KENYA: The Life Behind the Sweaters

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: Norah Joseph

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

When I was young, my mother became very close friends with our neighbors. They belonged to the same church, and over time, the two families grew inseparable. They shared meals, laughed together, helped each other when life got hard. I remember feeling safe, feeling like nothing could touch us. Could anything bad really happen in a world where families cared for each other so much?

One Sunday, my mother and my siblings went to church, leaving me at home. The son of our neighbors stayed home too. At first, it seemed innocent he asked me to come watch a movie in his room. I hesitated, but I trusted him. After all, our families were so close. Could I have imagined that someone I trusted so much could hurt me in ways I could never stop?

During the movie, everything changed. He started touching me, whispering things that made me uncomfortable, forcing himself on me. I tried to resist, tried to leave, but I was trapped. Fear, confusion, and shame took over me. Could I really tell my mother? Could I risk shattering the trust between our families? I stayed silent, carrying the pain inside me day after day.

Months later, I discovered I was pregnant. Panic and fear consumed me. I thought about ending it. I wanted an abortion, but I had no money to buy the pills. Could I really face bringing this life into the world while hiding it? The fear was overwhelming. How would I hide it? How could I survive? I started wearing baggy clothes, oversized sweaters, even when it was hot, trying to hide my growing belly.

Every time my mother said, “Norah, you’re growing so fast. Your stomach…you’re glowing!” I smiled and lied, “I’m just eating a lot.” Every lie felt like another weight pressing on my chest. Every glance from my mother filled me with guilt and fear.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. I avoided mirrors, avoided attention, avoided questions. I smiled, laughed, acted normal, but inside I was broken. I was scared of the world, and scared of myself. Could I ever tell anyone?

Could anyone understand what had happened?

When the day finally came for me to give birth, I was terrified. I was alone, exhausted, and unsure if I could make it through. I called my mother in tears, and she rushed to my side. Her presence gave me strength I didn’t know I still had. The labor was long, painful, and scary, but finally, I held my daughter in my arms. She was small, perfect, and innocent a new life born from fear, pain, and silence. Could anything be more miraculous than that first moment, holding her close?

I had to leave school for several months. I was only in Form Two, and the world felt like it had stopped for me. But my daughter became my reason to live, my source of hope. Even now, I have never told my parents who her father is. That secret is mine alone. But it does not define me. What defines me is the love I have for my child, the strength I discovered in myself, and the courage it took to keep going despite everything.

Life can be cruel. It can take your trust, your innocence, and leave you feeling broken. But life can also give light, if we are willing to see it. My daughter is my light. Her laughter, her warmth, and the love in her tiny hands remind me that I survived. Even when you feel silenced, even when you feel powerless, there is hope. There is love. There is life.

Even now, as I look at my beautiful daughter, questions still live inside my heart. Who is really to blame for everything that happened to me? Was it me because I kept quiet after the incident and never told my parents? Was it my parents for trusting the neighbors too much? Was it the fear that controlled my voice and locked my truth inside my chest? Or was it the son of our neighbors who took advantage of me because I was young, naive, innocent, and unable to protect myself? Was it the shame that wrapped around me like chains and silenced my pain?

But the truth is clear, even when my heart trembles I was not the problem. I was a child who trusted. I was a girl who was scared. I was someone who was hurt. Silence was not weakness; it was fear. And fear is what many victims live with every day.

The blame does not belong to a broken girl trying to survive. It belongs to the one who chose to harm, to violate, to destroy innocence.

I did not choose that moment. I did not invite that pain. I did not ask for my life to change that way. What I chose instead was to survive, to carry life, love my child, and tkeep moving even when my heart was heavy.

Maybe I was silent, yes. But silence does not mean consent. Silence does not mean guilt. Silence only means I was trying to protect myself in the only way I knew how at that time.

And today, as I hold my daughter close, I understand something deeply I am not my trauma. I am not my fear. I am not my shame. I am a survivor. I am a mother.

So if anyone asks who is to blame, the answer is simple: not the scared girl, not the quiet child, not the one who was broken. The blame belongs only to the one who chose to hurt and never cared about the damage left behind.

To every woman or young girl who has experienced this pain, remember this: you are not to blame, and your voice matters. Your silence was fear, not failure. Healing is possible. Seek support, speak when ready, and believe in your worth. You deserve safety, love, peace, and a future full of hope.