Please Don’t Blame The Girl by Naorin Amina of Bangladesh | Inspiring Story #40

I do believe a full recovery is quite impossible.

I was six years old. 

I wish to forget, but I still remember …

Prickly thorns
My whole body is cold
I get stuck
Can't talk
Close my eyes
I cannot say anything
I can't stop him
I feel pain
I wish to cry loudly
Eyes water
Can't make a sound
In an instant I’m unholy
Weeping day after day
Condemning myself
Suddenly introvert

I couldn't share what happened with anyone, not even my parents.

He was my cousin—my big boy cousin—so obedient, faithful, and loving to my family.

My big boy cousin came to the home often. When I saw his face, I hid mine. He was my bad dream, the cause of depression that hovered over me like a storm cloud that would last a decade. 

I was sixteen years old.

Midnight, on a winter’s night. Six girl cousins gathered in the corner of our grandfather’s house. We whispered secrets we’d never dare share.

One cousin shared a scary story about a child rape that happened in her village: a seven-year-old girl had been raped by a thirty-year-old man. Together, in our sacred sister circle, we spat out rage in angry words towards the rapist.

I lifted my head, drew courage, and I told my sisters my secret. They stared in silence. I was scared of their silence. Perhaps they didn’t believe me.

Suddenly, one of my sisters shared that she had stopped visiting Aunt's house because our big boy cousin had tried to molest her, too.

Then, the rest of my sisters revealed their own secret, one by one. Five among us six girl cousins confided that we had been abused by our same big boy cousin.

We cried tears, sharing our suffering. Our depression. Our years lost in silence.

One of our sisters cried out. She was abused by him several times.
 
She didn't cry for her distressing past. She cried for us. Had she raised her voice, she thought,  then the rest of her cousins could have been warned. She felt responsible because she was the most senior and had faced abuse first.

We couldn't sleep that night.

I was nineteen years old.

There are children to save.

Taslima’s courage inspired me to stand up and speak, to raise my voice. “Break The Silence, Raise The Voice, Save the Childhood,” I shouted in my heart.

Soon, everyone will hear, I told myself. 

I was twenty-two years old.

It wouldn’t be easy to raise awareness about ‘sex education’ in a society where the word ‘SEX’ itself is taboo and child abuse remains untold.

I knew it would be difficult but not impossible. I launched the volunteer organisation, The 6th Sense, to provide sex education for the children of Bangladesh. 

We host workshops providing sex education for children aged five to ten years. We teach children to differentiate between ‘good touch and bad touch’. We teach them about their private body parts and how to react when someone touches areas that aren’t meant to be touched. We conduct surveys with the children and provide free counselling for traumatized kids.   

So far, we have completed workshops in twelve primary schools. We've reached over one thousand children. Of these children, 40% have been abused. 

Next month, we will begin our new workshop, ‘Safe Adolescence’, for secondary schools. We will keep going with our work. I call on our government to make sex education compulsory.

I am a girl and I will not be silenced.

Three months after launching my 6th Sense organisation, I revealed my cousin’s dirty secret to my parents. They were shocked and sorry for me, but according to our society’s norms, they prevented me from taking legal steps against him. They feared I would lose my dignity in the community. This is the real face of our society—to blame the girl.

“Break The Silence, Raise The Voice, Save The Childhood,” I continue to shout.

My dream will be fulfilled when every child in Bangladesh is aware of their bodies and how to protect themselves from predators. Every child deserves a secure childhood.

I won't give up. I am ready to sacrifice even my life for my movement.