Anon :
Anon is from South Africa. She grew up watching her father beat her mother and went on to live in abusive relationships herself, for many years. After finally fighting back against her second husband, she realized she didn’t want the kind of power he had wielded over her. She left him and sought help with substance abuse recovery. Both she and her mother are content to be on their own now, free from abuse.
I never quite understood why my mother stayed, until I stood in her shoes. As a little girl, I always seemed to end up under the table on Thursday nights, crying. Mom would drag me out and say, “you’ll bring bad luck.” On Friday night, the drinking and fighting would happen, and of course I thought it was my fault.
I fell pregnant at 15 years of age. I started using birth control pills after my daughter was born. When my boyfriend found out, he threw them down the toilet and raped me. It didn’t just happen once, but a few times, and I got pregnant again. My marriage ended after 11 years, and I swore not to get involved with an abuser ever again.
My second marriage took place only a couple of months later. At first, it was sheer bliss. Then I started saying things about his drinking habits. On the night of September 11th 2001, I experienced his first violent act. He accused me of having sex with his friend, pushed me down on the bed, and checked my panties. He pushed me into the bathtub.
I must have knocked my head, but the shock made me numb to the pain. It went on and on. He pushed me over the couch and jumped on top of me. And then he pulled me up by my arm and swung me against the wall. I sagged down to the floor and just sat next to
an open door, but I was too scared to get up and run. And I even wondered if it was my fault.
Only a month later, I experienced his second violent act. This time, he added a public dimension by tackling me in front of our gate. I ran inside and he followed me, threw me on the bed, and choked me. Then he hit me in the jaw with his fist. As the pain exploded in my head, my whole world shrunk to a pinprick.
I was ready for his third violent act. He was choking me, and I pulled the drawer from the pedestal and hit him hard. I proceeded to break as many pieces of furniture as I could. When he was down, I felt powerful. But the next morning, I had more clarity and felt I
didn’t want his kind of power. I joined Al-anon soon afterwards and started my road to recovery. I learned that an ability to support myself financially is crucial to my well-being. And that none of his violence was
my fault. Four years later, I’m alone and happy - most of the time. My mom is alone too.
We talk sometimes, about the past and the future.
Anon :
Anon is from South Africa. She grew up watching her father beat her mother and went on to live in abusive relationships herself, for many years. After finally fighting back against her second husband, she realized she didn’t want the kind of power he had wielded over her. She left him and sought help with substance abuse recovery. Both she and her mother are content to be on their own now, free from abuse.
I never quite understood why my mother stayed, until I stood in her shoes. As a little girl, I always seemed to end up under the table on Thursday nights, crying. Mom would drag me out and say, “you’ll bring bad luck.” On Friday night, the drinking and fighting would happen, and of course I thought it was my fault.
I fell pregnant at 15 years of age. I started using birth control pills after my daughter was born. When my boyfriend found out, he threw them down the toilet and raped me. It didn’t just happen once, but a few times, and I got pregnant again. My marriage ended after 11 years, and I swore not to get involved with an abuser ever again.
My second marriage took place only a couple of months later. At first, it was sheer bliss. Then I started saying things about his drinking habits. On the night of September 11th 2001, I experienced his first violent act. He accused me of having sex with his friend, pushed me down on the bed, and checked my panties. He pushed me into the bathtub.
I must have knocked my head, but the shock made me numb to the pain. It went on and on. He pushed me over the couch and jumped on top of me. And then he pulled me up by my arm and swung me against the wall. I sagged down to the floor and just sat next to
an open door, but I was too scared to get up and run. And I even wondered if it was my fault.
Only a month later, I experienced his second violent act. This time, he added a public dimension by tackling me in front of our gate. I ran inside and he followed me, threw me on the bed, and choked me. Then he hit me in the jaw with his fist. As the pain exploded in my head, my whole world shrunk to a pinprick.
I was ready for his third violent act. He was choking me, and I pulled the drawer from the pedestal and hit him hard. I proceeded to break as many pieces of furniture as I could. When he was down, I felt powerful. But the next morning, I had more clarity and felt I
didn’t want his kind of power. I joined Al-anon soon afterwards and started my road to recovery. I learned that an ability to support myself financially is crucial to my well-being. And that none of his violence was
my fault. Four years later, I’m alone and happy - most of the time. My mom is alone too.
We talk sometimes, about the past and the future.
Thoko: For My Goddaughter
The daily backdrop of violence against women in South Africa sets the stage for Thoko’s rape. She woke up in the middle of the night with a knife at her throat, and the case, like so many, was never pursued by law enforcement.
After despairing that she’ll ever be free from the violence of her past and now her present, Thoko has realized that for the sake of her newborn niece, she must continue to champion the rights of women and children.
Dear little princess, It feels that it’s been a long time, since I welcomed you into this world. They said you were a big baby, but me, I just saw tiny feet and tiny hands. I’m your godmother. You came just when I needed a reason to breathe.
This is my story …
It’s Wednesday, 1st of March. Jacob Zuma is about to go on trial for rape. I’ve just returned to South Africa from my first ever international trip. I am excited. Little did I know in just three days my life will change forever. Thursday, I find out my job is hanging by a thread. Friday, I get robbed of a new cell phone and 700 Rands. On Saturday? Saturday, I get raped. I see the man when I open my gate, and I feel uncomfortable, but he walks away. Just past midnight, I see him again -- this time inside my house. I wake up disoriented and directly facing the sharp edge of the biggest knife I’ve ever seen. I know exactly what he wants. I have never seen the animalistic look that the man is giving me.
After some failed negotiations for condom use, he proceeds to rape me. I guess the negotiations took some
steam out of him. When he fails to get it up completely, he tells me I don’t taste nice and leaves with my purse. I reported the case to the police immediately, and I got a medical examination and HIV post exposure prophylaxis. I hate those pills, they made me so sick and so weak, while my rapist went around free. But I finished them, and I tested negative.
Of course, like so many rape cases, mine never even got investigated. Nobody could tell me who the investigating officer was, or whether the sample that they took from my vagina held any clues to the
rapist’s identity. So you see, the day you were born, I was ready to give up on life. Why should I bother to live, only to be preyed upon by sick-minded bastards who took my childhood innocence and now my adult sexuality?
Then I held you in my arms, and I knew I had to continue to stand against gender-based violence. I look at you and hope I can protect you from all the injustices I have experienced at the hands of men. So I continue to march the streets demanding freedom. I continue to use pen and paper to highlight the plight of women and children. When the struggle
seems futile and my voice gets hoarse, I still carry on my angel.
Just for you. I love you, princess.
From your loving godma.