Child Sexual-Abuse

Silent night, holy night- goes the Christmas carol. But is this silent night always a holy night? Year 2006, month January, elderly Ramkishan walks into his neighbor’s house and offers to baby-sit their 10 month old daughter for the night. The young couple, happy to be relieved of their duties for a night, gladly hand over the infant. They do get her back the next morning, but bleeding. Her uterus severely damaged as she has been repeatedly raped and sodomised.

‘Welcome to the world of child sexual abuse’, where children are terrorized and brutalized by the very people who are supposed to keep them safe. We teach our children to trust only those they know, but what if those they know are the ones they should not trust? What if it’s the smiling relative by the day who becomes their bogyman at night? A highly charged battle is being waged today in our nation’s courtrooms, universities and living rooms. This battle is about ensuring ‘Child Protection’. Seems to be easy, doesn’t it? All you have to do is put yourself in your child’s shoes and sense where the dangers could possibly lie. But you might get paranoid on discovering that most of the dangers lie within. 13-state National Study on Child Sexual Abuse released in 2007 conducted by the Ministry of Women and Child Development, UNICEF and Save The Children reported that 69 per cent of all Indian children are victims of physical, mental or emotional abuse, with New Delhi’s children facing an astounding abuse rate of 83.12 percent. The study by the South India Cell for Human Rights Education and Monitoring reported in 2011 that one woman molested every 26 minutes in India. 2 rapes take place every hour in our country and 1 in 5 victims is a child.

No more can we pretend that child abuse is restricted to remote villages in backwards areas. Rich or poor, urban or rural, boy or girl, 50% of child sexual abuse happens at home, inflicted mostly by chachas , mamas, close relatives, friends or servants of the family. The fact is that child abuse is India’s deepest and worst kept secret. And the bitter truth that is most families immediately drop a veil of secrecy over such incidents. An abused child, even if he has the courage to come up and tell his tale is either disbelieved or worse believed and asked to shuhh! ‘The family honour is at stake’. 71 per cent of sexual assault cases in India go unreported.

The extreme level of denial on part of the parents and fear on the part of the children that exists in most Indian homes often protects the abusers. They used to say it takes a village to raise a child, but today it takes a whole nation. The need of the hour is not to sensationalize but sensitize our children to the dangers rampant around them. The first question the Indian Prime Minister needs to ask his ministers today is not “How is the economy growing?” rather “How are the children growing?” Because if children are not growing well, we shall have sick traumatized adults struggling with various emotional disorders like depression, denial, disassociation and difficult relationships. Sexual abuse is another form of terrorism which must not be tolerated for another year, another day, another hour.

One hundred years from now, it will not matter what our bank accounts we had, the sort of house we lived in, or the kind of car we drove. But the world matter is how we brought up our child because that might make the world a better place to live in. We have to live up to the sacred faith reposed in us by our vulnerable little ones by making them feel secured, loved and well looked after. Some soul searching is badly required.

Are we really in constant, open communication with our children regarding their behavioral changes? Are we really in our children’s circle of trust, offering them unconditional love and support? Are we listening and believing them and not just shutting them up by saying ‘don’t talk rubbish about your elders’? Are we concerned and bold enough to take steps to help Misty a midst? (Below is the poem I once read on net.)

My name is Misty, I am but three,
My eyes are swollen, I cannot see.
I must not be loved, for I am punished with cigarette butts.
I must do right, I can’t do wrong,
Or else I am lockup, all week long.
When I awake, I am alone,
The house is dark, my folks are gone.
Be quiet now, I hear a car,
My dad is back from Charlie’s Bar.
I hear him curse, my name he calls,
I squeeze myself, against the wall.
On my bed, it’s too late,
His face is twisted into hate.
I feel the pain again and again.
Oh dear god! Please let it end.
My name is misty, I am but three,
Last night my farther, murdered me…