No More!

Trigger Warning

This post discusses sensitive topics including assault, abuse, and trauma. If you or someone you know may be affected by these issues, please take care of yourself while reading. It’s okay to step away if you need to.

When will it be enough?

 When I was four years old, the mentally ill brother of the owner of the house we rented dragged me into a storage room while I was on my way to the toilet. He pulled out his penis and asked me to "show him mine because he showed me his". It was terrifying, by some miracle the wife, his sister-in-law, unexpectedly opened the storage room, and I survived. She instructed me not to say anything and to ignore him because he was ill. I didn't understand what happened, and I was even more clueless of what could have happened. All I knew was for my four year old brain seeing the male genitalia was traumatizing. So I did what every child does, I cried to my parents when they came home, completely forgetting the warning I was given. I don’t remember much but I remember my parents shouting, there was a screaming match between the owners and them. Even with our limited finances and options, my parents realized we couldn’t live there anymore and for the next three months that we stayed there I saw the man twice through a window of a room where he was locked not to get out. I didn't know why but I knew I felt safe knowing he couldn't reach me.

I didn't understand why I had to change schools or leave the only place and friends I had ever known, but three months later we moved. We moved into a house with a front yard, one where we didn’t share the house with anyone.

Today, I thank my parents for not believing in "nothing even happened; it was an accident," “this won’t happen again; there is no need to make a big deal out of it,” or “it will be okay as long as we try to avoid them." I thank them for making that decision and not being willing to compromise on my safety, even when they were strained financially. At the same time, I wonder what happens to the families who never realized the severity of the risks or the extent of the vulnerabilities. What happens to the families who can't afford to make that choice? What happens to the four, five, and six-year-old baby girls in those families? How many miracles did they get until their luck ran out?

When I was six years old, we sublet the small one-bedroom house at the far end of our front yard to a couple. The husband who would come home from work would find me playing with my brother and cousin outside and would greet me by picking me up, hugging, and kissing my cheeks with ‘affection’. I hated it; I hated how he interrupted my playtime, and I hated how uncomfortable it made me feel. I would always fight my way out and angrily complain to my aunt and his wife, who would be around there talking. They would brush it off, laugh, and tell me he just loved me. “Oh, how he loves kids." "Oh, how he sees you as his own child,” the wife would say. I felt very silly every time.

After some time, he started carrying me into their home while hugging me. His wife, my aunt, cousin, and brother were outside. The first time it was just ‘an accident’ he had carried me in as he was talking with them, ‘playfully’ fighting with me when I tried to get away, and he had released me the moment we entered their house. The more these ‘accidents’ happened and the longer was held back, just a few seconds longer every time because he had a chocolate to give me, a photo to show me, and a doll for me. The six-year-old me was frustrated because the longer I stayed there, the more he took me away from the games I was playing, and when I finally got back, I would have to be a referee or miss my turn due to these unwanted interruptions. Not only did I find him uncomfortable and annoying, but the competitive side of me found him absolutely unacceptable after I had missed my close shot at winning one day. 

That evening, I had complained to my mother, pouring out all of my frustration. My mother, alarmed and sensing the threat I never knew existed, gave the man and his wife a stern warning. As calm as my mother was, you never want to be at the receiving end of her anger. “Do not even touch my daughter, let alone hug or kiss her,” she had said, and I remember smiling, happy that someone finally took my complaint seriously. The wife gave the usual “he just loves children; he sees her as his own,” alarmed at my mother's seriousness on the matter. My mom had then pointed out, “Then why doesn’t he ever kiss my son or nephew that way? They are kids too!” she said, effectively shutting them up. That was the first time I considered that detail. My six-year-old brain recognized the weight of that statement as I saw the speechless people in front of me, even when it didn’t understand why. And at six years old, that was the first time I came close to realizing the fundamental difference between my brother and me in the society we live in.

Growing up, I was scared of being raped before I even knew what rape or sex ever was. At eight, my mom had a talk with me; she had stressed in such a heavy way that the conversation is still etched into my brain. She talked about how I needed to tell her the moment I felt uncomfortable or was touched in any way by any of my relatives. She had said that it didn’t matter if it were my cousins or uncles; touching me was wrong, and no one was allowed to touch me. That was after the story of a young girl raped by her uncle came out. I had my first lesson on does and don'ts.

 

Soon, as the stories of rape my mother heard increased, so did the list of men I had to be weary of. In just a short while, it had included teachers, neighbors, shopkeepers, etc. And with them, I was taught all of the little things. What not to do, not to say, not to eat, and not to wear—yet even with all that work, the list of men I had to be weary of never went down.

And after some time I didn’t need my mother anymore. No, I had started to fill out the list myself.  This time though, it had faces or names. There was that scary beggar that followed me to school, when I was nine as he vowed to make me his wife and called me ‘’his love’’. The bunch of rowdy men at the side of the road that felt entitled to speak about my body and the things they would like to do to it when I was eleven years old just trying to get home from school. I would put my head down and walk fast, I was non confrontational and tried my best to ‘not attract attention’. Because somehow at eleven was expected to compensate for the failings of fully grown men that found traumatizing a child funny and a community that didn’t deem me or my safety worthy enough cause to speak up for. Back then I had wondered why they felt so entitled, what gave them the right but even more why no one told them to stop, why somehow speaking about what they would like to do to the body of an 11 year old was acceptable enough to ignore.

Today, I wonder how many of those entitled men felt like they wanted to explore how far they could go before someone spoke up. Before they faced any consequences, Before they reached some bottom line that society finds unacceptable, How far is too far, and what can they get away with?

After all, if they can verbally harass a child without any consequence, can they grope me? Can they rape me? How many times does it take before anyone cares enough to find out? Can they kill me? Is that where the bottom line is? I wonder what had happened to those ten, eleven, and twelve-year-old's who had to meet the monsters society allowed the men to turn into. I wonder how many of them survived.

At the end of that same year, I saw the first rage bomb in society; everyone seemed outraged. Her name was Hanna Lalango, and she was sixteen. She had boarded a public taxi on her way home after school, and the men inside had taken her to their homes and raped her for several days before leaving her on the street. And as the world around me tried to reshape or dissect her story to figure out what she had done or should have done differently for that to have happened to her, as if her story was a big anomaly in an otherwise perfect society, I saw myself in her. That could have been me! And I knew that even though deep down no amount of little things I did would save me, I started the habit of counting the men-to-women ratio of the people inside any public transport I went into. I refused to ever enter a full taxi if I didn't see it fill up. To this day, long after her story is forgotten, I get out of any taxi where there is a much larger male-to-female ratio. How could I not when I heard what happened? All she did was use public transport, something so mundane. Still, the community said, ‘’she should have known better” and asked, “Why didn’t she shout?" and “What was she wearing?” 

She was found eleven days later. Her family had all but been ignored when they brought her missing case to the police. And yet all of a sudden, everyone knew her name; everyone was disturbed and enraged at what happened; all of a sudden, everyone found their voice to speak up against it and about it. I felt like, for the first time, I saw society’s bottom line. The eleven-year-old me somehow realized that in the community I grew up in and the country I live in, I would have to die before someone spoke up for me. I am worth more dead than alive. And when I die, I become human enough to be cared for.

 

Hanna died after 22 days of treatment. Her doctor had said, “She came too late to us." To which I heard people say, “It is better that she died than to have lived her life after that." "What a life of shame!” I wondered how many people would still be so angry if she had lived. I wondered if people would care more about her life than her story. 

 

Today I realize that as much as society tried to make it look that way, sadly Hanna was not the exception; she was just one of many. Today, I wonder how many Hanna’s were silenced after surviving because we, as a society, decided rape victims should carry the shame of having to survive. We so easily decided they were better off dead, giving them the death sentence we find too harsh for the rapist to have. At eleven, you thought to me, I was better off dead, and now you ask me why I chose the bear.

 

At thirteen, I had seen too much, faced too much, and was angry. I vowed to never let anyone walk over my rights. I became what most had called an angry feminist and what I would call a hurt and cornered teenager. I had always thought that if I was ever physically assaulted, I would shout and speak up about it. I will not ‘let it slide’. I was angry at the world that never spoke up for me, so I promised myself I would. I would die before I let a man do that to me, I had said. 

 

I was fourteen. My mom had given me money for clothes, and for the first time in my life, I would be choosing and buying my clothes all on my own. I was excited; it was a big milestone for me. So I went out to buy them. I took the turn next to our house, my mind going through the many different styles of clothes I could explore. I didn’t see them coming, and when one of the two men that were walking my way shot his hands to the side, groping my breast as he passed, my heart stopped. I was not even ten steps away from my house; my brain froze. I couldn't comprehend what had happened. This was my home, my neighborhood, and my family was right there. This was supposed to be my safe space. I was supposed to be safe! No, that can’t be right; I must have felt it wrong! Denial overwhelmed me. Until the laughter behind me, as they made the turn in the direction of my house woke me up. 

 

I wish I could tell you that my first thought was to shout when the denial faded away, to speak up. But no, my first thought was shame—shame that I was violated. My second was fear, fear that I would be labelled as ‘the girl who got groped’ so overwhelmed by fear and shame, I looked around to see if anyone saw me and willed myself to keep walking. By the time the rational part of my brain broke through the layers of shame society had taught me to carry, those men were long gone. Soon, a new layer of shame set in, one for not speaking up and one for not being strong enough to have said anything. That day I lost two things: I lost my safe space, or better yet, I realized I never really had it. I was prey in a world of predators I couldn't see. What was worse was that I had lost trust in the one person I thought would always have my back, myself. I felt weak and absolutely helpless, but most of all, I was overwhelmed by shame. 

Today, I realize it was never my shame to carry. I will not carry the burden of the inhumanity I was a victim of. Today I leave that shame on the community that raised and enabled too many monsters to roam free. Whatever your role was in this community and in this system, that is and will always be your shame to carry. And I leave it for you to carry.

 After many more faces and names, holding a list that always seems to grow. Every year, I find myself becoming more and more acceptable prey for monsters. I watch as the already weak legal framework completely abandons me. I see how my body, my consent, and my rights become more and more negotiable.

 Yet now, you find it offensive that I am a feminist? Find it ridiculous that I am angry?

 Why can’t I take a joke? Why do I not trust men? 

Or feel the need to tell me, “Men and women are equal, so shut up already,"  “It's not a big deal; can’t you tolerate it?"  “It is not all men." 

 I will ask you this then!

 What is the role you play in this system that breeds monsters? In what way did you feel okay taking away a woman’s rights and a woman’s dignity because you were raised in a society that normalized inhumanity? 

 Did you verbally harass me? Grope? Beat? Rape? Kill?

Did you ignore it? Look away? Laughed? Joked? Kept quiet? 

What was your role in this? Did your silence enable, your 'sympathy’ empower, your laughter and joke normalize, your discomfort validate, and your bottom line raise the monsters that haunt us? 

Statistics show that, reportedly (knowing there are many more that were not reported), In Ethiopia, one in every three women has faced assault in her life. They say every woman knows a woman who was raped, yet no man knows a rapist. Then who is doing all this? One man travelling at lightning speed?

 When was the last time you stopped and reflected? When was the last time you asked the women in your life and tried to understand their problems?

 Chaltu (14) was raped and killed by her own guardian, Bethelehem; an acid attack by a man claiming to love her; Solome was killed by police for not talking to him...

 The fact that it is not all men does me no good when every man is a potential threat and every women lives scared.

 Do not talk to me about having equality in a world where I have to thank my lucky stars that it wasn’t me today because it sure as hell came close yesterday. 

Don’t ask me to tolerate it when you don’t know what I went through. And do not tell me to stop speaking when you haven’t built a community that has ever listened.

When I was 20, it was Tsega, and today it is Heaven, a seven-year-old child who was raped repeatedly, mutilated, and killed. 

And every day I wonder, when will it be enough? Which loss will be big enough that your anger lasts long enough to make a change?