Forgive Me

Forgive Me

(As told by Aisha)

Prologue

GROWING UP IS JUST ANOTHER WAY OF SAYING YOU'VE GIVEN UP ON YOUR
DREAMS.
Think about it. How many seven-year olds say they want to be a single
parent working double shifts to support their children? And how many
seven-year olds dream of being superheroes? I even looked it up, in my
last thralls of childhood, and all I found were comic strips, books and
films: fantasies. There wasn't any mention of the important stuff. Are
superheroes so busy with saving the world they never make it to their
child's parents' evenings? Do they make their own signature outfit or
was there a large stockist somewhere who designed, sold and ironed the
infamous costumes for $19.99 a week? How much is a superhero's salary
if they're a full-time superhero?
As I have probably implied, I dreamed of being a superhero once; with
super-human strength, a billowing cape and a cool catchphrase I would
say after every single daring rescue. My mom always told me heroes
don't have to have super-human strength to be super-heroes.
"But Mom, how can you fight aliens without powers?" I always asked,
bemused. I'd like to take a moment to point out that I was five at the
time. I haven't mentioned my age to degrade five-year olds. I,
personally, think kids have the upper-hand when it comes to the world.
They dream of the world as having a million possibilities, and it
hasn't occurred to them that it's all a question of access. I admire
their enthusiasm which seems like it will never run dry. Kids naturally
want to know more. Kids have limitless energy without coffee. Kids see
the world through an optimistic eye.
These aren't bad qualities, don't get me wrong. But the fact remains
that they are qualities I don't have. I judge people. I criticise. I
lay in bed until I can think of five reasons to get up. By the time I'm
in third period next to a cute boy I've already envisioned a billion
and one ways it could go wrong. My entire mood can be ruined by
somebody eating my cornflakes.
My dream of being a superhero was motivation and a comfort to me. But
then I grew up and I discovered another kind of hero.

Prologue

(As told by Aden, Aisha's mother)

Rape is something that happens to other people. I'm no exception,
though, I would give my life to be the victim rather than the mother of
the victim. My position is truly helpless. I've watched my daughter
fall apart and there isn't a single thing I can do but give her my
unconditional love. She had that anyway, but sometimes she needs
reminding that I'm there, as her support system if her confidence ever
begins to shut down.
How can you predict the way life will take you? It seems as though I
am in the middle of the ocean most of the time - the current pulls me
back and forth and I am caught by the ocean's treasures and its power.
All I can do is tread water and hope I won't drown. But when you are
not the victim, but only the person who picks up the pieces that you
weren't aware were breakable, that's a sensation completely different
to being in the middle of the ocean. It's like seeing your child
drowning and being unable to swim, to save them.
It wasn't the usual kind of rape, either. Not that there ever is a
usual kind of rape. They are all unhappy and unpleasant and a desperate
struggle for survival, but they are all personal and ravaging in their
own way. How the rape affects a victim is pretty much determined by the
personality of the victim rather than the ordeal.
Aisha was nine when she was raped. I had decided, against my better
judgement (Is there a day that passes when I do not regret my decision?
Is there a day when it doesn't take all my strength to not cry at my
lack of foresight?) That's both a blessing and a curse.
The rape of a woman is always painful. The rape of a virgin is even
more so. The rape of a child is excrutiating. From the medical
examination, I was told that Aisha's rapist had shoved his hand up her
vagina. It's been shown that there was a huge amount of blood. She'll
have the scar of his knife on her stomach for the rest of her
life.
The only thing that brings my comfort is the knowledge that she cannot
remember it. She suffers from PTSD - a common disorder, that fits in
perfectly with her ordeal. It stands for Post-Traumatic Stress
Disorder. In some cases, it makes woman relive their worst memories
when they least expect or grow numb from emotion. In Aisha's case, her
mind has erased the incident. The psychiatrist explained to me that it
was Aisha's way of balancing out her mind. When she runs, her heart
rate increases to balance out the stress on her muscles. The mind is no
different.
Though I have not hidden the medical or police report from her, Aisha
cannot recall anything. Of course, the chances of a successful child
testimony are low, the solicitor explained that. But the chances of a
child testifying successfully against a man she cannot even remember
are close to zero. Aisha was lucky not to have been killed but that's
not enough for me, nothing is ever good enough when he might be doing
the same to other girls, depriving them of their childhood. It makes me
want to cry in exasperation, but Aisha is insistent. She does not
remember.
Before she was raped, Aisha wanted to grow up. She was convinced that
once she was eighteen she could open all the doors of possibility with
the key of age. She had no idea that there were other forces at work
acting as impregnable barriers.
It was always going to be inevitable, Aisha growing up. But if I could
give her anything, even now, I would give her her childhood. If it were
mine to give, I would give it.
That's the thing about being a parent. You can give and give and give
but there's no guarantee into what you'll get in return.