There she sat, beautiful and pristine. Some would say she was an angel. She lured you in. Whispered heavenly nights and even brighter days. She knew her power and used it to her advantage. She was a goddess and you fell at her feet whether you wanted to or not. She was the potion master and no one left her with their mind in tact. She decided when it was enough. She chose what concoction would poison your mind.
“Hi, again…” It had been a long time since we had spoken (each caught up in our own lives and still trying to process the parts of the story she had already told) and today (perhaps because we were meeting in person this time), I could see the shadows in her eyes. Unlike before, today her eyes showed how much she was struggling. Shadows fluttered behind them like dark fairies slowly staining her usually strong exterior and demanding she address them.
I know I’ve been away for a long time but writing the rest of this story was even harder than writing the first part. It took me three weeks before I could go through my notes again and start working through the horrors she had disclosed to me. My brain simply could not comprehend what had happened.
I could not put the strong, independent woman I knew in the same box as the scared, broken sixteen year old whose soul laid in tattered shreds. It sounds melodramatic to say the least but as this story unfolds I guarantee you will also be wondering how on earth anyone could survive such a horrific and traumatizing teenage experience.
She had this deadly calm look in her eyes (the mug of hot chocolate long time finished but still softly held in her hands like protection) as she prepared to tell me the rest of her story…
I’ve never felt so helpless researching or writing a story as I did with this story. It took me twice as long as it normally does to write and I’m still not sure I’ve managed to capture the essence of the story.
The strength of the human spirit astounded me as I listened to this tale unfold and realised how many times this innocent soul was shattered and fought back. This is the story of a girl whose fate was decided by everyone around her. This is the story of the cycle of shame.
This is a story of a girl who sacrificed her sanity to protect her family from falling apart. Please understand that the victim is still plagued by the ordeal and for the first time in almost two decades since the incident has she decided to finally talk about her experience.
Recently social media has been inundated with victims of sexual violence and rape coming forward and telling their stories, rape statistics being put on display and hashtags that (while controversial) have finally started the conversation many victims, and campaigns such as the Red My Lips Campaign, have been trying to have for years .
I’ve heard tons of victims say, “but it could have been worse”, “I wasn’t raped so I pretended it didn’t happen because he was family…” or “no one will believe me over him so I didn’t say anything.”
The more often I hear victims belittling or down playing their experiences the starker it became to me that as a community we’ve made victim blaming and protecting the reputation of the offender a norm.
So before we can delve into the depths into the necessary discussions and look for solutions to the problem we need to clearly define both sexual violence and rape to ensure that when we discuss these issues we understand that there is no such thing as a small or big offence, both are devastating to the victims and the offenders reputation should play no role in the discussion.
Thought I’d introduce you to a new blogger who’s thoughts and views are fresh and different.
Many years ago, I rescued a dog that happened to run past my sister’s house while I was there. As fate would have it, it was a Siberian Husky. My dog of choice.
Being the Husky whisperer, I chased it down while making a big noise and as soon as I caught its attention, I turned around and ran back.
Well, the Husky is the most intelligent dog known to man and built to run like the wind; but it also can’t ignore an opportunity to race a lesser being so it predictably turned around and sprinted at me with intent and as it beat me, I grabbed it.
My cursory inspection revealed a maggot infested bloody neck wound caused by a permanent chain. I wasn’t guessing – the chain was still there, embedded in its flesh.
The dog was still skittish so my brother in law offered to keep…
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After opening myself up to questions from my readers, I was inundated with girls asking me how I decided to get married and whether I had been as terrified as they are about getting married in case I had a terrible mum-in-law. These questions truly scare me. Have we really lost our ability to trust in love and happiness?
It’s sad to see that generations of girls no longer see marriage as something beautiful. Instead they fear becoming a statistic or a horror story told on Facebook and in magazines (with their names concealed and changed). An entire age of women feel terror instead of dreamy-eyed bliss when thinking about their big day. They dread having a new family, moving out of their comfy homes and into another but most of all they fear the idea of marriage itself…
Wallahi, the stories I hear these days about failed marriages makes me so scared.
— Fah. (@Fah_Hassim) April 2, 2017
Since returning from honeymoon I’ve suffered a serious case of writers block. Now that we’re all settled into our new home I decided it’s time to break the block. So in a creative attempt to get me back to writing I opened myself up to being questioned. The response was a little overwhelming, especially the number of questions sent to me in private, so in an attempt to answer everything I will be doing this in two posts.