After reading a preschoolers’ body safety book, Taaru asked me, “Amme, who was your safe adult when you were a kid?” I stopped what I was doing, said “No one,” and went back to what I was doing. She must have been confused because she asked the same thing again. Vedu jumped in this time and told her, “Amma didn’t have a safe adult when she was a kid and she had problems because of that.” Then she let out a sigh and said, more to herself, “I can’t imagine any kid not having a safe adult.”
I felt my heart break yet again in that moment, a moment when I was back to being a kid. But the very next moment, I felt joy knowing that my girls had what I never had—not one, but two safe adults, determined to keep them safe and empower them to protect themselves.
Two days later, Vedu came home early from her playtime looking upset. She broke down in front of me and said, “An uncle touched me without my permission. I shouted no, but he ignored me.” For a moment, I was shocked, and then I asked her to tell me calmly what had happened. She explained that an uncle who is new in the building kept forcing her to go near the puppy he had and when she stood her ground saying she wouldn’t, he picked her up and put her on the wall near the puppy. Her voice was shaking when she said, “I shouted ‘NO! Don’t touch me!’ But he ignored me and just stood there. And then I tricked him by jumping to the other side of the wall where a friend stood and ran back home from there. But why did he touch me without my permission? I am sad and angry!”
I took her in my arms and kissed her, telling her how proud I was of her for being such a brave little girl and also for coming to me with this problem instead of keeping it to herself. To Taaru, there was a side note on how this was something she should also do like her Chechi. I told Vedu that it was okay to be sad and angry and how Amma had felt the same way when someone tried to touch me in my twenties, even though I had also done all the right things like she did. I said that it was amazing enough that she was able to stand up for herself instead of being scared and now Amma would take care of it.
And just as I promised, I went with her to the house where this man lived. He wasn’t there, but his sister-in-law was. So I spoke to her about how my daughter was so upset that someone had overstepped her boundaries massively, how it was wrong of him to do it, and how they had to ensure that there wasn’t a next time to this. Thankfully, she understood and even apologized to Vedu. As we walked back home, I asked her, “Happy baby?” And the twinkle in her eyes as she said “Yes Amme” let me know how I hadn’t let her down. Just as much as the smile on my face told her how proud I was of her.
Maybe because the hunted child in me raised her head again after this incident, I made the mistake of trying to have one last conversation with my mother about what happened to me as a child. What if this time she understood? What if this time it went differently? That “what if” blinded me, and I wish it hadn’t. Because nothing went differently. After trying to have a different conversation about the same thing for the millionth time, I realized that I was playing a cruel joke on myself by raising my hopes and letting myself down every single time.
I tried explaining how not one or two, but five different people had sexually abused me for seven long years of my childhood. I even went as far as to give her graphic details of some things that happened when she was right next to us, so evidently showing the confidence of the perpetrators that they had nothing to fear. Just like him, a neighbour, all of them, elder cousins and relatives, were people she fawned over as trusted insiders, while they took advantage of the freedom and used the little me to satisfy their sexual cravings and curiosity.
All through the conversation, the question she raised was this, “How would I know if you didn’t tell me? How do I know why you couldn’t trust me?” It is a different story that even after she knew much later, there wasn’t anything different in the way she behaved with the perpetrators. Hell! The cute little teapot that still stands tall on her kitchen cupboard that was gifted to her by the very first guy who sexually abused me, that too much after she came to know about it from me, is proof that predators always win, and victims keep losing.
Her questions ignited an uncontrollable rage and an even stronger feeling of sadness in me. Here I was, never having gotten an acknowledgement, let alone an apology for what had happened to me, for the raw pain that still hasn’t subsided decades later, never even a question of “How do you feel now?”, never a kind word, “We understand and we are with you.” And I still carry the burden of it all when the very people who should have prevented all this shift the blame to me—“Why didn’t you, a 7-year-old, not tell us or trust us? How could we have known?”
Yes, the blame was mine and that was their easy way out. When I knew that the conversation would only go round and round in circles with not a tinge of compassion to be expected from my very own mother, I knew I was wrong yet again, for letting myself down, yet again.
But it got me thinking. Is it the kids’ fault if they don’t trust their parents, if they keep their darkest secrets from their parents? Why do my kids trust me and come to me with anything that worries them? Because I have given them a reason to trust me, by being with them, talking to them, spending time with them, showing them abundantly that I love them and I will always be there for them, that I will always be their safe adult.
If a child doesn’t trust her parents and doesn’t tell them what is happening in her life, especially something so grave and dangerous, imagine how scared she is! Whose fault is it? A little girl’s? It’s never her fault that she didn’t trust her parents enough to tell them what was happening. It is only a failure on the parents’ part that they couldn’t give her the feeling that she could trust them, that she was safe with them. It was their failure that they made her feel that others were more important to them than her. No narrative that shifts the blame to a little one who is a victim should be considered the truth.
Even now, despite all the empowering lessons and support we give our girls, I know that not everything is in our control. I keep praying every night that nothing bad happens to them. But even if they encounter the slightest danger, we will be their rock, we will make them feel loved and supported, we will have them feel that they will always have us. That is what kids want. That is what being a safe adult is all about. If you can’t do that, never have kids. And if you have kids, never make them feel that they are the reason something bad happened to them. Learn to take accountability, stop being a narcissist, and never even think of shifting the blame to your kids to escape the difficult questions.
Related link:
Also published on Medium.
Leave a Reply