< 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.
I thought that if I disappeared, he’d be only too happy. I remember that incident, which I’ve been living with my whole life. I was sitting in a room with my mom and stepdad, and when my mom stepped out for a moment, my stepdad said, “Give me your hand!” I asked, “Why?” but he just repeated his request. So I gave him my hand, while I looked out the window. Then he placed it on his penis and asked me to stroke it. I didn’t see his penis because I was looking out the window the whole time, and only when I touched it did I realize something was wrong. When I turned around, I saw his erect penis and quickly pulled my hand away, jumping out of bed. After that, he hid everything and asked me not to tell my mom about it.
I was only 7 years old. After that, I was always afraid to be alone with him, afraid he’d hit me or show me something. And as I got a little older, I was afraid he’d rape me. Because he’d shown me inappropriate attention more than once—for example, he’d slap my butt and say, “Oh, what a girl you’re growing into.”
That scared me a lot. I even started wearing baggy clothes, stopped combing my hair, and locked myself in my room. But it wasn’t just my stepfather—he had drunk friends who were always hanging out at our house, and one of them would touch me in my private parts and call me “Little Fox.” This happened at the most unexpected moments, especially when my mom wasn’t around because she was busy with my younger brother.
When my mom and stepfather divorced, things got easier for me—but not for long, because there were other men in her life. When I was 14 or 15, one of them stayed over, and while my mom was putting my brother to bed and I was already asleep, I felt someone stroking my buttocks. At first I thought it was a dream, but when I opened my eyes, I saw a man standing over me. I don’t remember how long he was stroking me or where else, but I clearly remember that when I jumped back and my mom came out of her room, he acted as if nothing had happened, just turned around and left.
I didn’t escape harassment in college either. Once, one of the professors, after greeting me and while intoxicated, slapped me on the butt. He generally liked to greet girls that way. I didn’t tell my mom about it until 10 years later. Imagine, I was so afraid and didn’t trust my mom that I didn’t tell her about it until so much time had passed. Of course, no one did anything. Well, it happened, and that was that. Then I moved to another city and thought that my mom’s boyfriends wouldn’t harass me anymore. But no.
Some Arab guy groped me on the subway, and he was even smiling. I just froze, not knowing what to do. And when I tried to hit him, he just walked away with everyone else. I thought my misfortunes were over after that, but five months ago I was raped. My life is ruined. It’s very hard. And I’m to blame for not knowing how to protect myself, and no one protected me, even though I think they saw what was happening.
I have a strained relationship with my mom, which is why things turned out the way they did. I’m talking about this now and I realize this is definitely the last time. No one will ever touch my body without my permission again. I filed a police report against that man. It was the only way—to protect myself and my body. Of course, it didn’t just go away like that. I can’t seem to find a decent guy. And I’m not looking for one. I don’t know what’s good and what’s bad, so I’m working through it all with a therapist.
Of course, this is something I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life; there’s no escaping it. It’s disgusting, it hurts, and like any victim of violence, I sometimes blame myself. I’ve been through enough in my 18 years. On top of that, I endured nine years of school bullying, and as a child, my grandmother often beat me very badly.
I’m telling you all this not so you’ll feel sorry for me, but rather so that no one else does what I did. I wasn’t taught how to protect myself, and I didn’t build relationships that could have prevented violence in the future. Now I protect myself. So to speak, I’m licking my wounds. Please, don’t stay silent about violence. It truly robs you of a normal life and your sense of self, and healing yourself and starting to live normally again takes a great deal of time and effort. But the past will still stay with you for the rest of your life.
Diana; story shared in 2021 as part of the “16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence” campaign