Content warning: This article discusses rape. It contains graphic descriptions of sexual assault and violence.
“Today a young woman came to us for help. 6 months ago, she was at home with her 2 young children, when a group of men armed with guns invaded the house. They beat her and raped her. She is not sure how many of them there were; she estimated 7 but it could have been more or less. She lost track of the number of times she was raped. After they had finished with her, they set fire to the house and she was thrown into the street with her children in the middle of the night. She never presented to a health facility for healthcare or psychosocial support. She didn’t know where to go; she had no money for transport costs; and she had to take care of her children.
“A couple of months later when her period didn’t arrive, she realized she was pregnant, as a result of the rape. She did not want to continue the pregnancy, but again, she didn’t know where to go or how to get help. During this time she had been taken in by a friend, who knew about the violence, but didn’t know about the pregnancy. It was only as the pregnancy advanced and was becoming increasingly difficult to hide that she finally came to our clinic,” said Dr Lisa Searle.
Searle has been working with survivors of sexual violence for over 10 years, in a multitude of contexts.
She is currently in Haiti, for the third time, a country which she has come to know and to understand, though Searle admits her perspective of this country is skewed because in all the time she has spent there she has been working in the field of Sexual and Gender-Based Violence (SGBV).
“Despite my years of experience, sometimes I still see cases that shake me to my very core. That touch me, that make me question the hope I try to hold onto for humanity,” said Searle.
Dr Lisa Searle with an MSF colleague in Haiti.
The Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) clinic situated in a relatively safe and accessible part of the city, is called Pran Men’m which translates to “take my hand” in Haitian Creole. Searle was there in 2015 for the opening of the clinic and was responsible for setting up, recruiting and training all the medical staff and supporting the Haitian staff through receiving the first patients.
Now, 8 years later, the clinic is thriving as they attend to an average of 300 cases of sexual violence (SV) and intimate partner violence (IPV) every month. For those who make it to clinic early enough, they are given medications to prevent unwanted pregnancy and HIV infections. For those that come later they are offered treatment for other sexually transmitted infections (STI’s), vaccination against hepatitis B and tetanus. All survivors are offered psychological and social support; linking them with legal support, protection services including safe house accommodation when needed, and support groups. For those that come with unwanted pregnancies, they are offered safe abortion services.
“This woman’s pregnancy, unfortunately, was too advanced,” said Searle. “She was begging me to get rid of the pregnancy, to do the procedure, but I had to explain to her that it was too late for this. That we could not do the procedure. That all we could do was refer her to social and psychological support, help to link her with adoption services and other services offering financial support.
“She looked at me, distressed, asking ‘what am I supposed to do? I cannot keep this baby’.
Searle says her story, devastatingly, is not rare.
“So many of the cases we receive in Pran Men’m have been through unimaginable horror by the time they reach our clinic. And then there are the cases that never make it to us; those who die from complications of the violence or who have no capacity to leave their home or their neighborhood due to violent control of their partner or the gangs controlling the region.
“Working with survivors of sexual and gender-based violence is never easy,” said Searle, “but it is important and something I am passionate about.
“I have set up a training unit here, where we teach countless people about how to provide better care, better services, to sexual violence survivors. These people give me hope, the Haitian staff who confront these stories and support these survivors every day, do so with compassion and respect.
“They dare to hope for a better future for this country, for themselves and for the survivors who come to them for help. Providing care to survivors is so rewarding, and to be able to offer some comfort, to prevent unwanted pregnancy, to prevent infections, to help the survivor regain what they have lost and start to heal.
“And so, I will continue doing this work … for the survivors.” said Searle.
Power on the Frontline
It is always near. I am never safe. My daughters are never safe. My mother is never safe. My friends, my aunts, nieces, nephews, those that I love. The men can come at any time. They come, with their guns, with their force, with their red-rimmed drug-hazed eyes, smoke trickling from their mouths. With their fists clenched, a creepy smirk turning up the corners of their mouth, standing tall, feeling powerful. Ready to dominate, confident in the sick knowledge that they can take whatever they want. With no repercussions.
They drag me from the market, force themselves on me behind a little stall selling canned sardines and sachets of laundry powder. I stumble home; I tell my father what happened to me. He says it was my fault, that I asked for it. He kicks me out of the house. I am 11 years old.
They invade my home in the middle of the night, at least 7 of them but as they force themselves inside me, pumping and pumping their hot sticky fluid into me over and over again, I lose count. When they are done with me they burn my house. I am alone on the street with my 2 children. Clinging to me, terrified, as the house goes up in flames. Two months later I discover I am pregnant from one of these despicable men. I do not want this baby. I am 29 years old.
My mother finds me walking strangely, a wide-legged hobble, after she has left me with the neighbours overnight to go and work in the fields. She finds dried crusty white patches on my pink sequined dress. I do not have words to express what has happened to me but the doctor finds the truth in the form of abrasions and tears when she examines my private parts. I am 4 years old.
They come into the courtyard of my home, three of them, young men. They start talking to me, I am scared, but they come closer, they put something over my face and I pass out. When I wake, I am on the floor in a strange house, one of them on top of me, grunting and panting with the effort of thrusting in and out of me. I try to fight him off but I am too weak. For three days I am held in that room. They come every day and rape me. I am in agony. Then finally they dump me in the street, naked. I somehow manage to find my way home, to my mother. I love studying French and science at school. I want to be a doctor when I grow up. I am 15 years old.
I cannot get enough food to feed my children. We had to leave our homes due to the fighting between groups of armed men. My husband was killed in front of us. We are in a refugee camp now; I have no family here. One of the men managing the camp says he will give me extra food if I have sex with him. I do it. I don’t have a choice – I cannot watch my children starve. I am 47 years old.
I am walking 5 kilometres to my cassava field to work; planting, ploughing, weeding, harvesting. My baby is strapped to my back, I am with a friend. Her 5-year old daughter is with us. A man stops us, he drags me off the road into the bushes. My friend is screaming. He slaps her, tells her to shut up. He points his gun at me, looms over me. He rips off my skirt and rapes me. When he is finished he walks away. My friend helps me cover myself, helps me to my feet. We keep walking to the field; we have to work today. I am 23 years old.
He forces himself on me when I am too drunk to resist. I had already told him no. I tell him again as he lays down on top of me, roughly yanking at my clothes and forcing himself inside. I am begging, crying, please don’t, I don’t want this. He does not stop. He does not use a condom. I am too ashamed to seek help. I live in fear of HIV for the next 6 months. I am 26 years old.
I am at home. A group of three men come to the door, asking for water. They have three other people with them, one of them a foreigner. All three of them have their hands tied together and the men are holding guns pointed at them. I give them water. They come inside the house. Two of them force themselves on me, on the floor of my house. The third stays outside to guard the prisoners. When they are finished with me, my body bruised and broken, they take some water out to the prisoners and they walk away. I am 26 years old.
We do not deserve this. Our bodies are not your playthings. Our bodies belong to us. How can you think it’s ok to treat people like this? Like we are objects at your disposal, here for your pleasure. As if your pleasure justifies our suffering. What kind of person takes pleasure from the suffering of others? We are never safe. At home, in the markets, in bars and nightclubs, working the land, in the office, in church. Rape is always near. It is a fear we live with throughout our whole lives.
You are so pathetic and weak on the inside that you feel the need to dominate someone else and force yourself on them in order to feel strong and powerful. This is not strength. This is not power. Strength is going on afterwards. Carrying on with our lives, living with this trauma, bearing the weight of it, finding and supporting each other, and if we can, healing and emerging out the other side. Overcoming. Growing in strength and resilience. This is power. Your pitiful acts are not.
