The Silence Screams

She is 14 years old. A school girl. Her 20-liter jerry-can hangs awkwardly from her back. It is too late to fetch water; the road is hard to see and the wind howls furiously. She walks briskly, staggering under the weight of the water she carries back to her house. The sun has set, the last traces of light momentarily linger on the hills and the horizon. Dusk yields itself to darkness as she trudges home. This night in particular is especially dark, as if evil itself were casting its shadow over the village and infecting the hearts of the villagers with its sinister intentions. Perhaps it was.

He creeps up silently, and without warning grabs her. His large hand holds fast to her thin arms, his rough skin feels violent against hers. His other hand forcefully muffles her surprised and horrified screams. Abrasive. Suffocating. He carries her to a nearby shack, pins her to the ground and lifts her skirt. She struggles in vain, feeling suddenly vulnerable and completely exposed. One minute passes. Two minutes. Each minute longer than the last. The darkness conceals his face, saving her from witnessing his lips quiver with contorted pleasure from each forceful, unsolicited thrust, In just minutes he finishes, fixes his trousers and disappears into the darkness. She lays there shaking, gasping for breath.

Her feelings twist and wrench inside her. Dutifully, she returns home with her jerry-can full of water, unsure of how to feel; unsure if she should scream, or shout, or swear-- unsure if she should cry. As she looks into her mother's weary eyes, her lips tremble as if longing to say, “Mother, I was raped.” but the mere thought of those words felt suddenly so shameful, so absurd. She doesn't sleep at all this night, she just lies awake shaking, recounting again and again how it happened. Thinking how she ought to have covered her legs more, worn more conservative clothing. Thinking how she should not have been walking so slowly, how her laziness was to blame. Perhaps it was her fault.

Her eyes are empty now. It is innocence that causes the spark and vibrancy in young souls; it is innocence that burgeons the wonder and excitement just to be alive. But hers are empty. Inside them only silence. He took it all from her. He stole from her the very things she had not yet known were sacred – her innocence, her dignity, her confidence, her future.

But this girl is not the only victim. Another girl, the youngest of four daughters. Her body has just begun to show the signs of woman-hood. Her three older sisters have already been victim to their very own father's lust. Now, he is after her. Her mother knows, and sternly instructs the sisters to keep family matters private. Should word get out to others in the area about the father's behavior, it will be hell to pay for them all. “Don't be with Father alone,” one of her older sisters advise. She knows her inevitable fate, that soon she will be raped by her father. But she's not sure she wants to be. Frightened, suffocating – in her own home she moves about like a thief in the night. Her father, the very person who represents protection and security for young daughters, represents for her the most frightening figure in her life.


Still another. She was three years old. Grandfather would place her on his lap, and while doing so, he would lift up his shuka and insert himself subtly into her. Her shrill screams were dismissed as the usual whine of a child. Nobody knew. Nobody understood why she would cry when they told her to go to Grampa. She was a three-year old without her virginity. Those memories seared into her mind, traumatizing her from childhood through adolescence. She bore her burden in silence.

The stories are innumerable.

With all these girls and women, the echoes of their pain linger in contrived laughter, and memories from the past stalk them like their own shadows. The fear of being shamed, the judgment from their families and peers, the view that they are no longer pure – too many reasons to keep from speaking out and opening up to others. They suffer alone with a burden that is too heavy for one person to bear.

Their silence is suffocating.

90 of 100 cases of rape are not reported. 90% of the time rapists in Kenya go free from their crime. In the goodness of all our consciences, we scream for justice. It is difficult to think of a single act more evil than rape and incest, how in just minutes rapists can take away the entire future of their victims.

My heart cries for all the girls, and it burns angrily for those who make these girls subject to their sick lust. One does not understand the sheer gravity of rape until one becomes its victim. And in these victims' eyes is a longing for help, a cry to just be understood. In their eyes they are searching furiously for normalcy, for refuge.

In their eyes, the silence screams.