< 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.

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When I was 12, my parents sent me to a summer camp. Sun, sea — a fairytale.

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And a counsellor. He started a tradition in our group — several times a week, carrying mattresses out to the common room of the cabin, watching movies, and sleeping there.

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One day, as a reward for exemplary behaviour, I was given the spot by the television — next to the counsellor. Everything was wonderful, the film was interesting, and the conversation was fun. We went to sleep.

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I woke up at four in the morning when I felt a hand placed on my thigh. I froze with fear and pretended not to feel anything. The counsellor held his hand on my leg for a few minutes, and when he realised I wasn't reacting, he started touching my body.

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His disgusting touches were everywhere — on my bottom, on my chest, on my stomach. I lay with my eyes shut and tried not to cry. When he paused for a moment, I pretended to wake up and said I needed to use the bathroom. I sat in there until morning. I felt dirty and horrified.

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The next day, I told my friends about it: "The same thing happened to me. What can we do about it? It's nothing terrible. We'll be going home soon, don't ruin the holiday, he's cool."

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Maria; story told in 2020 as part of the "16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence" campaign