My story begins on a farm in Mpumalanga, back when I was just six years old. The sun would beat down, a typical South African heat, and for a little girl like me, the world was a mix of farm sounds and vast open spaces. But my real world, my refuge, was under an old willow tree. Its branches, wide and comforting, were my secret haven.
Under that willow, I wasn’t just a child. I was an artist, a writer. I’d grab my crayons, and the rough bark of the tree would become my canvas. The smooth, slender leaves? They were my paper, where I’d scribble down thoughts, feelings, little stories that only the tree seemed to understand. It was my only outlet, a precious space where I could just be, away from everything else.
Because in that very same home, in the very walls that should have protected me, something unspeakable was happening. I was experiencing rape. It wasn’t a stranger; it was within my family, someone I knew, someone who was supposed to be safe. This is the dark truth about gender-based violence (GBV) and rape – it thrives in the intimacy of homes, often perpetrated by those we are taught to trust.
The shame, the fear, the confusion of a six-year-old being told to keep secrets. That’s how it happens. The abuser manipulates and threatens, creating a world where silence feels like the only option. And for the rest of the family, even if they suspected, the weight of that silence was crushing. The fear of public judgement, the stigma attached to such a violation, the thought of tearing the family apart, the cultural pressures to keep things “within the family” – all of it creates an impenetrable wall. Everyone suffers, but the child suffers in isolation, carrying a burden no one should bear.
But even amidst that profound pain, under the gentle sway of that willow tree, something was stirring within me. Those moments of drawing, of writing, of simply expressing myself in secret, were not just childhood pastimes. They were the very first flickers of my resilience, the seeds of my future activism. They were my way of fighting back, even when I didn’t know I was fighting.
As I grew, the trauma lingered, but so did that spark ignited under the willow. I heard stories, saw the same patterns of silence and suffering in others, and something shifted within me. I couldn’t stand by. I became an activist against rape and GBV. My own pain became my fuel, my lived experience, my greatest teacher.
Today, I stand before you not just as a survivor, but as a healer. I understand the long road of recovery, because I’ve walked it myself. I dedicate my life to helping others find their path to wholeness.
I am an activist. I work tirelessly to challenge the systems and mindsets that allow violence to persist. I know that true change comes from speaking truth to power, from dismantling the very walls of silence that allowed my own abuse to happen.
And now, I am part of something powerful: We Will Speak Out. This isn’t just an organisation; it’s a movement, a collective voice rising against the tide of silence. Through my writing, through every platform I can access, I commit myself to being the voice of the voiceless. I speak out against GBV, against spiritual abuse, against any form of oppression that silences the vulnerable. My work with the Interfaith Collective further reinforces this, showing how unity across beliefs can strengthen our collective roar for justice.
My story is a testament to the fact that even from the deepest wounds, incredible strength can emerge. It’s a living example that you can transform your pain into purpose. The willow tree was my secret, the farm my silent prison, but today, my voice is loud, clear, and unwavering. I will continue to speak out, for myself, and for every soul who still longs to be heard.
Dr Leo Alberts Vilakazi