Across India, certain rites of passage are celebrated as markers of community identity, yet one practice within the Dawoodi Bohra community continues to exist in the shadows of public discourse. Known locally as khatna or khafz, this form of female genital cutting is often framed by its practitioners as a tradition tied to morality and belonging. While legal debates and cultural defences have dominated the conversation, the long-term psychological toll on those who undergo the procedure remains largely unexamined. When viewed through a systems lens, it becomes clear that a web of social expectations, generational handover, and institutional silence keeps the practice alive, leaving behind wounds that are seldom visible but deeply enduring.

Reliable statistics on the prevalence of female genital cutting in India are scarce, primarily because families carry out the act discreetly and no major government survey has comprehensively tracked it. Still, independent investigations and grassroots efforts, including research from organisations such as Sahiyo, indicate that a substantial majority of Dawoodi Bohra women, with estimates ranging from seventy-five to eighty-five percent have experienced the procedure. The cutting typically occurs between the ages of six and seven. These numbers, though not officially sanctioned, repeatedly appear across small-scale studies and firsthand accounts. Within a tightly structured community, adherence to tradition is directly linked to social survival. Elders and family reputation exert quiet but powerful pressure, and any deviation from established norms is treated not as a personal choice but as a threat to familial honour. Because open discussion is discouraged and reporting mechanisms are absent, the cycle continues uninterrupted from one generation to the next.

The physical act itself generally corresponds to what the World Health Organisation classifies as Type I cutting, involving the partial or total removal of the clitoral hood and sometimes the clitoral glans. Traditional practitioners usually perform the procedure outside clinical environments, without anaesthesia or sterile protocols. Medical research has repeatedly confirmed that there are no health benefits associated with this practice. Immediate dangers include severe bleeding, infections, and acute pain, while long-term complications may involve chronic discomfort, scar tissue problems, and obstetrical difficulties. Yet for many survivors, the physical consequences, though real, are not the heaviest burden. The psychological aftermath often proves more persistent and more difficult to name.

What makes khatna psychologically complex is the context of trust in which it occurs. Unlike a sudden injury or an attack by a stranger, this procedure is arranged by caregivers, typically mothers or grandmothers who act out of genuine belief that they are protecting the child’s future. Trauma researchers sometimes describe such situations as betrayal trauma, where harm flows from a relationship the individual depends upon for safety. Most girls receive no warning before the event. The reasons, often framed in terms of cleanliness, modesty, or social acceptance, are explained only afterwards. This reversal experience, first justification, later, leaves many survivors struggling to reconcile their memories with their love for their families. Over time, symptoms resembling post-traumatic stress can emerge, including intrusive thoughts, heightened anxiety, and a distorted sense of one’s own body.

These psychological effects are not random or isolated. They are shaped and deepened by the silence that surrounds the practice. Without any forum for open conversation, individuals are left to process their distress alone, often concluding that their discomfort must be a personal failing rather than a natural response to harm. Researchers call this internalised normalisation, a state in which suffering is felt but never articulated, because the social cost of speaking up remains too high. Cultural logic within the community reinforces the practice by linking it to values like self-discipline and preparation for adulthood. These ideals are not inherently harmful, but enforcing them through physical intervention creates a profound ethical tension. Families rarely face formal rules requiring them to comply; instead, they are guided by whispers, expectations, and the fear of social exclusion, ruined marriage prospects, or damaged reputation. In this atmosphere, continuing the ritual feels less like active endorsement and more like risk management.

India lacks a law that explicitly bans female genital cutting. Nevertheless, legal scholars argue that existing statutes, including the Protection of Children from Sexual Offences Act and various sections of the Indian Penal Code, could be applied, especially when minors are involved. The Supreme Court has considered petitions seeking a definitive ruling, but no clear prohibition has yet emerged. This legal ambiguity creates a vacuum in which enforcement becomes nearly impossible. Reporting remains inconsistent, and accountability is rare. Still, survivor-led organisations and civil society groups are slowly reframing the discussion, moving away from cultural relativism toward a rights-based approach centred on bodily autonomy and informed consent.

Enduring change will require more than a new law. It demands community-led dialogue, where insiders rather than outsiders challenge entrenched beliefs. It requires education that presents accurate medical and psychological facts, shifting the narrative from tradition to health. Survivors need access to mental health services tailored to experiences they have never before put into words. And policymakers must offer clear legal definitions so that protective measures can actually function. These pieces are interdependent; legal prohibition alone, without social support, will drive the practice further underground, while awareness without enforcement leaves children unprotected.

The debate over khatna is often reduced to a clash between culture and regulation, but that binary misses the essential point. The most enduring consequence of this ritual is not a legal or cultural one; it is the invisible scar left on a child’s mind. Those scars are difficult to measure, but they are no less damaging. Recognising them honestly is the first step toward a future where tradition evolves without compromising dignity or autonomy.

References

1. 1. Sahiyo. (2017). Understanding Female Genital Cutting in the Dawoodi Bohra Community: An Exploratory Survey.
2. Equality Now, WeSpeakOut, Sahiyo, et al. (2022). *India - Universal Periodic Review joint submission, 2022*.
3. Outlook India. (2022, November 16). Does India Need A Law To Curb Female Genital Mutilation?
4. The Tribune. (2025, November 29). SC issues notice to Centre on PIL seeking ban on female genital mutilation among Muslims.
5. Outlook India. (2025, November 28). Supreme Court Issues Notice To Centre On Plea To Ban Female Genital Mutilation.
6. Lever, H., Ottenheimer, D., Teysir, J., Singer, E., & Atkinson, H. G. (2018). Depression, Anxiety, Post-traumatic Stress Disorder and a History of Pervasive Gender-Based Violence Among Women Asylum Seekers Who Have Undergone Female Genital Mutilation/Cutting: A Retrospective Case Review.
7. Heir, T., Bendiksen, B., Minteh, F., Kuye, R. A., & Lien, I-L. (2023). Serious life events and associated PTSD in Gambian girls exposed to female genital cutting. Frontiers in Public Health.
8. Taher, M. (2018, August 17). A Bohra woman fights against female genital cutting. DW.com.
9. Franklin, N. & Syyed, H. S. A. (2020). Political invisibility of Female Genital Cutting in Pakistani society: Understanding this tradition and its implications on women in the Dawoodi Bohra community. Charles Darwin University. 

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