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.
Paul
As an out, gay, HIV+ minister, Paul stands up daily against stigma and discrimination.
His journey began at a young age, when he and his peers challenged the White Areas Act to visit gay bars in Johannesburg.
He later took part in South Africa’s firstever official gay pride march, which brought gay men, lesbians, and their many supporters into the streets to stand up for their rights.
The years go so quickly, quicker and quicker every year.
Before you know it, you turn around and it’s the pride march again.
My friends and I were young and crazy in the eighties. The Hillbrow neighbourhood was starting to change in those years, as black people defied the Group Areas Act and moved to what had been a Whites Only Area. I still remember the first time we went to a gay bar there.
The black barman said, “Hey what are you boys doing here?” We said, “We are gay and want to see what’s happening and meet with other gays.”
He told us, “You see these white men? They are going to chase you out because you are too young. You just sit there, and if they ask me I will say you are my sons.” So we sat in our corner and drank Cokes.
Then we would walk the streets of Soweto, people swearing, or chasing us, or beating us.
But we were proud, and we had each other’s support.
Those were our first pride marches.
A few years later in 1990, I helped organize the first official march. I will never forget the first march, all the gays and lesbians in the streets, bringing traffic to a complete stop. We expected about 50 people, and more than 800 turned up. People knew they were putting their lives at risk, and some wore paper bags. When the rain came down and made the bags soggy, they were torn off and showed the faces. In Hillbrow, people came out ululating and shouting. Gays and straight people joined in front of the pavement, and the street youth danced ahead of us.
I remember Simon Nkoli speaking, about how he could be free as a black man if he was free as a gay man. It made a huge impression on me. He spoke of double discrimination, and I have experienced triple -- first for being gay, and also for being HIV positive and a priest. In 1998, I was ordained by the Metropolitan Community Church. People think priests are above human and can’t be infected. I work constantly to show them they are
wrong, by speaking out about my status.
When I look at the pictures from that first pride and see all the faces of those who are no longer with us, I feel sad … and angry. If fear and stigma hadn’t made them afraid to come out about being HIV positive, their lives might have been saved.