KENYA: Unseen, Unheard, Yet Unbroken

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: Faith Muli

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

I grew up watching a woman run for safety in the dark. Our neighbor and her two children often spent the night at our house, seeking refuge from something I didn’t yet understand. Whenever they didn’t come, we would hear her cries echoing through the village, In my childish mind, I had only one explanation: poverty. I thought they came to our home because they lacked food or comfort. Poverty was my single story, the only lens through which I interpreted their suffering.

As I grew older, the truth revealed itself in fragments I hadn’t been mature enough to understand. I later learned that this woman had been married off far too young and had endured years of violence within that marriage.

And like in many communities across Africa, what happened after the violence followed a familiar script. When a woman tried to run, elders were summoned. Parents and local men would escort her back “for negotiations,” as if bruises could be solved by a conversation. The abuser would offer a small apology, sometimes even a small bribe, and suddenly the entire incident would be washed away. The cycle would reset. The woman’s voice would disappear. And the community would call it culture.

Years later, when I joined campus, life gave me another reminder of how close gender–based violence lives among us. My roommate and I became very close, the kind of friendship where you share family stories late into the night. Yet something about her kept pulling at my curiosity. Every time she called home, she only spoke to her mother. And whenever our conversations drifted toward parents, she only ever mentioned one, her mom.

It bothered me for months, until one day I gently asked about her father. What she told me was a story no young woman should ever have to carry. She described a man who disappeared into alcohol every time he touched money. Whenever he sold a piece of land, he would head straight to the club, drink it all away, and whatever remained would be snatched from him before he even returned home. Meanwhile, back in their house, her mother struggled to find even a little food for her children.

And when he finally staggered in, drunk and raging, he would choke her mother until she gasped for air. If the children dared to intervene, he threatened them with violence. Some nights they would run out into the streets and sleep there, terrified and helpless, waiting for morning to come. And the next day, the cycle began again.

Listening to her story changed the way I saw her completely. I began to understand my roommate’s responses toward me. In her silence, I saw the scars that so many young women carry, scars that are invisible until someone dares to ask, Are you okay? And even then, it takes courage for the truth to come out.

This experience made me think of all the women who are still living in silence, women who are faceless, unseen, unheard. Women who don’t have the money to leave, who don’t know the protections written for them in the constitution, who have never been told that they have rights, or choices, or voices. Women who lack the confidence to speak, and who have never seen themselves represented in media in a way that tells them they matter. I think about the girl who was sexually harassed and never believed. The woman who was raped and blamed for it. The child who was trafficked and never rescued. The women who face violence online, bullied, threatened, humiliated simply for existing in digital spaces.

The women who carry their pain in silence because shame has wrapped itself around their throats and taught them that their suffering is a secret they must protect. These are the women and girls whose stories remain buried. The ones society overlooks. The ones whose tears never make headlines. The ones who deserve a world that listens.

What pains me most is knowing that even silence cannot shield a woman from judgment. A woman speaks out about violence, and the world asks why she didn’t leave sooner. Another woman stays because she has nowhere to go, and the world asks why she didn’t fight back. A survivor reports her abuser and is accused of “breaking the family,” while another stays quiet and is blamed for “allowing it to continue.” A girl who cries out after harassment is told she is exaggerating, and the one who hides her pain is told she should have spoken earlier. No matter what she does or does not do, someone will still find a reason to condemn her. And that is why these stories matter. That is why our voices matter. Because women are not the problem; the world that judges them is.

But then, no one who really goes in depth asks why the perpetrators do what they do. No one examines the systems, the cultures, the impunity that allow violence to flourish. The focus remains on the survivor, on her choices, her silence, her courage, while the person who inflicted harm often walks free, shielded by excuses, traditions, or indifference. Yet if we truly want change, we must shift our gaze. We must confront the root of the problem, hold abusers accountable, and dismantle the structures that protect them. Only then can silence stop being dangerous, and judgment stop being the default.

We must acknowledge women and survivors all over the world. Nothing is more dangerous than a crime that is not recognized, violence that is silenced, unseen, and allowed to persist in the shadows. I write here today to amplify their voices, to honor their pain, and to ensure they are not forgotten. I am here to say their suffering is real, their stories matter, and their lives deserve justice. And we must hold accountable not only the perpetrators, but every system, every community, and every individual who allows this violence to continue through silence, denial, or neglect.