The unlikely defenders of girls facing genital mutilation in Kenya
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'I've seen what it does to our sisters,' says James Lelelit, 28, a former enforcer of the tradition turned anti-FGM activist. 'They bleed. They suffer infections. They drop out of school. Some never recover. I couldn't stay silent anymore.'
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What makes this movement extraordinary is that it is not the result of outside pressure. It is coming from within the heart of the community. What's emerging in Samburu is not only an effort to champion women's rights and health, but a redefinition of masculinity. For young men raised to measure their worth by dominance and tradition, embracing compassion is no small feat.
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In the past, anti-FGM messages often came from outsiders and were met with resistance. But today, morans are leading the conversations. They are young men who have seen firsthand the pain FGM causes their sisters and classmates. They are part of a generation more exposed to education, mobile technology, and evolving ideas about human rights. Crucially, they frame their opposition to FGM not as a rejection of traditional culture but as a way to protect it.
The hope is that this insider-led movement — in which warriors are speaking out and families are listening — will continue to grow. The transformation is fragile, but if sustained, it could mark a turning point not just for Samburu but for other communities where the custom remains entrenched.
FGM is illegal in Kenya, yet it continues in rural communities where government enforcement is weak and old customs remain deeply ingrained. In Samburu County, nearly
From warrior to defender
In a region where tradition often outweighs legislation, the morans are making all the difference.
'Everything changed when we started talking to the warriors,' says Samuel Leadismo, a Samburu warrior, founder of the Pastoralist Child Foundation, and former enforcer of FGM.
Leadismo's transformation into a defender of girls' rights began after he attended a community training by a local NGO that challenged old beliefs about FGM. It wasn't the facts alone that shifted his views but the girls' and women's harrowing testimonies. The knowledge hit differently because it came from people he trusted and because the people at the training asked him to reconsider what it truly meant to be a protector.
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Today, he works to convince other young Samburu warriors that they have the power to end the practice. 'Morans have influence,' he says. 'If they decide to marry only girls who are not cut, everything changes.'
Indeed, this redefinition of masculinity — from enforcing harmful tradition to defending girls' bodies and futures — is what makes the movement so powerful. In a community where identity is rooted in heritage, warriors like Leadismo are showing that honoring culture can involve change. Rather than rejecting tradition outright, they are reframing it — turning strength into advocacy and authority into protection.
Their new stance has already had an effect. Families are increasingly choosing to let their daughters go through alternative rites of passage, including community-led ceremonies that celebrate a girl's coming of age without FGM. According to the Pastoralist Child Foundation, thousands of girls in the region have undergone these alternative rites of passage and remained in school.
Joy Lemasian, 17, remembers the day she told her father she did not want to be cut.
'He looked angry at first,' she recalls. 'But then my uncle, a moran, told him, 'The world is changing. Let her go to school.' That saved me.'
Lemasian now dreams of becoming a teacher. Her story is becoming more common, but she knows the danger hasn't disappeared. 'Some girls are still cut in secret,' she says softly. 'But now, at least we have people to talk to. People who believe in us.'
The morans occupy a unique space between the elders, who are often guardians of tradition, and the youth, who are hungry for change. Their voices carry weight in a society where age and gender roles are tightly defined.
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Even some elders are beginning to come around.
'At first, I thought the boys were being disrespectful,' says Moses Lekilelei, a village elder in the town of Archers Post. 'But then I listened. They are not rejecting our culture. They are saving our daughters.'
Yet there has been backlash. In some villages, morans who speak out have faced threats or been ostracized.
'We were told we were no longer real men,' says Peter Loeku, 26. 'But I asked them — how is a real man one who causes harm to a child?'
Loeku admits the fight is slow. 'We need more schools, more role models. And we need to stop pretending this is just a women's issue. It affects all of us.'
Internationally, the story is being watched closely. The United Nations Population Fund warns that without faster progress, up to 89 million girls could still be at risk of FGM by 2030. Samburu's example offers hope.
'Being a moran used to mean strength, pride, silence,' says Lelelit. 'Now it means asking questions. It means choosing what kind of man you want to be.'
As the sun sets over the hills, the gathered morans in Samburu rise to leave. One of them ties his red cloth tighter around his waist and turns to speak.
'We are still warriors,' he says, smiling. 'But now we fight for something better.'
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