My Story: A Childhood of Silence, Fear, and Survival
My Survivor Story — First Phase
I am sharing my story because I want to give a voice to the child I once was—a child who experienced things no child should ever have to experience. For many years, I carried these memories silently, without fully understanding what was happening to me or why. This is the first phase of my life story, told as honestly as I can remember it.
1. The Beginning of My Family Story
My mother married her paternal uncle's son, who became my biological father. In the beginning, their life was relatively stable. They had two sons. My father belonged to a middle-class family. They were neither very rich nor very poor, but he fulfilled his responsibilities towards his home and children.
Around 1987 or 1988, my mother went shopping at a local market, where she met a young man who worked in the gold jewellery business and owned his own shop. Both my mother and this man were already married, and my mother had two children.
Over time, they became emotionally involved, and their relationship developed into an affair. My mother began making excuses to visit the market more frequently so she could meet him.
Eventually, my father became suspicious. He spoke to my mother gently, explaining that what was happening was wrong, that they had two children, and that they needed to protect their family. My mother apologised, and for a while, it seemed that the matter had ended. However, after some time, she began meeting the same man again.
On one occasion, my mother left home with him. In our traditional social environment, family honour and reputation were considered extremely important. Some relatives went to the man's family home and spoke to his father about the situation. His father somehow persuaded his son to bring my mother back.
My mother returned home and apologised to my father and the family. My father eventually accepted her back, partly because of the family relationships involved and his desire to preserve the dignity of my maternal family. However, restrictions were placed on my mother, and she was told not to leave the house.
A few months passed, and things gradually began to appear normal again.
Then my mother went shopping once more and met the same man. They expressed their love for each other and decided that they wanted to live together. Their meetings resumed, and they began planning to leave together again.
At that time, I was only around eight months to one year old.
My mother took me with her when she left home for the second time. The man arranged a rented house for her in another city, where another family was already living. He left my mother there and returned to his own city.
My maternal family was devastated. They reported the matter to the police, saying that the man had taken their daughter away. The police arrested him and reportedly beat him, but he did not disclose where my mother was. Eventually, he was released.
My mother later obtained a divorce from my biological father through the courts.
My father was deeply affected by what had happened. For approximately two to three years, he withdrew from people, rarely socialised, and spoke very little. It was a devastating period in his life.
Eventually, people learned that my mother was living with the same man and that they had married. He built a house in the same city and brought my mother and me to live there. My biological father later remarried.
At that time, we were two brothers. I was the younger one and stayed with my mother, while my biological brother, who was approximately three years older than me, remained with our biological father.
As time passed, my mother and her new husband had a son together. He is my stepbrother, not my biological brother.
When I was around seven or eight years old, I knew nothing about this complicated family history. I believed the man was my father, his son was my brother, and the house where we lived was my real home. I had no idea that there was another part of my family or that my life had begun under such different circumstances.
My stepfather owned a gold jewellery shop, and my stepbrother and I often went there.
That shop became the place where the darkest part of my childhood began.
2. The Namese I Could Not Understand
One day, my stepbrother and I were playing at the shop. My stepfather sent him to another shop on some pretext and took me to a room on the second floor.
Other people were working at the shop, but I do not think anyone noticed what was happening.
Inside that room, he told me to take off my trousers. I was only seven or eight years old. I did not understand what he wanted or what was about to happen. I followed his instructions because I was a child and believed I had to obey an adult.
He sexually abused me.
I was in pain and began to cry. I could not understand what was happening to my body or why someone I called my father would do this to me.
When I cried, he frightened me into silence. He threatened to kill me if I ever told anyone what had happened.
I was terrified. I went downstairs with him and said nothing.
That was the beginning of a pattern that would continue for years.
Every one or two days, he would find an excuse to take me to that room and abuse me again. I cried because it hurt, but gradually, I began to believe that there was nothing I could do to stop it. I felt trapped and helpless. I started thinking that this was something I simply had to endure.
Later, he also began taking me to the room after the shop had closed. There was another entrance with stairs leading directly to the same room, which made it easier for him to take me there without using the main shop entrance.
He drank alcohol and often abused me while intoxicated.
I was a little child, yet I was already learning to live with fear, pain, and threats.
One day, there was a function somewhere, and naturally, the children wanted to go and enjoy themselves. My stepfather took me aside and told me to go with him without telling anyone.
I did not want to go, so I stayed with the other people and did not follow him. He waited for me, but I never went.
One or two days later, he took me upstairs again and beat me severely. I cried and begged him to forgive me. I promised that I would never refuse to go with him again and pleaded with him to stop hurting me.
After that, I began convincing myself that whenever he called me, I would have to go. I was afraid of what would happen if I resisted.
Sometimes, I wondered how a father could do such things to his own son.
I called him “nickname.” I wondered whether he felt any shame when I called him that. How could someone who was supposed to protect me treat me this way?
I had so many questions, but nobody to ask and no answers.
He sometimes humiliated me in front of his friends. Over time, I became accustomed to being treated badly, although that did not mean I understood it or that it stopped hurting me emotionally.
On another occasion, after I refused to go to him when he called, he punished me the following day. I am not describing every detail of what happened, but the punishment was another part of the abuse and intimidation I experienced.
Years passed this way.
3. Living With Fear and Keeping the Secret
One day, I was experiencing pain and repeatedly moving my hand towards my backside because it hurt.
My mother noticed and asked why I kept touching that area and whether something was wrong. My stepfather was standing nearby.
I told her that I was experiencing pain.
I believe my stepfather became afraid that I might tell my mother what he had been doing to me. Later, he took me upstairs, beat me severely, and warned me that if I ever said anything like that to my mother again, he would punish me.
Even now, I sometimes wonder whether my mother suspected that something was wrong.
I cannot say that she knew about the abuse. I have no confirmation of that, and she never discussed it with me. It remains a question in my mind.
Sometimes, I wonder how she could have continued living with him if she had known what he was doing to her child. She had left her first marriage, her original home, and one of her sons to be with this man. But I do not know what she knew, what she suspected, or what she understood. I cannot present my doubts as facts.
When I was around ten or eleven years old, I spent an entire night thinking about telling my mother everything.
I wanted to tell her what was happening, what he was doing to me, and how frightened I was. I kept thinking about whether she would believe me and whether she would protect me.
But by morning, fear had taken over.
I thought that if I told her, he might kill both of us. I also feared that she might be unable to protect me.
Think about that for a moment: I was only ten or eleven years old, yet I was trying to calculate whether telling my mother the truth might cost us our lives.
I remained silent.
I was not silent because I wanted the abuse to continue. I was silent because I was a frightened child who believed that speaking could make everything even more dangerous.
4. The Day I Met My Biological Father Again
Then came an Eid day that I still remember vividly.
My maternal uncle's son came to our house and invited me to his home. Their house was in the same street as my biological father's home, only a few houses away.
I went with him, and we began playing on the rooftop and flying kites.
Someone from my biological father's family—possibly my paternal uncle or another relative—saw me from their rooftop. They came outside carrying a gun and began calling out to me, saying that I belonged to them and should come to them.
I was frightened and confused. I did not understand who these people were or why they were calling me their child.
My aunt took me downstairs and into a room, where I was kept while the relatives came towards the doorway, insisting that I was their child and that I should be handed over to them.
I was terrified, but I later came to understand something important: they had not been trying to frighten or threaten me.
They had seen me for the first time in many years. They were overwhelmed by emotion. They were crying because I was their family, and they desperately wanted to see me and hold me again.
My aunt's mother came and calmed everyone down. She told them that I was frightened and asked them to return home while she brought me to see them.
She then took me to my biological father's home for the first time.
I remember standing there, looking around in amazement. Everyone was showing me affection, and many people were crying.
My biological father took me onto his lap and cried intensely as he held me.
That moment has stayed with me throughout my life.
I spent several hours there. Everyone told me that I should come and visit them again and spend time with them.
But I was confused. I did not understand who these people were, why they loved me so much, or why they were crying.
I did not know the truth about my own family.
Meanwhile, the people at the home where I lived learned that I had gone to my biological father's house. My stepfather came on his motorcycle and waited near the street to take me back. My aunt came and gently brought me back to him, and I returned home.
For a few months after that incident, life became somewhat calmer.
Perhaps the adults in my household were afraid that I might leave and go to my biological father's home. I cannot know exactly what they were thinking. What I do know is that I had no such plan. I was still a child who did not understand my own history.
For a few months, my stepfather stopped abusing me.
I felt happy. I thought that perhaps the nightmare was finally over and that I had escaped what had been happening to me.
But I was wrong.
After a few months, the abuse began again. The pain returned, and I gradually fell back into the same pattern of fear and helplessness.
5. School Became My Place of Peace
Throughout these years, I continued going to school.
My mother had explained our family circumstances to the school staff and asked them to treat me in a way that would not make me feel different from other children.
My stepbrother and I received two rupees as pocket money. I remember that my stepfather often told me to collect my money in the evening. Looking back, I sometimes wonder whether keeping me interested in the money was another way of making sure I stayed around him rather than disappearing somewhere else.
At that age, I was a child. I did not understand the motives behind an adult's behaviour.
I was a good student. I had friends, including girls, and sometimes developed crushes, just as other children do. But I never had the confidence to express my feelings. I already carried a deep sense of inferiority and did not feel comfortable expressing myself.
When I was in fourth grade, something tragic happened at my school. During the summer holidays, our principal was murdered. The holidays ended, but the school never reopened.
I still remember that school with affection. It was a large school, and many of my happiest childhood memories were connected to it.
A few months later, another school took over its rights, and I was transferred there. My mother again explained our family situation to the school staff so that I would not feel different from other children.
The new school was much smaller, and at first, I struggled to adjust. Gradually, however, I began to feel comfortable there.
What happened next became one of the few beautiful parts of my childhood.
I received a great deal of love from my teachers. Perhaps knowing something about my background made them especially attentive to me, although I cannot know exactly why they treated me so warmly.
One of my teachers, teacher, was particularly affectionate towards me. She often overlooked my mischievous behaviour and treated me with kindness.
For me, that school felt almost like heaven.
As I grew older, I made more friends, both boys and girls. In sixth grade, I met several female teachers who gave me special attention and made me feel valued. They cared for me, encouraged me, and treated me with a warmth that meant more to me than they may ever have realised.
I do not want to mention their names in this personal story, but I want to acknowledge how important they were in my life. Even today, they hold a special place in my heart.
At school, I could sometimes forget what was happening at home.
For a few hours, I was not the frightened child who lived with a terrible secret. I was simply a student, a friend, and a boy who wanted to learn and be happy.
My teachers helped me feel that I mattered.
6. My First Medal and My Golden School Years
In seventh grade, I passed in second position.
For the first time, I was called onto the stage and awarded a medal. I was incredibly happy. It was a moment of pride that I had never experienced before.
But when I brought the medal home, there was no major celebration. My achievement was acknowledged in an ordinary way, and life continued as usual.
The contrast was painful: at school, I could achieve something wonderful, while at home, the emotional warmth I longed for was largely absent.
In eighth grade, I passed with good marks again. Those years became what I remember as the golden period of my school life.
Whenever I went to school, my pain seemed to disappear for a while or at least become much lighter. I began to develop a little confidence, largely because of the kindness and encouragement I received from my teachers.
During eighth grade, the younger sister of one of our teachers joined the school. She was a very nice girl, and we quickly developed a friendly relationship filled with jokes and laughter. I want to be clear that I never had inappropriate feelings towards her. We simply enjoyed joking around with each other.
Those ordinary moments of friendship and laughter were precious to me.
Then I entered ninth grade, and my attention to studies declined significantly. The same girl was our class monitor, and she would sometimes let me sit down without reciting my lesson. We often joked about it.
During the summer holidays, I returned to the same painful home environment and endured the abuse again.
When school reopened, the girl and I made a playful challenge: we would see who scored more marks in the final examinations.
There were about three months left before the exams, so I began taking tuition from a teacher who guided me well. Gradually, the subjects started making more sense, and I prepared seriously for my examinations.
Despite everything happening in my personal life, I studied and sat my exams. By then, I had started believing that the abuse might continue throughout my entire life. I could not imagine a different future.
On result day, I was extremely nervous.
Before the results were announced, one of my teachers called me over and told me to straighten my tie, adjust my trousers, and fix my hair.
I immediately suspected that I had achieved a position.
When the results were announced, the girl I had challenged secured first position. I was happy for her, even though I did not yet know my own result.
Then another student was announced as having secured first position.
The name was mine: Name.
I was overwhelmed with happiness. I felt as though I could hardly contain myself. Many people were genuinely happy about my achievement, and their reactions made the moment even more special.
The girl and I had actually scored the same number of marks. Neither of us had performed worse than the other, and she was happy about my result too.
It was one of the proudest moments of my school life.
But when I returned home, the reaction was once again fairly formal. There was no great celebration.
I had achieved something important, yet the emotional response I received at home was not what I had hoped for.
Still, I held on to the happiness of that achievement.
7. When My Education Came to an End
After ninth grade, I wanted to continue studying and move into tenth grade.
But in 2003, my stepfather took me out of school and made me sit at his gold jewellery shop. He said that he needed me there and that I would be more useful working in the business.
I wanted to continue my education, but I could not stand up to him. I was still afraid of him because of everything he had done to me over the years.
So I stopped going to school and began working at the shop.
My heart was not in the work. I had wanted to study, to build a future, and to see what I could achieve. Instead, I found myself back in the environment where I had suffered for so long.
Even at the shop, the abuse continued.
During the afternoon, my stepfather would sometimes call me upstairs in front of the other workers, saying that I should come and massage him. But once we were in the room, he would abuse me again.
By that point, the abuse had become such a repeated part of my life that I had grown accustomed to it. Sometimes, I barely registered the pain in the way I had when it first began. That does not mean I was unharmed; it means that I had spent years learning how to endure something I felt powerless to stop.
The pattern continued for several more years.
On Fridays, the other workers had a day off, but I did not. I understood the reason for this, and I do not think I need to describe every detail for the meaning to be understood.
I was receiving relatively good amounts of money from the shop. During that period, I also developed a habit of stealing money from the business. There was a great deal of cash around, and it was not difficult for me to take some for myself. As a result, I often had money in my pocket.
I am not presenting that behaviour as something good. It was part of the complicated life I was living at the time, and it is one of the things I must acknowledge honestly when telling my story.
I was growing older, but I was still carrying the consequences of a childhood shaped by fear, secrecy, and abuse.
8. Discovering the Truth About My Father
Eventually, I turned eighteen.
It was time for me to apply for my national identity card.
I told my family that I needed to get it made, and the adults in the household seemed concerned or uncertain about the process.
I cannot remember exactly who told me, but I gradually learned that my biological father's name would appear on my identity card.
I became quiet.
Something that had been unclear throughout my childhood suddenly began to make sense.
I realised that the man I had called my father all those years was not my biological father.
For the first time, I began connecting that truth with what had happened to me throughout my childhood. A thought came into my mind that has stayed with me ever since:
How could a father do something like this to his own child?
I had spent years calling this man “nickname,” believing that he was my father. Discovering the truth forced me to reconsider the relationship I thought I had with him.
I went to the organization office to apply for my identity card. The staff asked me questions that felt very strange and upsetting. I became angry, but I controlled myself, completed the process, and returned home.
Over time, as I grew older, the abuse gradually became less frequent. I believe my increasing age and physical maturity may have played a role, although I cannot say with certainty why it changed.
But the fact that it became less frequent did not erase what had happened.
The years of fear and silence had already left their mark on me.
9. The Accident That Revealed Another Kind of Pain
One day, I had a serious motorcycle accident. My motorcycle collided with a car, and I was badly injured.
I believe Allah saved my life.
After I returned home, I went into a room where my mother and stepfather were sitting together. I was hurt and had just survived a frightening accident.
They asked me, “Where is the motorcycle?”
I assumed they were asking whether I was all right. I answered, “Yes, I am fine.”
But then they clarified that they were not asking about me. They wanted to know where the motorcycle was.
I cannot fully describe what I felt at that moment.
I had expected the people I thought of as my parents to ask whether I was injured, whether I was in pain, or whether I needed help.
Instead, their first concern was the motorcycle.
That moment had a profound effect on me. It hurt me deeply, and I felt an overwhelming sense of shame and emotional pain.
After everything I had endured as a child, I was still hoping for the ordinary care that a son expects from his parents.
I wanted someone to look at me and ask, “Are you okay? How badly are you hurt?”
That simple expression of concern was what I needed.
Instead, I was left with another painful reminder of how emotionally alone I had felt for much of my life.
10. The First Phase of My Life
This is the first phase of my story.
My childhood was shaped by two very different experiences.
At home, I lived with fear, sexual abuse, threats, confusion, and a deep sense of inferiority. I did not understand what was happening to me, and I believed that I had no way to stop it. I was frightened to speak because I thought that doing so might place my life and my mother's life in danger.
At school, however, I found something that helped me survive emotionally. My teachers showed me kindness, encouraged me, and made me feel that I had value. I made friends, laughed, studied, earned a medal, achieved good results, and experienced moments of genuine happiness.
Those moments mattered.
Even while carrying a burden that no child should have to carry, I continued to learn, make connections, and try to move forward.
I do not tell this story because I believe my childhood made me stronger in some simple or romantic way. What happened to me was wrong, and no child should have to endure it.
I tell it because it was my reality. For years, I had no safe way to explain it. I carried questions that I could not answer and memories that I did not know how to share.
Writing these experiences down is one way of finally giving words to what happened.
This is only the first phase of my life. There is more to my story, but I am sharing it one part at a time, at a pace I can manage.
For now, this is where my story pauses.
I was a child who deserved safety, care, and love. I could not control what was done to me, but I can now choose to tell my story in my own words.
