'My Clitoris Was Cut Off When I Was 11'

I was just 11 years old when my stepmom told my 13-year-old sister and me that we were going to be “made into women.” She and my dad said it was a rite of passage and that when we came out of the procedure, we'd get lots of presents. We had no idea what was about to happen. No one told us that our genitals were about to be mutilated.

On the night of August 1, 1984, my stepmom took us to an isolated area about an hour bus ride away from where we lived in Sierra Leone. When we arrived, there were many women waiting outside of a hut. They told us to wait inside the hut while they did something outside. Then one woman told us to take all of our clothes off. They ordered us to go back outside and sit under a tree.

First, they came and got my sister, because she was older. They took her into the hut, and, to this day, I can still hear her screams. When they dragged her back to the tree, she was crying and covered in blood. I had no idea what was going on.

Then, it was my turn. They took me into the hut, blindfolded me, tied my hands behind my back, and had me lie down on the floor on a mat. Several other women spread my legs wide open and pinned my limbs down so I couldn’t fight. The cutter sat on my chest. She was heavyset and naked. I only knew this because, as she began to amputate my clitoris and labia minora, I was in so much shock from the pain that I pulled myself forward and bit her on the bum.

When the cutter was done assaulting me, they removed my blindfold. I was covered in blood, and the women were dancing and singing and shouting and drinking alcohol. They led me back outside, with me stumbling the entire way, to sit under the tree with my legs spread wide open. I stared down at myself in horror. All I could see was red.

The pain was excruciating, and it's difficult to compare it to anything, even to the pain of rape, which I suffered later in life. The physical pain, sharp, cutting, but never ending, was only made worse by the emotional pain. What was happening? Why had our parents allowed this to happen? What should we fear next? I didn’t talk to my sister, and she didn’t talk to me.

The night of the mutilation, I woke up to pee and the wound was so fresh, I felt a shooting pain going up my spine and down to the soles of my feet. I tried not to pee, but I couldn’t hold it, so I sat there in pain and let go of the pee, drop by drop.

I bled throughout the night, until it finally stopped the next day. They didn’t stitch up the wound or use any kind of antiseptic. They left us as we were, to live or die. I was lucky, because, in the end, I survived.

Some girls hemorrhage to death. Others die of neurological shock, septic shock, or other infections, says Pierre Foldès, M.D., a French urologist and surgeon who pioneered a surgical method for repairing damage from female genital mutilation.

'If Victims Die, Those Who Mutilated Them Say It's Because They're Witches'

Female genital mutilation, or FGM, is performed differently in every country and region. Coming from where I do in Sierra Leone, it’s a practice with lots of dark, superstitious rituals, carried out over a period of nine days.

For example, one day, they prepared a meal with red rice—the most nutritious rice grown there, which was really expensive—and fish and something green. They put it on a tray with a stick in the middle of the food. They told my sister and I to eat in a circular motion. If the stick fell or leaned toward either of us, they said we’d die because it meant we practiced witchcraft.

Although we ate lots of greens in West Africa, this was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted; it was like nothing I’d ever had before. I almost puked. After three bites we said we couldn’t do it anymore. Later I found out there’s a myth that the food contains each girls’ own cooked clitoris.

I remember another ritual in the middle of the night, with the moon shining down on us. We were naked again, and we were led to something that looked like a coffin with white fabric draped over it. They told us we had to jump over the box, and if we kicked it, we’d die. My right foot kicked it, and all night I thought that I was going to die.

I thought we were supposed to be made into women. But they didn’t tell us anything about motherhood or about being a wife. Every ritual centered around death.

'When I Told My Mom What Had Happened, She Laughed At Me'

Before we went back home, the women told me if I told anyone what happened, my stomach would swell up and I would die. When I went back to school, I told a friend, another girl. I was rebellious and wanted to see if I really would die. Nothing happened.

The nine days we were away, my mom knew what was going on but didn't say anything to anyone. She asked me about it when we got back, and when I told her, her response was shocking: She just laughed at me. I realized she didn’t really care.

Hatred immediately filled me. I hated my mom, my father, and my stepmom for allowing this to happen to us. I hated the women who did it to us. For more than 25 years, I fantasized about killing each and every one of them. All of them.

You never really get over female genital mutilation. You just learn to live with it. I’m reminded of the pain every single day when I take a shower or when I use the loo. I was created whole by God, he gave me that part for a reason. I remain complete, but not whole. Something was taken from me.

I still haven’t really talked to my mom or stepmom about what happened. I once told my mom it hurt when she laughed at me after the mutilation, but she didn’t have anything to say in response. I never confronted my father. He’s dead now anyway. But I do know he paid money to have us circumcised—that's how those women made their living.

'Finally, I Felt Liberated'

I was 24 when the U.S. accepted my immigration application and I moved, alone, to the East Coast.

The first time I stood in front of people and told my story, I was at Marymount University, in Tarrytown, NY. There was a speaker who came to talk about FGM. I registered and was happy I did. I raised my hand and told the class that I was a survivor. The speaker gave me the floor, and I talked about what happened to me. The class was speechless; many of them didn’t know FGM existed. I felt liberated.

So I kept speaking. Over the years, I visited other universities, appeared on women's rights panels, and told my story during radio interviews. Then, in 2015, I published my book, Distant Sunrise: The Strength in Her Pain to Forgive, which discusses my experience with female genital mutilation and rape, and how I learned to overcome these tragedies to become a victor instead of a victim.

My sister, who’s still in Sierra Leone, read my book, and we talked briefly. But we didn’t get into many details. She doesn’t like to think about it, and I respect her decision not to talk. But I do. And I will.

By Amanda Woerner 

F.A. Cole is an female genital mutilation activist and speaker who lives in Germantown, Maryland. She is the author of Distant Sunrise: The Strength in Her Pain to Forgive. If you or someone who know is a survivor of FGM, or you want to support the fight against FGM, visit the Global Alliance Against Female Genital Mutilation.