Words might not punish those who did me wrong, but I will talk.
Words might reopen wounds and memories I'm trying to hide in the back of my mind, but I have to talk.
I will talk so I wouldn't feel lonely. I will talk coz I don't want to bear this burden alone. I will talk to put the illness on display, maybe we can find a cure for it...
But where do I begin? Shall I begin at the point when i was 10? When I was ten, my mother sent me to buy some stuff from a backstreet, imagine me: a thin, little, innocent ten-year-old, wearing a plain dress, facing the ground as she walks. Suddenly she finds a fat, dark man wearing a really thick pair of eyeglasses, looking at her domineeringly, and she was naive; for she obeyed him when he told her: come knock with me to that building, my little nephews live in that flat and I want to surprise them...knock at their door for me. As we were going up the stairs, he molested me. He touched my breasts and butt that were not even full yet. I felt there was something wrong but I couldn't express it. I had just started my period, so I had a background about my sexual life. Still, I could interpret or understand what he wa doing. I apologised for not knocking at the door and went home, astonished.
I did not cry. I did not cry and I did not tell anyone. You are the first to know after eleven years. I swallowed the filth and hushed up. And this filth lasted for ten more years. For ten years, I've been molested, and I freaked out and didn't know what to do. Once in broad daylight with people around, another in the bus, if I'm caught up in any crowd, I find someone harrassing me like pigs. No. Pigs feel.
And so I grew up. Prematurely, yes, but I grew up and I knew the meaning of 'sexual harrasssment' and I understood what they meant by " you're so small!" Then came last year's incident.
I was twenty, and I had worn the veil, and the harrassments became fewer. I was walking in our nighbourhood (we moved out) at almost 9 pm one summer evening...the street was quiet. I found someone dressed in black runnign in the opposite direction. I doubted him. However, some people had just passed us by and the Military Police nutheads were only 2o metres away, so I thought like...he can never do anything. Of course, he pinched me and continued running. At first I yelled back. Seconds later, I ran to the nearest military policeman and told him what happened. I pulled his arm, cried and asked him to come catch him with me. And what was his response? "And what were you doing?" I stared ... then screamed at him and ran to another soldierwho happened to be walking with two others. We were on foot and my stalker was running and got far away. I gave up moments later.
I swear to you that I felt his hand was still holding me for a long time later. For the first time, I exploded; I told my mother, my friends who helped me be back on my feet once more. It was the worst experience because I was an adult then and I knew what had happened to me. I thought about killing myself and throwing away the years of my life in a moment of weakness, but I was afraid of God's torture.
Now, I walk in the street very causciously. Whenever I pass someone by, I'm very alert to all of his movements, to the extent that my friends call me a psycho. And I say, being a psycho is better than being humiliated as i become every time I walk down the street. It's tiresome but effective; to take good care of yourself, I mean from the guys around you!
As for the future, it may be better, and most probably it'll be worse, but I've only got a couple of things to say: The street is ours, and if you molest me, I'll cut your balls!