“Through the years and more than a few disappointments, trials, and errors, I have come to see gender-based violence as the literal and figurative foot on women’s necks.” – Anita Hill, Believing: Our Thirty-Year Journey to End Gender Violence.
“Please help me mend my broken heart and let me live again.” – Bee Gees
By Rey Moreno
I am no angel by any means. But I have this gift of love and empathy that allows me to hear the cries of broken hearts. I am summoned like a lost bird calling for its mother. No matter what the distance, I somehow manage to feel connected. Not that the pleading voices come all at once. I have to deal with the problem one by one.
It started one night on my way home after finishing my voluntary work of feeding the homeless. A young lady was walking alone with flimsy clothes protecting her from the cold weather. She was lost in thought and indifferent to her surroundings. I stopped my car and called her out through the open window of the passenger side. She didn’t hear me, so I kept calling her until she finally noticed me. I asked her to hop in and be more comfortable inside my heated car. She accepted my invitation without a second thought and thanked me profusely for my kindness. We started conversing by getting to know one another till the uneasiness between strangers was lifted off like the fog in an early morning light. Her name was Vanessa and following was her story…
Vanessa lost her parents from a fatal collision caused by a drunk driver when she was ten years old. As she was the only child, no relatives were eager to take her in. Instead, she was placed in a foster home. She got along with her adopted family at first. But as she was growing up, she was subjected to constant bullying and harassment not only at school but at home, too, from her adopted siblings. She’s the least favourite of her adopted parents, so complaining to them was not an option. Then she fell in love to a popular high school quarterback. One night, they played a game of strip poker via Zoom. Unknown to her, the boyfriend recorded her and showed the 30-minute video to his teammates. Soon she became famous in the wrong way. Feeling guilty, her boyfriend deleted the video but the damage was done. Vanessa became a pariah in school. Even her friends avoided her. She didn’t get any emotional support from her adopted family either. Then day after day, she’d been receiving anonymous ugly texts. She felt depressed, adding to her mental anguish. She wanted to commit suicide. Through social media, she found fellow sufferers. They told Vanessa to connect to this person via email who would guide her if she decided to kill herself. She did and was convinced that the only solution to her situation was to end her life. She was mustering her courage when she walked out of her house, wandering to nowhere until I spotted her. I took her to my home and stayed with her throughout the night. When she woke up in the morning, she was feeling less distressed. I persuaded her to stay with me. I called her foster parents to let them know she’s safe. Then I called a friend who was a good therapist in this matter. Three months later, Vanessa’s suicidal thoughts vanished like a one-time nightmare. I helped her out move to another city, get a job after school, be independent, and have a fresh start. Her foster family was happy to get rid of her. I advised Vanessa to reduce her exposure in social media and fake her name as much as possible. I kept in touch with her as often as I could to ensure she was all right. The last I checked Vanessa was doing great. It made me feel good.
But I still worry about the detrimental effects of social media on young people. I hope Google, Twitter and other similar media platforms would be subject to government regulations all over the world in the immediate future.
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I was bringing the garbage out from our soup kitchen for the homeless when I saw Tanya lying unconscious beside the dumpster. I called 911 right away. I hung around to answer possible questions from the emergency personnel and at the same time find out which hospital they were taking her. I finished my chore at the homeless shelter and went straight to the hospital to check on Tanya. I didn’t see any member of her family in the waiting room. I found out she overdosed from opioid.
Before her addiction, Tanya was a respected Grade 5 teacher. Six years ago, she slipped in an icy path on her way to her class in the morning. She suffered several fractures on her arms and legs. Her recovery didn’t go well and the pain became chronic. She was prescribed with fentanyl to ease her pain. She relied on the drug a little bit too much until she got addicted. From there on, her life spiralled like an avalanche. She lost her teaching job, got divorced, children moved out, sold house to finance her addiction, and became a street junkie. She’d been in and out of the hospital several times when I found her.
Once the hospital discharged her, I took Tanya to a rehabilitation centre. It took half-a-year to drain out the drug from her system; then another six months to fix her mentally. She stayed with me while she’s putting her life back. We spent considerable time together, talking about the challenges of forgetting the past and confronting the future, especially the expected relapse. We started calling one another “Sister”. It must as well be since we only had one another as a family. We sealed the deal one day and Tanya became my sister for good. Now she’s assisting me in helping the marginalized members of our society.
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I saw her often attending our Sunday service and reading the Bible fervently. Greta liked to show off her deep affections for the Bible by closing her eyes with her right arm raised toward the heaven and reciting the passages by heart, although she’s not the exception. Then her eyes shifted and I could have sworn I saw no blessedness on her face. I might be wrong so I started watching her like a spy. Her husband Peter was with her all the time, but not her step daughter Rihanna who was eleven years old and a newcomer from Jamaica, according to the rumor mill. I approached them and asked about Rihanna. Greta explained that Rihanna was a very shy person and afraid to meet people. She added that Rihanna tried to go to school for a week and found the whole experience frightening. Rihanna was now home schooled and seldom ventured out of the apartment. My sense of danger was raised to a high-octane. I was about to pry with more questions, but Greta and Peter moved away from me abruptly. I went to our parish priest and told him my concern.
Greta pulled me away from the congregation right after the Sunday service and said: “Butt out, sister!” Peter, with his menacing look, screamed: “Mind your own business, or else…!” Then they were gone as fast as the lightning flash and left me shaking to the core. I couldn’t sleep well for days…till the breaking news came down all over the air waves that a couple was arrested for suspicion of murdering a teenager stashed inside a luggage thrown into the ravine of the Don River area. By evening, the news media identified the couple as Peter and Greta Clarke, the same couple who belonged to our church. My heart cried for Rihanna.
During their trial, two years later, sordid details were coming out about the short, miserable life of Rihanna here in Canada. Rihanna’s biological mother hoped that her ex-husband Peter would be able to provide better the essential necessities of life for Rihanna. Since Peter and Greta didn’t have a child, they consented with the arrangement. In the early days of Rihanna’s stay in Toronto, Peter got to have a liking with his daughter. Greta found them laughing all the time. Greta got jealous and concocted a story that Rihanna was out of control every time Peter went to work. She told Peter that she would be instituting several methods to discipline Rihanna and in no uncertain terms that Peter would interfere. Greta started starving Rihanna and only provided a meal when Peter was around. She also put a chain in Rihanna’s right leg to restraint her movement in the apartment. And finally, she locked Rihanna inside the closet whenever Greta went out of the building. On top of it all, Greta began beating Rihanna into complete submission. Fearing for her life, Rihanna never said a word to her father about her mistreatments from Greta. She endured them all until she died. In their sick minds, Peter and Greta decided to hide Rihanna’s death, hoping to get away with murder. They threw Rihanna out of their life without remorse or guilt.
I was sickened about Rihanna’s ordeal for a while. But I knew I couldn’t save everybody. I must be strong for those women who could be the future victims of domestic or gender violence, misogyny, marginalization, bullying, rape, discrimination, sexual or economic exploitations, addiction, religious persecutions, physical or verbal abuses, and inequalities. I must be there for them at their worst time as long as I can.
17 February 2022