On 9 June 2012, I embarked on a life-changing journey through Southern Africa with my six-year-old daughter. The aim was to chase a lifelong dream of working with the most impoverished communities of Africa.
On 23 August 2012, I was gang raped, robbed and beaten by over a dozen armed men in Lilongwe, Malawi, Central Africa. My six-year-old daughter and my partner’s nine-year-old son were held hostage to witness the events of that night.
I can think of a million things that I could have said or done to avoid it; however, at the end of the day, it happened. It’s done. It’s over. I am alive. The children are alive. We survived.
How does one survive such a devastating event? It’s simple, part of you dies and part lives. It’s not merely the ruin and reconstruction of the body or the destruction and resurrection of the psyche. It is the death of the old way of living and the birth of a new unknown life.
Recovery is a mammoth task.
Your body heals, your mind changes, you re-create, bend and mould, re-discover and transform into something else. You lose a lot of your old self; things you took for granted become the things you cherish.
I am not the only one to have faced such adversity. However, this trauma is unique to me and my recovery is a journey only I could undertake.
Who knows what joys, triumphs, losses and twists in the road Life has in store for us. It is a mysterious journey. You have to roll with the punches and be grateful for the breaks it gives you. Take risks, love, laugh and live everyday like it’s your last. Not that it’s your last day to be alive, but it may be the last day you live, laugh and love the way you did yesterday.
I know there are women out there who will recognise themselves in this story. I am writing for them, their daughters and sons, their mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters. No one is immune from the devastation that rape leaves behind, but one should know that the power to choose the next step on the road to recovery is in your own hands.
On 23 August 2012, I was gang raped, robbed and beaten by over a dozen armed men in Lilongwe, Malawi, Central Africa. My six-year-old daughter and my partner’s nine-year-old son were held hostage to witness the events of that night.
I can think of a million things that I could have said or done to avoid it; however, at the end of the day, it happened. It’s done. It’s over. I am alive. The children are alive. We survived.
How does one survive such a devastating event? It’s simple, part of you dies and part lives. It’s not merely the ruin and reconstruction of the body or the destruction and resurrection of the psyche. It is the death of the old way of living and the birth of a new unknown life.
Recovery is a mammoth task.
Your body heals, your mind changes, you re-create, bend and mould, re-discover and transform into something else. You lose a lot of your old self; things you took for granted become the things you cherish.
I am not the only one to have faced such adversity. However, this trauma is unique to me and my recovery is a journey only I could undertake.
Who knows what joys, triumphs, losses and twists in the road Life has in store for us. It is a mysterious journey. You have to roll with the punches and be grateful for the breaks it gives you. Take risks, love, laugh and live everyday like it’s your last. Not that it’s your last day to be alive, but it may be the last day you live, laugh and love the way you did yesterday.
I know there are women out there who will recognise themselves in this story. I am writing for them, their daughters and sons, their mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters. No one is immune from the devastation that rape leaves behind, but one should know that the power to choose the next step on the road to recovery is in your own hands.
