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| Issue 2, 2009 |
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Issue 2, 2009
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I Column
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... on how sexual rights affect one personally, and how they
are affirmed and/or violated in one’s local cultural setting.
hell house a survivor’s account of same sex abuse
I am a survivor of multiple child sexual abuse.
Speaking about my survival has been an uphill
climb for me. Sometimes I feel like I haven’t
survived at all, the flashbacks take over and
the past haunts like everything occurred just
yesterday and not over a decade ago. However, with the
help of friends and fellow survivors, my past and I have
reached a relatively solid consensus over the frequency of
panic attacks and sleeping disorders and have been leading
a peaceful co-existence for a couple of years now.
While speaking with a journalist about the prevalence
of Child Sexual Abuse in India, it occurred to me that
women, while being seen as victims, were rarely perceived
as being capable of meting out the same form of physical/
emotional/sexual abuse which they are portrayed as being
recipients of. Slowly, my experience of being abused by a
female friend when I was younger returned, and forced me
to delve deeper into this uncharted territory of the female
as a perpetrator of violence.
My parents separated when I was five years old, forcing
a change of residence to my grandmother’s rambling old
house. With time the house needed repairs and my mother
and I moved in with friends at their house for three months
till we were ready to move back. The friends had a daughter,
Soniya, who was a little older than I, and rather prone to
what we 13 year olds called ‘weird behaviour’. She would
touch the girls in class and look at them suggestively, and
for her to be called ‘lesbian’ was not uncommon. However,
I didn’t succumb to the label drama and considered her to
be a close friend. So it didn’t bother me that she and I were
made to share a bedroom and a bathroom for those three
months, not to mention going to school and sitting next to
each other (she insisted). The abuse therefore, was a shock,
and its roots continue to raise questions about my part in
it, if at all.
It began at night, after a sumptuous home-cooked meal and
a little television. I suffered from mild sleeping trouble, and
it took me a while to get to sleep. Mummy always insisted
that I get into bed at a respectable hour and lie down with
my eyes closed till sleep overcame me. To Soniya however,
I was the fastest sleeper around, she didn’t know I was
awake. It started with her leg over mine, one arm across
my chest. I chose to ignore that. It made heavy progress
though, and every night became more and more awkward
as I attempted to fathom exactly what was going on while
her hands roamed all over my body.
The ‘AHA’ moment arrived when one night when I was
reading a Sidney Sheldon novel (Tell Me Your Dreams) and
reached the exact part where the central character realises
that her father molested her. That night, Soniya attempted
to divest me of my underwear and the puzzle pieces fit
instantaneously. I feigned getting up to go to the bathroom
and stayed there for the rest of the night, shaking with
anger at the realisation of what was being done to me.
Being sexually-abused was not news to me, having been
subjected to the trauma at the age of eight years by a
caretaker in my father’s house. Being abused by a friend,
another girl, was not only unbelievable but also an
inescapable part of my stay in that house.
There was nobody I could speak with, least of all with my
mother or hers, for obvious reason – nobody would believe
me, and what proof did I have? Soniya did not physically
hurt me, there were no bruises/cuts or any other marks to
speak of. How could I prove that her hands were all over
me, not to mention other parts of her? If I did disclose the
abuse to the grown-ups, they would ask me why I hadn’t
told them before. What would I say? That I was afraid that
I had encouraged it by pretending to be asleep? If hell ever
existed on Earth, I lived in the hub of it for those three
months of my life.
Finally, the torture ended. We moved out of Hell House
and into our own little space in my grandmother’s house. I
felt relief, if only temporarily, but when a fish has been out
of water for so long, even a droplet of water on its body
will incite hope, and a desire to struggle. I was no different
from the fish.
School became another struggle. Soniya had become
accustomed to being with me 24/7, and demanded my
attention at all times. From physical touching to meaningful
glances, I felt like a pawn in a most dirty game.
I became labelled, like her. ‘Lesbian couple’, we were
called, because of our so-called ‘closeness’. From being
apathetic about labels, I became paranoid about them. Any
hint of closeness to another girl, be it a friendly handshake
or sharing a lunch box, and I would run away from the
situation.
Hair. I felt that my hair and overall appearance had
something to do with the abusive relationship I shared with
Soniya. Ugly. I must become ugly to survive. Thus began a
reaction to abuse which I need help with, till date.
Uglification became my defence. From a healthy weight
to overweight, long hair to short, and friendly disposition
to withdrawn, ‘Uglification’ of body and soul drove away
friends who would otherwise have been around for me.
Suicide was another option. I cut myself regularly in the
hope that one day I would hit an artery that would put an
end to the pain and confusion I was feeling.
Ten years later.
Today I feel a lot better about myself and am thankful that
the suicide option did not work out. Soniya and I are in
touch. I confronted her about what she had put me through
and she apologised to me for it. In terms of forgiveness I
wouldn’t say I have forgiven her 100%, there’s still a little
anger left that I need to work with. Soniya, by the way, is
bisexual and I respect her for it.
On an episode of Salaam Zindagi on NDTV, I spoke about
my abuse (same sex) for the first time and anticipated a lot
of hate mail but instead, received messages of solidarity
and empathy from both male and female survivors.
While I acknowledge that what I went through with a
female who was also a minor cannot be technically-termed
as being ‘child sexual abuse’ as it is more about exploratory
sex and touching, the experience left me feeling victimised
and left behind scars which are visible, although much
lighter than before.
Same sex abuse follows the same definition as child sexual
abuse – an unequal power of an adult or older person over
a minor (child). In the context of my personal experience,
my abuser was close to two years my senior and used her
power over me.
Pranaadhika Sinha founded Elaan, an NGO dealing
with Child Sexual Abuse and Incest awareness/support in
2007 after running it as a survivor support group for four
years. She teaches Human Rights to school students and is
currently writing a book on her experiences with sexual abuse
awareness activism. Go to http://elaan.wordpress.com
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