do it now. Hurry before she knows.” I’m led through a curtained doorway, revealing a metal table in a small kitchen. I’m pushed on the table. I’m forced to lie on it flat on my back. 

“She has to be calm”, the woman says, as she puts on a face mask, dips a scalpel in a bowl of cloudy water. I don’t know what’s about to happen, but I know it will only happen to me. 

There are two pains. First, the actual cut. The sharpness of the scalpel on delicate skin. Then, the uncomfortable feeling of wet gauze being stuffed in a hole that should have never been made. My cries echo the alleyway. My aunt keeps a straight face and tells me, “It doesn’t even hurt.”

There was no money in the end. Just saltwater and bundles of leftover gauze caked with dried blood on my hands. The ride home is quiet, save for my whimpering and the jeers from my aunt saying I was “too sensitive”; that I shouldn’t have been so loud. 

As I cried, my aunt smiles, “Now, you will always be a good woman.”

Female genital mutilation (FGM) encompasses all procedures that involve the removal of the external vagina or other injury to the vagina for non-medical reasons. 

Everyone knows the obvious physical and psychological effects of undergoing FGM. On the ride home I moved to the edge of the backseat so my blood wouldn’t pool on the taxi cab seats. I can’t walk for days. I’m scared of looking at anything related to sex or kissing because my family threatens it will “grow back” and they would have to cut it again. But the quiet violence of FGM is that survivors forever bear the burden of being associated only with cis-womanhood. 

When I returned to Queens, New York I became more and more invested in Asian punk rock and the American emo scene. I wanted to look like all the men I saw in YouTube videos donning  black eyeliner and spiky hair. I tried to wear my brother’s clothes like I used to before I left for Indonesia, and my extended family yelled at me the same way they did before. They threatened to have me cut again. They said,“If you really want it, we can cut all of it off. Is that what you want? We can cut everything. We can send you back now.” I realized that female genital mutilation is not just about maintaining sexual abstinence but also ensuring that I conform to cis-heteronormative standards of femininity. Under female genital mutilation, in order to fit the standards of a “pure woman” you have to adhere to cis womanhood and its expectations of femininity. While womanhood did not feel like me, moving away from it felt like I was asking for punishment. 

I officially came out as non-binary several years ago. I always knew I wasn’t a girl. The idea of not being a girl seemed impossible to me, so I started moving away from it. I bought baggy shirts and shopped in the men’s section, using Tumblr fashion trends as an excuse. I cut my hair under the guise of being a “tomboy.” In high school, I read Woman At Point Zero. The author explains female genital mutilation as one of those things that can only be done to women under the patriarchy. But after school I called myself “they” only after following “she.” 

Up until college, I thought every Muslim with a vagina underwent female genital mutilation, but no one talked about it because of the shame that comes with discussing anything related to genitalia. It wasn’t until I met other Muslim girls and non-binary folks who were sex positive that I realized not every Muslim is circumcised, and not every Indonesian - Muslim or not - undergoes circumcision. I thought my body failed. That I had failed my body. That my family failed to protect me by assuming this is how they should protect me. I had nightmares and panic attacks for a year. I had an eating disorder for several months. At the same time, I stopped calling myself non-binary and only referred to myself as a woman. I was intent on looking as hyper-feminine as possible. I thought that if my body was forced into womanhood, then the rest of me should too. I thought identifying as “they” meant that I was trying to run away from what was done to me. That I had failed my body once again. 

Then, oneday I heard about free counseling services for Muslim women and people of color. I thought somehow there must be a counseling service for survivors of FGM. 

After sifting through two pages of search results for “FGM therapy,” I found a service that was available only to women and girls.. When asked for my pronouns, I removed the “they” that followed my assigned pronouns and stuck with “she.” 

I can’t say therapy didn’t help me because of this. I learned about PTSD. I learned my triggers. I learned that my fear of betraying my family stems from the fear that is a result of FGM. I was given two shiny stones, one pink and one iridescent blue that I still keep in my wallet in case I experience panic attacks. I learned that I fail no one when I am myself. She tells me that regardless of my sexuality and how I perceive sex, I’m still a woman.

On most websites and articles, FGM refers to the vagina as, “girl’s genitals.” From language to resources, all aspects of FGM, the before, during, and after, assume an FGM survivor (often a child) has and always will be a cis-woman. They also constantly associate FGM with just womanhood. I’ve seen my friends call me non-binary, but then call me a girl when talking about FGM. I can’t fully blame them. When I talk about my trauma, I still slip up and call myself a woman. 

I know pronouns aren’t directly associated with gender, but I know how I am being perceived depending on what pronouns people use. While I can still be non-binary and use she/her pronouns, the “she” I’m called by my friends is different than the “she” called by my mother. It’s different than the “she” I’m called by the woman who cut me. It’s different than the  “she” I write when I signed up for FGM therapy. 

When talking about female genital mutilation, we need to understand that not all survivors of female genital mutilation are cis-women. We cannotuphold the idea that female genital mutilation is rooted in cis-womanhood, which forces survivors to conform to those expectations.

I don’t keep the “she” in my pronouns as a way to stay in womanhood. In the end, holding “she” was necessary for my personal survival. I was called “she” when it was done to me. “She” stayed with me as I learned the impacts of what I went through. I need to bring “her” out for my healing too. And I’m still non-binary despite all of this.