Stories

My name is Fatoumata Yehiya Maiga. I’m 23-years-old, and I’m an IT specialist. I joined the Youth Action Movement at the end of 2018. The head of the movement in Mali is a friend of mine, and I met her before I knew she was the president. She invited me to their events and over time persuaded me to join. I watched them raising awareness about sexual and reproductive health, using sketches and speeches. I learnt a lot. Overcoming taboos I went home and talked about what I had seen and learnt with my family. In Africa, and even more so in the village where I come from in Gao, northern Mali, people don’t talk about these things. I wanted to take my sisters to the events, but every time I spoke about them my relatives would just say it was to teach girls to have sex, and that it’s taboo. That’s not what I believe. I think the movement helps girls, most of all, to know their sexual rights, their bodies, what to do and what not to do to stay healthy and safe. They don’t understand this concept. My family would say it was just a smokescreen to convince girls to get involved in something dirty.  I have had to tell my younger cousins about their periods, for example, when they came from the village to live in the city. One of my cousins was so scared, and told me she was bleeding from her vagina and didn’t know why. We talk about managing periods in the Youth Action Movement, as well as how to manage cramps and feel better. The devastating impact of FGM But there was a much more important reason for me to join the movement. My parents are educated, so me and my sisters were never cut. I learned about female genital mutilation at a conference I attended in 2016. I didn’t know that there were different types of severity and ways that girls could be cut. I hadn’t understood quite how dangerous this practice is. Then, two years ago, I lost my friend Aïssata. She got married young, at 17. She struggled to conceive until she was 23. The day she gave birth, there were complications and she died. The doctors said that the excision was botched and that’s what killed her. From that day on, I decided I needed to teach all the girls in my community about how harmful this practice is for their health. I was so horrified by the way she died. Normally, girls in Mali are cut when they are three or four years old, though for some it’s done at birth. When they are older and get pregnant, I know they face the same challenges as every woman does giving birth, but they also live with the dangerous consequences of this unhealthy practice.  The importance of talking openly  The problem lies with the families. I want us, as a movement, to talk with the parents and explain to them how they can contribute to their children’s sexual health. I wish it were no longer a taboo between parents and their girls. But if we talk in such direct terms, they only see disobedience, and say that we are encouraging promiscuity. We need to talk to teenagers because they are already parents in many cases. They are the ones who decide to go through with cutting their daughters, or not. A lot of Mali is hard to reach though. We need travelling groups to go to those isolated rural areas and talk to people about sexual health. Pregnancy is the girl’s decision, and girls have a right to be healthy, and to choose their future.

In Palestine sexual violence against women, especially within the family, is common. Women's virginity is linked to the honour of their family, and will face threats of death for dishonouring their family. Mariam needed help to get out of a coerced “relationship”, fearing for her life if her relatives find out. “In the beginning my nephew wanted to kiss me. “I resisted. But then he started touching my body. It became a relationship between lovers. To “preserve” virginity, it was always anal sex.  “I knew it was wrong. But who I should talk to? If my brother found out he would have beaten me - killed me.”  At the Palestinian Family Planning and Protection Association (PFPPA)'s clinics, social workers give awareness sessions on sexual violence in the waiting rooms, hoping to catch the attention of women there for other reasons who are hiding the fact they have been abused. It was this kind of session that proved vital for Mariam. “When my sister was pregnant I went with her to the PFPPA clinic,” she remembers. “The social worker there, Ruba, started speaking about sexual violence. When my sister went in with the doctor, I went to Ruba's office and told her I needed help; I cried.” Mariam kept visiting Ruba, and ended things with her nephew. “What happened to me is not rare. It would have been impossible for me to approach a relative and tell them what was going on; I was too frightened. And nobody would have believed me over a man. “I've found there are other women of my age who've had similar experiences to me but women are frightened to speak about it.  “Before, I despised myself. Now I feel powerful. I leave the house, I meet people. I feel I'm responsible for myself, that I have to protect myself, and that I need to help others if they need me. Everyone's telling me 'you've changed, you're stronger'.” Through its association with religious and community leaders, the PFPPA seeks to persuade the public of the importance of talking openly about sexual health and relationships, and dispel the idea that sexuality education for young people goes against the teachings of Islam.