KENYA: I Refused to Stay Silent, Because Silence Was Killing Me

About this Story

This story was first published on the World Pulse platform and is shared here through a collaboration between World Pulse and Imaara Survivor Support Foundation. As part of Imaara’s Project Tell-Tale initiative, selected stories from World Pulse are being cross-posted to amplify survivor voices and strengthen conversations around gender-based violence.

The story was submitted in response to a call for stories connected to the 16 Days of Activism against Gender-Based Violence (2025), inviting survivors, advocates, and allies to share lived experiences, reflections, and pathways toward justice and healing.

Read the original story on World Pulse!

By: Mercy Mwangi

(The author has chosen to be identified in this publication)

I grew up believing that strength meant endurance that a woman must swallow her pain quietly, smile politely, and pretend everything is fine even when her heart is breaking. In my community, you are taught from a young age to endure before you are taught to speak. Endure the shouting. Endure the blame. Endure the fear that creeps into your chest at night and makes it hard to breathe.

For a long time, I believed endurance was survival.

But I have learned that silence can be deadly, too.

Gender-based violence doesn’t always enter your life as a storm. Sometimes it arrives slowly, gently like a shadow slipping under the door. It begins with little comments meant to shrink you. It grows through words that tear at your confidence, until speaking feels dangerous and silence feels safer. By the time you recognize it as violence, your voice has already been stolen.

I have watched women I love try to rebuild themselves from pieces too small to hold. I have seen girls shrink under the weight of threats, their dreams dissolving while the world tells them, “Be strong” as if strength alone can shield them from harm. I have seen women return to places that broke them because the systems meant to protect them failed. I have seen the shame survivors carry shame that does not belong to them, shame that was forced onto their shoulders by a world that excuses violence and blames victims.

I have seen all this, and I have felt some of it too.

The first time I encountered gender-based violence, it was not loud. It was not obvious. It was not even physical. It was the slow erosion of dignity through control, through fear, through being reminded that your voice is less important, your comfort less valuable, your safety negotiable.

There is a unique kind of heartbreak that comes from realizing someone you love can also hurt you. It is the kind of pain that makes you question yourself, that makes you feel small, that convinces you to apologize for things that are not your fault. Survivors learn to live in a constant state of self-doubt, fear, and hyper-awareness. You learn to measure your words, your tone, even your breathing.

And what hurts most is not always the violence itself it’s how the world responds to it.

People ask, “Why didn’t you leave?”

They never ask, “Why did he do it?”

People ask, “Are you sure it was that bad?”

They never ask, “How can we support you?”

People ask, “Why speak now?”

They never ask, “Who silenced you before?”

This is why so many survivors carry their pain alone.

Because judgement is louder than empathy.

Because systems are slow.

Because justice feels like a privilege, not a right.

But something inside me shifted.

One day, I realized that silence was costing me more than speaking ever could.

Silence was protecting the perpetrator, not me.

Silence was normalizing harm.

Silence was suffocating my sense of worth.

Silence was slowly killing my spirit.

And so, I decided that I would no longer be quiet.

I started by admitting the truth to myself the truth that I deserved better, that what happened to me was wrong, that emotional and psychological violence is real violence. I cried for the version of myself that believed suffering was love. I mourned the dreams I had put aside to survive. I forgave myself for staying, for trusting, for trying.

And then I spoke. First in whispers, then in sentences, then in full stories.

Because when women speak, something powerful happens:

Shame loses its grip.

Fear becomes smaller.

Truth becomes visible.

And healing begins.

But healing is not linear. It is messy, confusing, frightening, and slow. Some days you feel strong; some days you can barely rise. Some days your voice shakes; some days it roars. But every day you tell your story even if only to yourself you reclaim a part of your life.

Gender-based violence has many faces. It happens offline, in homes and families. It happens online, through digital abuse, threats, doxxing, harassment, and humiliation. It happens in institutions that dismiss survivors. It happens quietly, in the absence of justice.

And yet, despite the pain, women rise.

I have seen survivors rebuild themselves from ashes. I have seen girls turn their trauma into activism. I have seen women who were once silenced lead movements demanding accountability. I have seen courage in the most unexpected places a mother who stands up for her daughter, a stranger who intervenes, a survivor who shares her story for the first time.

These moments remind me that justice is not only found in courts.

Justice is found in communities that believe survivors.

Justice is found in voices that refuse to be silenced.

Justice is found in every act of resistance even if it is just choosing to speak your truth.

During these 16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence, I am choosing to add my voice to a global chorus of survivors, advocates, and allies. I am choosing to say: enough. Enough silence. Enough shame. Enough excuses. Enough violence.

My story is not unique and that is exactly why I must tell it.

There are women who are still trapped in fear.

There are girls who still believe the violence is their fault.

There are survivors who still do not know healing is possible.

There are systems still failing, communities still denying, cultures still normalizing.

My voice alone cannot change the world, but it can create a crack a small opening where another survivor might find the courage to speak. And when more of us speak, the cracks widen until the silence finally breaks.

I am sharing my story not because it is easy, but because it matters. I am speaking for myself, for the girls I grew up with, for the women I have watched fight in silence, and for the countless survivors who have never been given space to speak at all.

This is not just a story.

It is a declaration of self-worth.

It is a refusal to accept violence as normal.

It is a call for action, accountability, justice, and healing.

It is a reminder that survivors are not broken they are evidence of resilience.

Gender-based violence steals too much.

But telling our stories helps us take something back.

And today, I am taking back my voice.