< Translator’s note: The original formatting of the stories has been preserved. The translations aim to remain as close as possible to each author's original wording and expression.
This happened more than once. I don’t remember when it first happened, but I think I was around 8 or 9. My uncle (my mom’s sister’s husband) would make advances toward me when I stayed overnight at my younger cousin’s house.
When my brother fell asleep, my uncle would come to me and touch my legs, stroking them with his hands under the blanket. He would even smile and sit next to me, as if this were a normal situation. After saying “good night,” he would kiss me on the lips.
It made me feel uncomfortable and awkward, but I was afraid to say anything, and all I could do was lie still and wait for him to leave. Sometimes I pretended to be asleep, but he would still come over to “wish me sweet dreams.”
I never told anyone about this because I didn’t know if it was really a problem or if I was just imagining it. After all, at other times, my uncle treated me normally (my parents and my brother’s parents were friends) and seemed like an ordinary man, incapable of doing anything disgusting or unpleasant.
Over time, I stopped staying overnight at my relatives’ house, explaining to my mom that I fell asleep more easily at home. It all stopped, but a few years later, another situation arose (I was about 13 years old).
It was some kind of holiday. My brother’s parents invited our family over. I came too. My uncle got drunk, and we happened to run into each other in the kitchen, where we were left alone. He stood by the wall and motioned for me to come to him. I walked over, he leaned toward me, and kissed me on the lips. I was scared, but I couldn’t even move—he was smiling in a “friendly” way. I stood next to him, not understanding what was happening. Then he, a 45-year-old man, still smiling, started calling me into the bathroom. I got very scared and ran out of the kitchen.
He didn’t bother me again, but for another five years, our families kept in touch, and every time I saw my uncle, I felt disgusted and uncomfortable. I didn’t dare tell anyone what had happened because I was sure no one would believe me. It even seemed like I had made it up, and I convinced myself that “it’s all a lie.”
Now our families don’t talk because my uncle’s wife has lost her mind and cursed our entire family, and my uncle himself has said a lot of horrible things about my parents (which, of course, is upsetting). But I’m so glad I no longer have to see that disgusting smile at family gatherings, as I did back then, as a child.
Anonymous author; story shared in 2021 as part of the “16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence” campaign