A Rain of Tears

      I don’t remember how old I was, but no more than 12 or 13, when I was sitting and chatting with my family after a scrumptious dinner. My relatives, uncles, and aunts were all there, as well as my cousins. On the bed, one of my uncles sat behind me, and he felt the need to touch my low back, near my hip bone. I felt an uncomfortable and sudden touch—I was alert and an alarm went off in my body. I got his finger out and assumed it must’ve been a mistake. Two seconds later, he did it again in the exact spot, and I had to move myself to displace his hand from my body.

      A few minutes later, the shock was still present in my body, so I got up to go to the restroom and wash my face. The child that I was did not process what had happened—was it a mistake? Had I felt something else? Was I confusing his intentions? Why did he do it twice? Either way, I decided to store it in the back pocket of my brain and move on with the day. I brushed it off in denial because it wasn’t “a big deal.”

     Cut to eight years later, I was on a trip with my family in the hills, and it was heavily raining. We were casually talking and having some drinks. My mom got emotional pretty quickly and started to complain about Dad and his family. This wasn’t new to me and my brother—our parents fought all the time and more often than not, our dad ignited the fight by being ignorant and raising his voice at her. He would disrespect her profession, make jokes amongst his friends, and verbally and emotionally take a toll on her life with non-trivial actions, such as inviting friends to dinner and expecting her to prepare a five-course meal all alone, or going out without informing her, even though he kept tabs on her location at all times. It was exhausting, seeing them fight, but it wasn’t new. 

     That day, when my mother started to cry in the car, my brother started to wail and shout as well. He believed it would be better if our parents got divorced, rather than them fighting like this now and then. The fight got very intense, with my dad joining in, too. They started comparing families and relatives, and the deepest, darkest secrets about that uncle came out. At that moment, it hit me that I might not have been mistaken as a child. I realized that with this history brought to light, he could have touched me intentionally, because he knew I would stay hush.

     After the crying settled down and we all decided to go to bed, I sat down with my mother and had a deep conversation about the family. I felt safe and decided to tell my mom about the incident eight years before. I told her he touched me twice, despite my reluctance and resignation. She was furious. I was scared. I told her not to tell my brother and my father, but she wanted to take action.

     The next day back home, my brother knew about it. I went out that night, and when I came back, I could see the fire in my brother’s eyes. He called up my aunt and drove to their house. Without saying a word to my uncle, he swung his hand in a wide arc, connecting with a resounding slap that echoed through the room. Everyone was shocked, furious, surprised, and confused. I wasn’t present that day, and I don’t know what happened after it. But later the next day, the families decided to meet together—they wanted to hear it from me.

     It took all the courage in me to step up in front of 15 cousins, their families, and relatives. I had cried the previous night because I thought the family was breaking apart because of me. My mother gave me the strength I needed, and I shouted at the top of my lungs to tell everyone the truth. You can expect what came next: Why didn’t you tell us earlier? How do you remember this only now after so many years have passed? Why would he do it to you…all the other girls in the family were safe! My uncle used to live with his sister and her daughters. They made food for him, did his laundry and dishes, and served him like a king. Why would he do any harm to the family that feeds him? The fight ended with everyone, including my father, saying it must have been a misunderstanding. Even the sorry I got from my uncle was a petty, nonchalant sorry, after which he headed to his cozy room and went to bed because this was too much for him.

     Not one apology, and with many allegations, witnessing crocodile tears, and blackmails, we left the house and decided to not keep contact with the family that knew no bounds. They gave us death threats, kept our reputation on the line, and knew no respect towards my father or mother. This story wasn’t just about a predator in the family, but about the whole family and how they responded to an incident of sexual abuse. All I asked for was one apology from the man who knew what he did, but wouldn’t accept it. Now that it’s been a few years out of this experience, I know I was not wrong, and I am so proud of the way my Mom and brother stood up for me. As for my Dad, he maintains little contact with that side of the family, but giving up is not an easy process, and I have forgiven him for that.