I was born at 6 AM on a chilly day in May. My mother tells me that I was a curious child from Day 0. My eager eyes were wide open and I stared intently at her, seeking answers. I also had a thick shock of black hair that curled around my skull. It later on earned me the nickname “karabi a ressor” from my brother, which meant springy temples in Kreol. I remember loathing it when I was growing up. Everything should have set me up to be a happy child. I played with my brother, went to school, ate my favorite foods and biked around the neighborhood. I was a happy child. And it should have stayed that way.
But instead, I remember sleepovers where wandering hands would find themselves on a body I was too young to defend. I remember him teaching …show more content…
I was staying over at his place. I slept next to him in bed, just like I would next to my brother. I was unsuspecting. I woke up in the middle of the night to his hands inside my PJs, his fingers probing. I pretended to sleep and turned over, feeling his hand jerking out of my shorts. That night, a wave of memories invaded my dreams and I knew. I finally knew the term that I could use to describe my experience: sexual abuse. Some of these memories, I wish I had never recalled. Some of the instances, I never want to reveal. All that I know is that on that night, I grew the resolve that it would never happen again. I would never let my sense of agency be robbed of me, like it had been for eleven …show more content…
It is the story of three-year-old Sibongile who was raped by a family acquaintance in their home in Johannesburg. It is the story of Susanna who suffered at the hands of her perpetrators for eighteen years before she was able to break free. It is also the story of Danny, who was only five-years-old when it all began. All because a man who was a respected philanthropist in the community had decided that the boy’s body was his to violate. It is the story of 1 in 5 young girls and the story of 1 in 15 young boys. It is the story of so many of the children around us. I am sure that we can all unanimously agree: this is wrong. We owe it to ourselves to protect our children. We cannot keep letting their innocence be tainted. We cannot keep letting them grow into broken adults. We cannot allow this cycle of pain to
But instead, I remember sleepovers where wandering hands would find themselves on a body I was too young to defend. I remember him teaching …show more content…
I was staying over at his place. I slept next to him in bed, just like I would next to my brother. I was unsuspecting. I woke up in the middle of the night to his hands inside my PJs, his fingers probing. I pretended to sleep and turned over, feeling his hand jerking out of my shorts. That night, a wave of memories invaded my dreams and I knew. I finally knew the term that I could use to describe my experience: sexual abuse. Some of these memories, I wish I had never recalled. Some of the instances, I never want to reveal. All that I know is that on that night, I grew the resolve that it would never happen again. I would never let my sense of agency be robbed of me, like it had been for eleven …show more content…
It is the story of three-year-old Sibongile who was raped by a family acquaintance in their home in Johannesburg. It is the story of Susanna who suffered at the hands of her perpetrators for eighteen years before she was able to break free. It is also the story of Danny, who was only five-years-old when it all began. All because a man who was a respected philanthropist in the community had decided that the boy’s body was his to violate. It is the story of 1 in 5 young girls and the story of 1 in 15 young boys. It is the story of so many of the children around us. I am sure that we can all unanimously agree: this is wrong. We owe it to ourselves to protect our children. We cannot keep letting their innocence be tainted. We cannot keep letting them grow into broken adults. We cannot allow this cycle of pain to