BUENOS AIRES, Argentina ꟷ My name is Marilyn Bernasconi, but I was born Cristian Marcelo. My father alone accepted my unconventional gender identity.
Interview Subject
Marilyn Bernasconi was born on June 6, 1990 and named Cristian Marcelo. She was assigned male at birth but would eventually identify as female. Nicknamed “Marcelito” as a child, she was timid, quiet, and withdrawn.
Having served nearly half of her 25-year sentence to date, Marilyn says when she is released from prison, she plans to go to the cemetery where her family rests and ask for forgiveness. She continues to send flowers to their graves.
Marilyn says that LGBTQ+ people who are not accepted by their families often run away from home, end their lives, or choose a heterosexual existence to please the family. She says none of these paths are easy, and urges families to respect their loved ones wishes. To those suffering, she says look for someone you trust. Staying silent, she says, led her to the worst possible fate.
While in prison, Marilyn finally got what she so desperately desired: a gender change. She is now legally declared Marilyn Bernasconi.
Background Information
The award-winning feature film “Marilyn” is based upon Marilyn Bernasconi’s life and premiered in February 2018. It details the sexual awakening of a young man who identified as female in a hostile environment in rural Buenos Aires and recounts the tragic end of his family. In October 2018, the production was screened at the 68th Berlin International Film Festival.
Marilyn says the Argentinian screenwriter and director Martín Rodríguez Redondo approached her about the project. The screenwriter had many lengthy talks with Marilyn and she gave him her diary, which she called “Suffering for not being the same.” Martín wrote the script for the movie, which Marilyn says represents her life faithfully. She says creating the movie caused her to relive her worst memories and once again face the pain, regret, and grief of the deaths.
An Argentine-Chilean production, the cast included Walter Rodríguez, Catalina Saavedra, Germán de Silva, Andrew Bargsted, Ignacio Giménez, Rodolfo García Werner, Josefina Paredes, Germán Baudino, and Santos Lontoya.
At the 2018 Milan International Gay and Lesbian Film Festival, “Marilyn” won the Cultweek Special Jury Award for Best Fiction Film. It also earned the Jury Award for Best Fiction Movie at the Tel Aviv International LGBT Film Festival in 2018, and actor Walter Rodriguez won the 2018 Sur Award for Best New Actor.
When he died, my brother and mother made my life impossible.
One day, out of desperation, I killed them.
An insult and an explosion of emotion
Growing up in the country, I was surrounded by loneliness. I had no friends, no games to play, and no affection in my life. My mother showed no signs of love for me and though he tried to compensate for her, my father favored my brother.
By the time I started school at the age of 6, I was shy and introverted. I found it difficult to relate to others.
When my father died, my mother and brother rejected me and tried to change me by force. I suffered brutally from their cruel words and physical blows. For two years, depression overtook me.
On an early morning in May 2009, at the age of 18, everything changed. My brother insulted my father’s memory. He called me a faggot and claimed my father died because of me.
I went blind and exploded in anger and disgust. My father’s death did not matter to them, I thought. They stopped going to the cemetery [and grieving him] a month after he died.
I knew my brother’s words were a lie, but I could not contain myself. My vision blurred, and the ground moved beneath my feet as if I were dizzy. Sounds became distant as strange sensations set in. The pain and anger caused heat to rise inside of me.
Ending the lives of my family members
I left my brother and walked to the house, 50 meters (164 feet) away. My eyes were cloudy, and the dizziness continued. I lowered my gaze but no tears fell from my eyes. In the room we all shared, behind the door, next to the closet, I found the 16-gauge shotgun.
Returning to my brother, I did not hesitate. I remember not understanding what I was doing, but I felt the rumbling of the gun shot pass through me. It was as if someone else pulled the trigger.
My brother was sitting, and in confusion, I heard him fall sideways. I returned to the house to find my mother in the kitchen. Her back was to me. I prefer not to recall that moment. It hurts too much.
With the gun in my hand, I began to run across the field. I ran until I felt a chill-like sensation throughout my body and saw myself with the gun in my hand, bathed in sweat. I dared not return to the house to see what I had done, so I dropped the gun and ran to the nearest neighbor, two kilometers (1.24 miles) away.
They heard me screaming and awoke. I lied and said someone robbed us, urging them to call the police and an ambulance. I felt they knew what happened. Those few seconds were like being in hell.
Facing the consequences of murder
In a state of shock and sensing no one believed my lie, I confessed to the murder of my brother and mother. Once convicted, the judge sentenced me to 25 years of imprisonment. I have served 12 years in prison so far.
From the moment I killed my family, I believed I should be condemned, to pay for my mistakes. Now, at 31 years old, I lost my youth to prison. Nothing positive comes from being deprived of freedom. Family, friendship, and years pass by without pain or glory.
Prison taught me true loneliness. It also taught me to value even the smallest details. As a young person, I did not know how to seek help. Looking back, I would do things differently.
With each passing year, my regret hurts more and more. The moral punishment is worse than imprisonment. It will accompany me all the days of my life.
Major Devendra P Singh is India’s first blade runner. On July 15, 2021, he celebrated 22 years of what he calls his “Rebirth Day.” On that day in 1999, he was nearly killed in a mortar blast at the Line of Control between India and Pakistan, during the Kargil War. He was pronounced dead but survived. In 2018, the Indian government granted him the national award for persons with disabilities under the role model category.
After recovering from a leg amputation and dozens of injuries, Singh learned about the Airtel Delhi Half Marathon, an annual 13-mile foot race. He trained significantly and in 2009, became the first Indian amputee to run a marathon on an artificial leg. Two years later, in 2011, he became the first Indian to complete a marathon on a blade prosthesis. In 2019, he carried the flame to Drass War Memorial during the 20th anniversary of the Kargil War. The same year, he wrote another chapter in history when he became the first solo skydiver among persons with disabilities in all of Asia.
Major Singh is a freelance motivational speaker and runs an organization called The Challenging One, in which he enables amputees from various walks of life to lead an active life. Despite being 100% disabled, he has pledged his body parts for donation.
The eldest of his siblings, Singh’s family was also affected by his injuries. He says that his father suffered mentally from his attack and the aftermath. Singh himself went through a divorce and ultimately quit the Army in 2007. He says that his religion, Sikhism, helped him to survive and thrive again. He explained that in Sikhism, great gurus and martyrs self-sacrifice, without shedding a tear, for their nation, their families, and to serve others. Singh says if he had not remained emotionally strong and overcame his loss, it would have demeaned his history and culture.
Most recently, Singh was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease.
Background Information
The Kargil War was an armed conflict fought between India and Pakistan from May to July 1999 along the Line of Control (LoC). The LoC is a military control line between the Indian and Pakistani controlled parts of Jammu and Kashmir. It does not constitute a legally recognized international boundary but serves as the de facto border.
Since Pakistan and India each had weapons of mass destruction, many in the international community were concerned that if the Kargil conflict intensified, it could lead to nuclear war. It is estimated that as many as 527 Indian soldiers died in the war, while more than 1,300 were injured.
The Indian Army declared the year 2018 the “Year of Disabled Soldiers in Line of Duty” to celebrate the undying spirit of soldiering.
After his service, Singh was entitled to a war injury pension. When a soldier, at that time, served in the Armed Forces, they did so for the entire country; but once you leave active duty, you are categorized by state. Singh was not officially assigned to any state. His father approached the Delhi government to release the benefits but was sent to Uttar Pradesh and then to Uttarakhand. No state would take responsibility. Singh finally received his benefits seven years later after a lengthy court battle.
NEW DELHI, India – I commanded a protective post on the Line of Control during the peak of war between India and Pakistan.
My 30 soldiers and I lived year-round in the second-coldest inhabited location on earth, in a rugged landscape 8,000 feet high.
Nestled in mountaintop posts in freezing conditions, we faced the Pakistan Army less than a football field away. When they launched their attack, thousands of shells, bombs, and rocket warheads wreaked havoc. Both sides suffered heavy casualties.
One day, a sense of foreboding consumed me. For 48 hours, not a single bullet had been fired. Something was brewing, and I knew tragedy would follow. I was right.
Soldier loses limb but not his will
On July 15, 1999, the Pakistan Army fired two mortar bombs. They targeted me personally as I stood outside a bunker.
The first bomb flew by, landing somewhere far away. Before I could react, the second bomb exploded right next to me. The killing area of a bomb is 8 meters in diameter. I was a meter and a half from where the bomb landed.
When the bomb exploded, I went numb and lost consciousness. Risking their own lives, my battalion mates rushed me to the hospital.
Grievously injured, I suffered heavy blood loss and cardiac arrest during transport. Doctors declared me dead on arrival, but they revived me, and I survived.
After all the surgeries and procedures, I was discharged but reeled under acute Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I faced extensive physical disabilities.
Gangrene led to the amputation of my right leg. My left leg shattered, requiring knee surgery and the removal of large chunks of muscle from my calf and thigh. I lost parts of my intestines, suffered hearing loss, and was riddled with over 70 pieces of shrapnel, some of which cut straight through my body.
My metabolism and digestive system slowed down during my 40-day stay at the Military Command Hospital. My weight dropped from 143 pounds to just 61.
Still, the emotional setbacks proved more difficult.
The emotional toll of being a disabled soldier
At the Military Command Hospital’s Artificial Limb Centre in Pune, injured troops surrounded me. Some had no legs; others had no eyes.
In the unit, we supported one another, maintaining our morale through a shared emotional high of having survived. I focused on learning to walk again.
However, outside of the hospital, reality hit hard and my physical limitations jolted me. Once a highly active and energetic man, I found basic chores and household tasks nearly impossible. I could not walk or drive, and I lost my independence. Where I once sprinted up a flight of stairs, now I dragged myself, a step at a time.
I hid my agony from my loved ones, cracking jokes and laughing, but I needed extra care. I was physically and emotionally drained. Inside, I wanted a hug or a shoulder to lean on. Irritability, agitation, and anger set in.
Despite my best efforts, I could not acclimate to the sympathetic glances. People pitied me. They said it was my Karma. I longed for someone to hold my hand, but people either called me a warrior or they looked down on my disabilities. When I sought support, people often backed out.
The soldier in me rose up, and I decided to take action.
In 2011, Singh became the first Indian to complete a marathon on a blade prosthesis | Photo courtesy of DP Singh
More than survival: amputee thrives
In my new life, I have become a runner and a skydiver. The crippling roadblocks I faced as an amputee did not stop me; I was intent on improving my quality and standard of my life.
When I run, I feel the jarring impact of my feet on the ground from my hips to my head. I become bruised all over my body. Yet, I enjoy running. It tames the side effects of shrapnel injuries and focuses my attention on eating and sleeping well.
Skydiving, like running, helps me transcend my injuries. My first jump was indeed the most out-of-this-world experience of my life.
An Advance Landing Helicopter lifted me to an altitude of 9,000 feet. After leaping out, I free fell for 25 seconds. In the air, I felt like a bird. The Earth looked like a beautiful map, spread out underneath me.
When my parachute opened, I experienced the deepest silence of my life. You could hear a pin drop. The silence was spiritual.
Since my amputation, I have completed 26 half marathons, a full marathon, and skydived eight times.
People call me physically challenged. I call myself the challenger. I seek to change nothing; my life inspires people, and I feel I am serving a bigger purpose.
Shanik Lucian Sosa Battisti, 28, began to seek legal rectification of their gender label in early 2019, but the Civil Registry of Tierra del Fuego denied Sosa Battisti the registration change.
Sosa Battisti filed an appeal, and in December 2019, the Tierra del Fuego Court of First Instance ruled in favor of Sosa Battisti and ordered the agency to grant the rectified birth certificate.
Background Information
Sosa Battisti’s case resulted in Decree 476/2021 published in July 2021 in Argentina’s Official Gazette. According to Article 4 of the decree, “the nomenclature ‘X’ ”in the ‘sex’ field will include the following meanings: non-binary, indeterminate, unspecified, indefinite, not informed, self-perceived, not recorded; or another meaning with which the person who does not feel included in the masculine/feminine binomial could identify.”
USHUAIA, Argentina — Identity is a fundamental right that is sometimes still overlooked. In my teens, I began to doubt my gender identity. At first, I believed that it could be a fleeting thing, but as the years went by, I realized that I perceived myself as non-binary.
After about a decade, my tremendous personal desire to achieve recognition of my personal identity prompted me to fight for the rights of others who do not feel identified with the female/male pronouns.
Uncomfortable with existing labels
In 2019, an episode on television about gender identity caught my attention—It seemed to describe my life perfectly. I began to investigate and eventually realized that neither hetero norm represented me.
I always lived in freedom, but it felt tortuous every time I had to do paperwork. It was difficult for me to see the gender on my National Identity Document and forms not represent me.
I tried not to use them often, and I invented excuses like forgetting or losing my ID. Still, when people asked my name and it didn’t match my appearance, they tended to doubt me.
I often saw people mock me and heard whispers around me but took it with humor, because I honestly did not care what they said. Though I felt discriminated against because of my gender identity, the only support that mattered to me was my family and friends. I ignored the rest.
Claiming my true identity
I do not consider myself male or female, and I became determined to get an ID that matched my genuine identity.
At the beginning of 2021, I went to the Civil Registry of Ushuaia to modify my ID, but the government rejected it. I was the first case in the city and the Tierra del Fuego Province.
However, I knew I wanted to continue fighting for my right to self-awareness. After the rejection, lawyers from the non-governmental organization Red Diversa Positiva presented my appeal on my behalf.
I worried and ranted to several friends and the lawyers who accompanied me, because at first I didn’t believe that it was going to happen. I was nervous, and it was a crazy situation. However, they were with me the entire time, and I felt supported.
We initiated an “appeal for discrimination in breach of the gender identity law,” and I went to court.
After eight months of uncertainty, nervousness and struggle, the Tierra del Fuego court ruled in my favor and ordered the civil registry to grant me the rectified birth certificate. The government did not appeal and issued a new birth certificate and a new ID within five days.
At that moment, I couldn’t believe it. I was thrilled and in disbelief; radiating happiness, but I couldn’t quite understand what it meant yet. I was so grateful to my best friend and those from Red Diversa Positiva who assisted in my case. They were by my side each step of the way and helped me have the courage to go on this beautiful adventure. Thanks to their help, my life changed forever.
I am here, and I exist
My ID showing “non-binary/egalitarian” as my gender will relieve me when doing paperwork and facing life. I no longer have to explain who I am or hide.
This change gives non-binary people visibility, validates us, and shows society that we are not living in confusion. It is an identity all its own. We resist, we exist, and we are people who have family, work, and everyday life.
I hope this change ensures future generations do not suffer around this issue. I also hope that from now on, all of Argentina’s provinces comply with the national decree and that no one else has to suffer for the mere fact of not being in the hetero norm.
Benson Gicharu Njangiru was born May 3, 1985. Growing up in the slums of Nairobi, Kenya facing extreme poverty, Benson attempted suicide as a child but survived. Later, his own father committed suicide.
Seeing his mother grapple to make ends meet, he went into amateur boxing to support her and his siblings. Eventually Benson graduated from secondary school and became a police officer. His boxing career—including appearances at two Olympic games—continued until his retirement in 2018.
Today, Benson says appreciation for boxing in Kenya is waning amongst the public. The facilities used for training fall far below required standards. He dreams of seeing more people embrace boxing and go on to exceed his own achievements.
Benson envisions his boxing academy becoming a center for success, especially as teenage girls show increased interest in the sport. He says his tough life growing up and living in the slums with a single parent testifies that you can soar to great heights despite the odds.
Background
The proportion of Kenyans living on less than the international poverty line ($1.90 per day in 2011) is 36.1% as of 2015/2016. Benson Gicharu decided to pursue boxing as a means to support his family living in in the Mukuru Fuata Nyayo slums.
His first big break into boxing came in 2004 when he was selected to fight in Qatar along with eight others. He boxed for seven months there, but the government required a change in his citizenship in order to stay in the country. At that time, Kenya did not allow dual citizenship, so he quit and returned home.
In 2004, he earned his Kenyan Certificate of Secondary Education and joined the Kenya Police Service, going on to represent the force in the National Boxing League. He found a great boxing coach and joined the national team after defeating a heavyweight champion in 2009. His abilities in the ring were paying off and he could finally, comfortably care for his family.
That same year, the national boxing team invited him to the International Boxing Association’s World Boxing Championships in Italy, where he lost in the first round. A year later, he took his first medal in the Commonwealth Games in New Delhi, India: a silver in the flyweight division.
In 2012, he qualified for his first-ever Olympics at the London games, where his opponent beat him in the first round. The Commonwealth Games in Glasgow in 2014 would be his next port of call, this time as a bantamweight fighter. He made history, becoming the first boxer to win medals in different weight categories while clinching a bronze medal.
In 2016, he qualified for the Olympics in Rio. He won a gold medal at the qualifiers, but lost in the first round of the Olympics and suffered a serious hand fracture. In 2018, after the Gold Coast Commonwealth Games, he retired from competitive boxing.
NAIROBI, Kenya ꟷ Growing up in the slums of Nairobi, I saw little room to change my life. The odds were stacked against me, both at home and in society.
My aunt saved me from suicide, only for my father to kill himself later. He left my mom alone to raise us.
With no funds for school, I became a professional boxer and provided for my family. I even competed in the Olympics.
Poverty brings a son and father to suicide in the Nairobi slums
From a young age, I battled self-esteem issues, made worse by my parents, who compared my academics and self-discipline to that of my siblings. A stereotypical slum boy, I rebelled.
In 1996, at the age of 11, I spent a week contemplating suicide. One day, my family left me home alone. It seemed the perfect time to enact my plan. I took a rope from under my bed, tied it above the headboard, placed it around my neck, and prepared to let go of my life.
However, I had not closed the door to my room, and my aunt showed up for an unexpected visit. She found me, and I escaped death by a hair. The suicide attempt left me marked with bruises.
My parents asked why I did it, but I said nothing. Deep down, I knew it was the constant comparisons to my brother.
I did not know my father also battled thoughts of suicide. Life at home seemed unbearable, and my parents could barely make ends meet. Things only got worse as time went on.
One day while at school about a year later, I felt the urge to go home earlier than usual. When I opened the door, I saw something standing in the middle of the house. It scared me. I ran and called my neighbor, pleading with him to come.
When the neighbors arrived and witnessed the scene, a tense atmosphere engulfed our home. I knew something was wrong. Moments later, they told me my father killed himself. I felt such pain, and saw this as a selfish act. Why would my dad take his life when our family faced so much hardship? He left my mother alone to raise me and my two younger siblings.
After that day, I became bitter.
The Mukuru Fuata Nyayo slums in Nairobi, Kenya | Photo courtesy of Benson Gicharu
Boxing becomes a family’s saving grace
I had always been targeted by the big boys in the slums, and students also began bullying me at school. I was scrawny, and I knew my suffering would only continue if I did not defend myself. When I realized I could throw a hard punch, it turned into a hobby.
Boxing gave me a thrill. I could throw my frustrations into it. With each punch, joy emanated within. Going to the gym to exercise became religious, as my access to education dissolved.
Despair for my future set in when I lost my scholarship for secondary school, and our money ran out despite repeated attempts to pay the school fees. I worked casual jobs to help support our family and did return to school for a brief time, but money remained an issue. One night, we all slept hungry, and I came home the next day to find my mother crying. I vowed from that moment forward to monetize my boxing skills.
Big boxing break takes boy out of slums to the Olympics
My first big break came in 2004 when I was selected to fight in Qatar [in Western Asia near the Persian Gulf]. During the seven months I boxed in the Middle East, I kept my siblings in school and continued my own studies.
After graduating, I joined the Kenya Police Service and represented them in the National Boxing League. Over the next several years I fought and earned many medals, but lost in the first round of the 2012 London Olympics.
In 2016, I set my sights on the Rio Olympics. Amateur professionals had to qualify in Venezuela. Uncertainty set in as I had no money to fly there, let alone a Visa.
However, just two days before the qualifier, I unexpectedly found the money to purchase a plane ticket. With no funds left for accommodations or food, I proceeded to the airport. I carried only my invitation to qualify. By the grace of God, they allowed me onboard and to travel to South America without a Visa. I describe that moment as the “Miracle of Venezuela.”
I had no coach but still managed to win a gold medal at the qualifiers and made it into the Olympics. Though I lost in the first round and suffered a serious hand fracture, it prepared me for more important work back home.
Gicharu won multiple international medals throughout his boxing career and participated in two Olympic games. | Photo courtesy of Benson Gicharu
Olympian returns to the Nairobi slums where he mentors children through boxing
Today, I help young boxers perfect their skills in the Mukuru Fuata Nyayo slums, where I grew up. There is no greater exercise of the heart than to train children. My joy comes from seeing them succeed in life.
The children and teenagers growing up in the slums are easy to relate to. We share the hardship of growing up in the shackles of poverty. Boxing gave me a way to vent my feelings. It was a tool that that changed my life, and I encourage young people to take an interest in boxing so it hopefully changes theirs, too. It is a difficult sport, but with much practice, boxing makes you fearless.
In the slums, every child is battling something. Some of their battles are tougher than mine were, but it only takes a little push for them to emerge great. Many children in the slums turn to prostitution, drugs, and other vices to survive. Young girls frequently become pregnant. I use my studies in psychology to empathize with and counsel them.
Every child has potential, but they must take the first step forward and believe in themselves. When I see young boxers win competitions, I feel like I am watching my own journey. I tell them to trust the process. Things do not happen overnight.
Challenges are like puzzles to solve. When we begin connecting those puzzles together, we can create a good future for ourselves.
Jenny Meizas is a Venezuelan woman who was kidnapped while walking one evening and transported to a sex trafficking ring located in the Bahamas.
She endured daily rape and torture, but managed to obtain a cell phone and post a video on Twitter. The authorities saw the video and raided the house, rescuing her and the other victims.
Meizas talks about her story to bring awareness to the tragedy of human trafficking.
Background
The pandemic generated by the spread of COVID-19 has increased the exposure of vulnerable populations to human trafficking and has put the authorities to the test, according to experts who participated in a recent virtual dialogue on Trafficking in Persons in Latin America and the Caribbean.
Mauricio Claver-Carone, president of the Inter-American Development Bank (IDB), affirmed the increase in the number of victims detected and traffickers convicted. The majority of victims are women and girls.
He has indicated that human trafficking “is the third most lucrative business for organized crime, after drug trafficking and counterfeiting” and generates “150,000 million dollars a year, of which 12,000 correspond to Latin America and the Caribbean.” Likewise, he added, two-thirds correspond to sexual exploitation.
He warned about impunity, as he pointed out that for each case detected, there are at least 20 undetected, and that it is necessary to “strengthen security and justice capacities to continue trafficking,” as well as cooperate with jobs and provide accompaniment to victims during the judicial process.
NASSAU, Bahamas — While most of my memories of being kidnapped and trafficked have disappeared from my mind, I clearly recall the moment I was taken.
One night, I was out for a walk when I was grabbed from the street and placed in a car. I tried running, screaming, and crying out for help, but nothing stopped my kidnappers.
My whole world ended in a matter of minutes and my cries were like an echo.
I forgot that women are not safe alone at night and that the wicked can attack at any time; I became a victim of human trafficking.
As a woman, I was vulnerable and subjected to incredible abuse. Eventually, I cried out for help and managed to escape. I fled from the hell that held me captive.
Thank God I have a voice today, to tell the world what happened to me. I can talk about that place, where I was full of fear and suffering.
Venezuelan woman kidnapped, transported to the Bahamas
In the car, a string of faces passed through my mind like a film. I thought of my family, friends, and coworkers. I would probably never see them again.
After the car ride, they transported me to a private airplane. Thousands of questions echoed through my mind. Did anyone see anything? Is it common for people to be kidnapped in Venezuela? Was anyone coming to save me?
It was unfair and inconsistent to blame anyone but these people who were sick enough to take me by force. I fainted all the way to our destination. When I could finally open my eyes, I realized I was not in Venezuela anymore.
They took me out of my own country to a place where no one would ever find me; they took me to the Caribbean. More precisely, I was in the Bahamas.
I was so disoriented at first, it was hard to realize where I was. My kidnappers were big, bearded, broadly built men who went unnoticed. They taped my mouth and tied my hands to prevent me from doing anything.
My screams were silenced by the metallic tape over my mouth.
In fear, all I could do was cry. Movements were useless. I fell into a void, like an abyss coming towards me, and soon appeared lifeless.
All the movement and fierce anguish I felt made me want to vomit. Terror consumed me, wondering what was going to happen. I desperately wanted a hug from my mom, to hear the voices of my friends, and to sip on a coffee at work.
At that moment, I knew I was fighting for my life. I only had myself to count on and it was me against this tale of horror.
Takento a house of horrors disguised as a normal home
After the plane ride, we entered another car. It stopped suddenly and the men – if they can be called that – began to mutter. “What room are we taking her to,” they said. “You have to be discreet when getting out of the car, as always.”
That last sentence clarified that I was not the first or the last woman to be in this situation. They had done this before. I was just one more kidnapping out of many.
Desperate and still unsure what hell awaited me, I wondered how far their cruelty would go. My eyes were swollen from crying as they continually squeezed my arm and put more tape on my mouth. They overtook my every move. As I was able to focus, I tried opening my eyes more and more.
I saw that they were leading me towards an entrance. It looked like a normal house. The atmosphere was cold and unpleasant and the steps to the door felt like an eternity.
Villa 662
During that walk, they removed the tape from my mouth and the rope from my hands so we would go unnoticed. They told me if I screamed, they would kill me, so I made no sounds.
In what felt like a thousandth of a second, I turned my head looking for anyone or anything that was strange. The street was practically empty, but I saw something I will never forget: the address of the place.
The sign said “Villa 662.” I repeated it in my head without stopping so I wouldn’t forget. It was a critical piece of information.
Inside the home I saw armchairs and furniture. It looked like a living room at first glance, but then I understood, this room had windows facing the street. It was simulated to look like an ordinary house, but torture awaited.
I found myself in a long corridor full of doors that, I assumed were rooms. Throughout my transportation, I was constantly guarded so I could not make a movement, flee, or scream. Now I believed my life was lost and I would never escape this place.
They opened the door of the second-to-last room using the only key in their hands and shoved me inside, onto the bed. They closed the door behind me.
Trafficked in the Bahamas, I was subjected to constant, daily rape
I got up as best I could, crying and screaming, but no one heard me, and these men did not want to listen. I fumbled with the doorknob to no avail. There was one tiny window in the room for air to enter. There was only the bed.
Eventually, I resigned myself to the situation, but at that moment, I threw myself on the floor. I begged God to return me to my family, crying out for a sign.
Crying out to God, I said, “Our Father who art in heaven, please hear my prayers. I am far from my home, kidnapped, and terrified. In fear for my life, I want to be get out of here. There must be a way to escape. Deliver me from all this. Amen.”
All notion of time disappeared and every minute felt like an hour. The door to the room opened again and a man I had never seen entered. He didn’t say hello. Opening the door, he closed it again, locked it, forced me to undress, and began the worst of my torture.
He abused me and then left. It wasn’t long before some new stranger came in and the process repeated. More than five men came in a day and used me as if I were a garbage bag. They did whatever they wanted.
My body ached and my abdomen could not bear all the pain, much less my pelvic area. I was a product to satisfy the strangers who passed by my bed. My job was to give them pleasure. They used me continuously until I couldn’t take it anymore.
My soul broke as I tired of crying.
A fellow prisoner shares a phone and I send an SOS on Twitter
From time to time, those who managed me gave me breaks. During my first break, I realized I wasn’t the only woman kidnapped and put in that place. On the rare occasion when I could talk to them, I tried to obtain information.
We were, for the most part, young women in a small age range. We were labeled new girls and more experienced girls. The more experienced girls had long been captives.
Once, I exchanged words with a 25-year-old girl who looked very tired. She had dark circles under her eyes and her voice broke every time she spoke. “Where are we exactly,” I mumbled, hoping to get critical information.
She seemed afraid to say anything and looked at me, thinking deeply. I understood.
“I shouldn’t tell you,” she said, “I am taking a risk, but I think that if you can escape thanks to this, you will do what I could never do, which would leave me at peace with myself.”
Tears began to fall down her face until she finally spoke again.
“We are in the Bimini Islands, in the Bahamas. For your reference, we are behind the Hilton,” she confessed, and immediately grabbed my hand.
Tweeting out for help
I felt something hard in my palm and she leaned in close to my ear. “This was my cell phone. I was able to keep it hidden. I give it to you,” she said. “Try to run away and do what all of us couldn’t. You are on a timer.”
Immediately Jassie, as they called her, turned and left. I was paralyzed. I went from having no hope to having an excellent opportunity to escape. In all my life, I could never thank this woman.
I mentally prepared myself to create an escape plan. I did not have much time, as they would return me “to work” soon. Quickly, I opened my Twitter account and immediately wrote a few words there to attract the authorities.
I needed someone to read that tweet, my life depended on it. If this failed, there was nothing more to do, but I never stopped trusting the solidarity and empathy of good people.
I put the phone on silent so no one would hear the notifications and I went back into my room with another man following. The nights, especially the weekends, subjected us to a high volume of prostitution.
A hopeful cry and a police rescue
My chance finally came. I had less then a second to escape to a bathroom with the phone. I locked myself in and from Periscope, a Twitter application, I made a live video detailing everything I knew about where I was.
“Help, they are going to kill me,” I exclaimed, desperately, “My God. I am kidnapped in Bimini, Bahamas, behind the Hilton, Villa 662.”
In a live video, I begged someone to alert the authorities. I prayed for ransom. I couldn’t take another second of torture and abuse of my body.
During my imprisonment, I was repeatedly threatened with death if I did not do what they said. Even Carlos, one of my kidnappers, warned me that he would sell me to a ship about to set sail.
Every day, I asked incessantly to go back home. I needed to be with my family, to hug them, and to know that everything was okay. I did not realize everything was about to change.
Police arrive on the scene
A few hours after my plea for help on social media, the Bahamian police arrived. Everything worked. I was safe and I could not believe it.
Bahamanian authorities bust the human trafficking lair.
When they rescued me, the authorities found me a safe, quiet place before taking me off the island, back to Venezuela. I saw the faces of my family and friends again. They were apprehensive; some of them confessed that they thought I was dead.
Getting out of that place was not luck. I was a woman who fell victim to trafficking. I was strong and fought with every breath. Life gave me another chance and I was reborn.
Unfortunately, this situation happens in many countries throughout the world. Many women do not live to tell about it. I raise my voice for all of them, and for the torture that I went through.
It was not easy and I suffered a lot, but I thank God and the police authorities that I am safe and sound. Today, I can say that I was not one more victim, but one less.
Pictured above: ” I am Ka Juanito Magbanua, NPA” (New People’s Army) reads the sign Ka Juanito Magbanua holds, dated July 8, 2021.
Ka Juanito Magbanua was born in a small coastal village outside Bacolod City, Negros Island, Philipines.
He is the spokesperson for the Apolinario Gatmaitan Command of the New People’s Army on Negros Island.
A part of the New People’s Army (NPA) since 1994, Ka Juanito Magbanua lives deep in the jungle and is constantly on the move as he evades government capture.
He is a regularly quoted source in Filipino media.
Background
The New People’s Army (NPA) is the militant wing of the Communist Party of the Philippines and has been fighting a guerilla war since 1969.
They are believed to have 110 guerrilla fronts across 73 of the country’s 81 provinces. The guerrilla fronts are said to be made up of villages loyal to the NPA, paramilitary militia recruited from the villages, and full-time NPA soldiers.
Officially considered a terrorist organization by the U.S., the E.U., New Zealand, and the Philippines, the NPA claims to be the voice of the peasant class.
Philippines President Rodrigo Duterte has made anti-insurgency fundamental to his platform.
Duterte has claimed a number of recent victories against the NPA on Negros Island including:
Seizing two NPA bases after NPA soldiers fled in Sitio Manulaya, Barangay Tan-awan, Kabankalan town in July 2021.
Dismantling two NPA fronts in Komiteng Rehiyonal Negros/Cebu/Bohol/Siquijor after 60 NPA soldiers surrendered in May 2021.
Ka Juanito Magbanua told Orato he considers each one of these government claims to victory as proganda and false.
The NPA claim victory in the July 2021 battle and to have killed three members of the Philippine Army’s 94th Infantry Battalion.
Ka Juanito Magbanua denies any dismantling of NPA fronts have occurred.
As for the battle in Bacold City, Ka Juanito Magbanua conceeded the NPA lost 10 soldiers and killed five.
The Killed In Action Phillipine Army forces were from the 62nd Infantry Battalion, the 16th Scout Ranger Company and 33rd Division Reconnaissance Company, according to Ka Juanito Magbanua.
NEGROS ISLAND, Philippines — It was 2 a.m. on a memorable morning in 2004 when we launched a raid on the Philippine military’s militia, known as the Citizen Armed Force Geographical Unit (CAFGU).
CAFGU is an auxiliary army created to fight what the Philippine government calls insurgents. I am one of those insurgents.
Residents of Negros Island, where I’ve lived all my life, complained of CAFGU’s torture, illegal entry into their homes, and indiscriminate firing.
We heard the militia was selling drugs and stealing the locals’ water buffalo.
Our informants in the village where the CAFGU detachment was deployed had laid the groundwork for the raid.
The villagers told us how many soldiers were stationed there, what firearms they carried, and the placement of their huts and foxholes.
My brothers in arms snuck into the CAFGU base through the rear while I covered them from outside the building.
One small creak made CAFGU soldiers wise to our assault.
Gunfire rang out between us and the militia in the depths of darkness.
I don’t know if I killed anyone or not because I couldn’t see the enemy I was shooting at.
We had the element of surprise, and on that occasion, it was enough.
The CAFGU detachment fled into the night and abandoned their position in the village.
We took the weapons and equipment they left behind, saving them for the next battle.
I fight for the New People’s Army (NPA), the militant wing of the Communist Party of the Philippines.
Dreams crushed by poverty
I was born and raised in a coastal village, called a barangay, near Bacolod City, Negros Occidental.
When I was young, my family and I made our livelihood by selling locally-grown coffee and bibingka (baked rice cake).
My dream was to become an architect, but my family was too poor to send me to college.
I enlisted with the Philippine Navy and was stationed on the Mindanao island.
We transported soldiers from the Philippine Marines and Army battalions.
After three years, I left the Navy to become a merchant marine, but jobs were scarce.
I applied to numerous shipping companies, but I couldn’t land a single job in two years of searching for my new profession.
When I came back to my hometown, resistance was brewing against the government.
The US-Marcos dictatorship that ruled from 1965 to 1986 believed in “constitutional authoritarianism” and kept the country under martial law from 1972 until 1981.
Many of my barkada (close friends) were members of the Kabataang Makabayan or KM (Patriotic Youth).
We held local protests against the administration and through KM’s educational courses I began to learn the truth about my country.
The Philippines is a rich country in natural resources whose people are kept poor by U.S. imperialism, domestic feudalism, and bureaucrat capitalism.
Marcos was deposed in 1986 and I decided to become a full member of the NPA in 1994.
My parents and siblings didn’t approve of my decision because they were afraid I might get hurt.
My friends who knew I was a KM member weren’t surprised with my decision, while other friends were astounded when the news reached them that I went up to the mountains to fight with the NPA.
A rich country with an impoverished population
Negros Island is a vast agricultural land mainly populated with sugarcane plantations.
Most of the inhabitants (Negrosanon or Negrense) make a living in agriculture.
A handful of big landlords monopolize vast portions of the arable island area following massive corporate land grabs.
The impoverished farmers and farm workers depend on the will of these few landlords because they don’t have a path to land ownership.
Many of them receive wages ranging from PhP100 to PhP200 ($2-$4 USD) for eight hours of work. This is meager compared to the PhP395 ($7.90 USD) regional minimum wage for agriculture set by the government.
Negros Island residents who often protest for higher wages are met with violent police crackdowns.
The place I live is a seething volcano of social discontent that could erupt at any time.
When I entered the ranks of the NPA, I was assigned to a squad-sized armed propaganda unit responsible for growing our ranks.
We recruited locals for armed struggle by telling them they had a right to a decent living, just wages, benefits based on their work, and, most of all, their own land.
I would help organize the locals in demanding lower rent, abolishing predatory loans, and developing cooperative farming practices.
When that wouldn’t work, we’d seize the farmland by force.
I’m not a terrorist
But we don’t desire war for war’s sake.
We fight because of the injustices of destitute poverty that the bloated ruling class will never willfully address.
My hope is for genuine democracy to flourish in the Philippines and for peace based on social justice.
I reject the “terrorist organization” designation thrust upon the NPA by the West.
When the NPA executes someone, we only do it following conviction at a public trial.
We adhere to the International Law on Human Rights and Humanitarian Conduct in the civil war and the Comprehensive Agreement on Respect on Human Rights and International Humanitarian Law.
After 27 years of joining the NPA, I don’t have any regrets even though I was not able to achieve my dream of becoming an architect.
Hafsa Mohammed Lukman is a 23-year-old business woman who was kidnapped in Kenya’s capital and held for ransom for five days.
She was beaten, robbed of her life’s savings, and stored in a water tank where she had access to little food and water. She was rescued by police and investigators after her family refused to pay the ransom.
According to the Directorate of Criminal Investigations (DCI), nearly one in 3,000 people in Kenya are kidnapped. The cases are more pronounced in the two major cities of Kenya, Nairobi (Kenya’s Capital) and the sea port city of Mombasa. Half of those kidnapped are never found. Many who are retrieved, are found dead or abandoned in neighboring counties or in forests.
In the last five years, the major kidnappers have been members of the ISIS-linked terror group Al-Shabaab who have a base in Somalia. Most of the people kidnapped by Al-Shabaab have been forced to join their militia group which terrorizes northern Kenya. The militant group often targets professionals and foreigners. In 2018 and 2019, for example, foreign aid workers were abducted by the terror group. Silvia Romano, 25, an Italian aid worker, was kidnapped in 2018. In 2019, two Cuban doctors working in Kenya were kidnapped. All three were found alive.
Locally, the DCI says groups and individuals without a solid network carry out kidnappings throughout the country, often targeting children to be sold in illicit trade to women who are unable to have children. Others are kidnapped for ransom.
Ransom varies depending on the kidnappers. Some charge as little as 10,000 Shillings ($91 USD) to over 10 million Shillings ($91,000 USD). The kidnappers ask family members to place the money somewhere and when they collect it, they release the victim. Three out of 10 operations don’t materialize, as police officers set a trap and arrest the kidnappers.
Kidnappers who ask for ransom usually know the victim and/ or family members. Those who disappear completely, never to be heard from again, are suspected to be abducted by strangers.
Source: National Police Service and Director of Criminal Investigation-DCI
NAIROBI, Kenya — I met Hafsa Abdulwahab, a fellow Muslim woman, in my neighborhood in Nairobi.
Hafsa approached me one day with a proposal, to invest in a watermelon store.
She suggested we situate the store in Kayole, one of Nairobi’s most populated neighborhoods. Hafsa would take charge of operations, and I would manage the cash.
Little did I know, in June 2021, I would be held hostage for five days, beaten, and robbed by my business partner.
When Hafsa asked me to invest in a watermelon business, I had full trust in her. Her language was kind, and she was a fellow Muslim and a neighbor. She earned my trust and then kidnapped and tortured me.
Scammed and set up by a con artist in Kenya
I decided to invest in the watermelon business. I gave Hafsa seed money to get started – 700,000 shillings in total ($6,400 USD).
As time went on, there were no results. When I would inquire with Hafsa about the state of the business, she would say, “It is picking up slowly.”
She blamed the delay on changes to the business model. Instead of buying melons from farmers, she said she had to cultivate her own.
After almost a year, I saw no return and I asked Hafsa for my money back. She began talking in endless circles.
She insisted the watermelons needed time to mature. All my trust in her was gone. I mounted the pressure and one day, she called me to say she had a plan on how to settle our debt.
She insisted we meet in person to agree on the terms. I consented.
On Sunday, June 13, 2021, Hafsa called me and said she had the money; that we should meet at her place to exchange the cash.
She indicated the money was in Kayole [the same neighborhood where the watermelon store was located], and suggested she pick me up at my shop in Kamukunji and take me there.
I asked why she couldn’t just bring the money to me and Hafsa said, “I fear walking around with such a huge amount in this risky town.” I believed her.
We left my shop at 4:44 p.m. on Tuesday, June 15, and headed to Kayole.
After 35 minutes in Nairobi traffic, we arrived at a house in Kayole. She said we had to wait; someone would arrive soon with the cash. We engaged in our usual conversations about life and the pandemic.
Beaten, tied, and abducted for ransom
Hafsa seemed unable to concentrate and was busy on the phone, texting. At about 6:00 p.m. that evening, I invited her to join me for Maghrib, our evening prayers. It was not unusual. We had prayed together in our neighborhood before.
This time, she was hesitant. She gave me a prayer mat and showed me a corner where I could lay it down. Barely 10 minutes into the prayer, two gentlemen knocked at the door, and she ushered them in.
I was continuing my prayers when suddenly, the two men apprehended me and stuffed papers and sawdust in my mouth.
I tried to free myself, but it proved impossible. The men trampled me to the ground and tied a piece of cloth over my eyes. They tied my hands and legs too. I lost consciousness and when I awoke, I was in another house.
I later found out the house where I was held was in the Matopeni slums of Kayole. That night, I ate nothing. They took my identification, phone, and ATM card. I was unable to communicate with anyone. My hijab and clothing were stained with blood.
The following day, they untied me and made me text my family and tell them I was kidnapped and to pay 5,000,000 shillings ($46,000 USD).
I was reluctant, but it was the only thing that would set me free, so I sent the text to my brother Zachary Lukman and my brother-in-law Omar Ibrahim.
They immediately reported the matter to the Director of Criminal Investigation (DCI). My family never gave in to my captors’ demands.
Captors’ demands lead to a missing person’s report
After denying the kidnappers’ demands, my family launched a missing person alert. The kidnappers came the following day and covered my eyes again with a piece of cloth. They started beating me and made me record a message for my family.
I was speaking in Somali when they interrupted and said, “Speak in Kiswahi.” They made me say, “Nimeshikwa na wanataka pesa, tafadhali mtume pesa,” meaning, “I have been kidnapped and they are demanding money. Please send it.”
I did not realize they were recording a video until I saw it following my rescue. After being tortured, I was given water, juice, and rice. I was hungry and ate everything I could put into my mouth.
They tied my hands again and stuffed me in a 200-liter water tank in the dingiest room. It was painful. I could not turn, and I could not scream. I had no idea where I was. I had to go to the bathroom on myself inside the tank.
On Thursday, they came again with water and rice, and they called my brothers. I heard them say, “We are not killers. The instructions we gave you are clear. Just follow the instructions. If anything happens to her, it is you who will have done it!”
They threatened my brother and demanded to know why he shared the 35-second clip they recorded the previous day.
My brothers were working with the police to trace the signal of the phone the kidnappers were using. They also blocked my ATM card to prevent further transactions, but little did they know, the criminals had already removed 650,000 shillings ($6,000 USD) from my account at various ATMs and shops.
Police initiate a rescue plan
The investigators instructed my family to text the abductors, so they could lure them out and capture them. When the ATM was blocked, they threatened to kill me. Time was of the essence.
While tracing the signal, police identified three locations within Nairobi City where the gang was operating from, and two of those locations were in Kayole.
My pictures were circulated throughout social media as well as police sites. Before my abduction, cases of kidnapping and murder were rampant in Kenya, from Nairobi to Mombasa, and in all the major towns.
Some escaped safely, others were found dead. My biggest fear was that I would die at the hands of my kidnappers. I wondered if I would ever escape this hell.
The house where I was being held was next to a playground. On Friday, just before my captors checked in to bring me rice, I screamed! They had tied me but forgot to cover my face and mouth as they did in the first days.
“Maji! Maji ! Nakufa,” I screamed, meaning “Water! Water! I am dying!.” I drew the attention of some kids nearby. Soon, I could hear murmuring outside the room.
Hunger or a bullet
I assumed it was people gathering around who heard my screams. I had to be tactical because I had no idea who was outside. My kidnappers could be out there, so I continued groaning so that my voice could be heard.
Around 7:00 p.m., the door opened, and a man walked in. His was a new face. He didn’t spend the usual amount of time. He simply held out a bottle of juice which I drank quickly.
The man spoke angrily, “This is like a movie to me! For the last 23 years that I have been on earth, I have never seen such a thing! Your uncooperative family want me to kill you. We are not killers. They should behave and follow instructions.” He left abruptly.
The fifth day of my abduction was the worst. My kidnappers never appeared that day. I ate nothing and despite the small amount of food and drink they gave me, I needed it to stay alive. I’d rather die of a bullet than hunger and stress.
I had grown weak. My hands and legs were tied. From early morning to evening, no one came. I spent the entire day praying for Allah to save me.
Rescued by police, kidnappers arrested
On the day of my rescue, Sunday, June 20, 2021, at 7:00 a.m., I heard someone break down the door. I said my last prayer, ready for death. I suspected the gang had come to execute me.
To my surprise, I saw blue uniforms when the door opened. They were police officers.
The police took pictures of the scene and they untied me. I was too weak to move. My clothes were bloody and dirty, and I was so thirsty. I asked for water right away.
The police drove me to the Kayole Police station to record a statement, after which I was taken to Mama Lucy Hospital for treatment. My hands and wrists were bruised. I have scars all over my body and my face.
Soon after, the police arrested 24-year-old Jackson Njogu and his girlfriend [my former business partner] Hafsa Abdulwahab, who is 21. The news of the arrest wasn’t only positive for my family, but also for the millions of Kenyans who have been affected in one way or another by the rampant kidnappings in our country.
We found that after siphoning my money, the perpetrators purchased a bar in the Kinangop area of Nyandarua County, thinking they would escape the long arm of the law.
Three days after my rescue, officers from the Crime Research and Intelligence Bureau, with the help of their counterparts from a special unit of the police, smoked out the two lovebirds in their hideout in room number eight, in the famous Crystal View Hotel.
The value of family and moving forward
At the moment, the two kidnappers are in police custody and investigations are ongoing. Police seek to unmask the entire gang. A case is also in court, and it is prudent for me not to comment on the matter.
All I want is justice to be served. I want to look at these scars on my hands and smile because I have my life’s work back.
I have confidence in our police and in the investigators, as well as our courts. Justice will prevail.
At 23-years-old, I know that if I have anything solid on this earth, it is my family. They stood beside me and will always be with me.
My family couldn’t sleep throughout my abduction. Led by my brother Zachary, they looked for me at every corner, made calls to police stations, and reached out to every media outlet, locally and internationally, just to have me back.
They are the ones who worked with the police and the investigators to find where I was. I don’t know if I would be here today were it not for my family.
The incident caused immeasurable levels of stress and discomfort to them. I believe some of them will take a long time to heal from this.
I’m happy their efforts bore fruit and I was released. Many in Kenya are not so fortunate.
Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia (ALL) is one of the four main types of leukemia. This disease refers to cancer in the blood.
Specifically, ALL consists of an abnormal increase in lymphoblasts that do not reach maturity and fail to defend the person from infections. Their exorbitant number displaces the normal cells of the bone marrow, causing a decrease in red blood cells, platelets, and white blood cells.
Some of its symptoms are anemia, fatigue, paleness, and slowness in thinking or speaking.
According to the Argentine National Government, to donate bone marrow, you must follow these steps.
BUENOS AIRES, Argentina – At the age of 27, I was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia (ALL).
Treatments are expensive and although I am academically trained to be an Agricultural Engineer, life took me in a new direction.
I ventured into the world of Crypto art to make extra money.
[Crypto art is digital artwork published directly in blockchain format, making its ownership, transfer, and sale cryptographically secure and verifiable].
I have 24 published works of art and they are beginning to sell.
A growing industry and a solution to cancer
My life has always been in a state of constant change. I was born in Japan, then moved to Buenos Aires. My dad is Argentinian, and my mom is Hungarian. I speak five languages.
My cancer diagnosis is just another challenge in my life. When my doctor first told me that I had leukemia, my world fell apart. Today, I look at it as a new opportunity.
When I researched the disease, I discovered I had a fighting chance. Yet, after many rounds of treatment, my disease is remains.
Additional treatment options are available but they are costly. That, coupled with the pandemic and quarantine, could have depressed me.
Instead, it prompted me to seek creative ways to move forward and take on these challenges. I focused on creating pieces of Crypto art to sell.
My prior knowledge of 3D printing helped me understand what to do. Photorealistic images are my favorite.
Before I became the artist I am today, I had no artistic sensibility. I often went to museums and cultural events, but I was simply a spectator. I had to change my mindset and my way of thinking and feeling.
As an engineer, art is a huge achievement; I’m surprised people are interested in my work.
The Crypto art industry is very competitive as more and more artists are joining, but more buyers are coming as well.
It is a niche that is growing.
In battling cancer, I found purpose
Three years ago, when my doctor notified me I had Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, I underwent chemotherapy treatments for eight months to prepare my body for a bone marrow transplant.
After an arduous search, we discovered my mom was a match. She could save my life, but our happiness did not last. A year after the transplant, I presented symptoms such as anemia, fatigue, paleness, and slowness when thinking or speaking.
Again, I started special treatments to put the the disease in remission and eliminate symptoms. They injected me with medication for 28 days. This was followed by 14 days off.
During this process, I moved to the hospital where I met my new family: the health personnel and other patients. I can receive this treatment five times but then, if I cannot find another bone marrow transplant, I can only receive it one more time.
This is not a treatment that can be sustained. It is too powerful. Today I am finishing the fifth cycle.
I owe a lot to this disease. My fight against cancer forced me to develop personally; it is an opportunity to strengthen myself.
Cancer has forced me to open myself to a world I did not know existed, and to change my priorities. It led me to a new purpose in life.
Hope, options, and a call to action
My battle with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia is exceptional because I cannot find anyone with compatible bone marrow in the world – not even through the World Marrow Donor Association.
People say hope is the last thing we lose, but I try not to think about that. I have options.
First, the doctors will apply one more cycle of my current treatment. We hope that when we finish, my body will respond and the disease will not return. Second, if my condition returns, we must find a transplant.
If these two things fail, my life will come to an end.
I do not fear death. These years have been full of experiences. I want to live, but I’m not worried either.
What keeps me awake at night is finding a donor. If I do, then all the money I am collecting through my artwork and support will help people struggling with this disease.
I also think it is essential to highlight the importance of donating bone marrow.
We need more and more people take the test to become a donor.
Malcolm Richards, 61, was subjected to forced Electrocurrent therapy (ECT) over 36 times during a three-month period at the Lake Alice psychiatric facility in 1975 and nine times, also over three months, at Auckland General Hospital in 1999.
His permanent brain damage from ECT has prevented him from working, making friends, or otherwise living a normal life.
Malcolm began campaigning for rehabilitation and compensation for victims of abuse in state care as well as reforms to how that care is administered in 2011.
After being denied compensation by New Zealand’s Accident Compensation Corporation (ACC) and two different Attorney Generals, Malcolm ratcheted up the pressure.
In 2018, Malcolm Richards filed a torture claim with the United Nations, disclosing his medical records including burns to his penis as evidence.
The UN served the New Zealand federal government with a legal notice on May 27, 2019.
Malcolm gave a deposition during a public hearing at the inquiry on June 14, 2021, and submitted 26 pages of evidence.
All compensation from the ACC or otherwise is on hold until the conclusion of the inquiry.
Background
The Lake Alice psychiatric facility’s Child and Adolescent Unit is known to have administered electrocurrent therapy and to have sexually abused over 300 children.
The unit was run by Dr. Sewlyn Leeks from 1972 to 1978 before it was closed following public condemnation.
No charges were ever laid in 1977 and Dr. Leeks fled to Australia immediately following the unit’s closure.
Dr. Leeks’ lawyers say the former adolescent unit administrator, who is now in his 90s, is not fit to stand trial.
A class-action lawsuit filed by Lake Alice survivors won a total compensation of $6.5 million NZD ($4.56 million USD) to 95 survivors, or $68,421 NZD ($47,955 USD) per person.
HASTINGS, New Zealand —In New Zealand in 1975, left-handed school children were commonly forced to become right-handed. Being left-hand marked the beginning of my torture.
When I was 15 years old, my school teacher forced me to put my left hand behind my back and masturbate him with my right hand.
As a result, I ran away from my home and ended up staying with my uncle. When my cousin asked me what happened, I showed him what my teacher had forced me into.
My uncle came into the room and saw what I was demonstrating. He was enraged.
Sent to a psychiatric hospital with no warning
After undergoing a psychiatric evaluation at North Hastings Hospital, a doctor determined I had schizophrenia.
To this day, I have never received treatment for schizophrenia nor any subsequent diagnosis of the kind.
No one told me where I was going or what would happen to me. That day, I was simply escorted by two large men in a vehicle to a rural compound.
The Lake Alice Hospital child and adolescent psychiatric facility in Manawatū-Whanganui would later be understood as New Zealand’s most horrifying center for torture.
When I arrived at Lake Alice, however, I never imagined the government would purposefully scar me for the rest of my life.
There were about 20 single-story concrete buildings and a couple of two-story structures surrounded by a farm inside a perimeter of fortified wall.
I was made to take off all my clothes when I arrived. They made me go through a bag of used clothes, pick out what was in my size, and wear them for the rest of my stay.
The other patients, who I’d come to know as prisoners, ranged in age from pre-teens to adults in their 90s.
While I was there, I shared the children’s ward with about 30 boys and 15 girls.
Failed escape and a life-altering punishment
The other boys told me stories about the routine electroconvulsive therapy at the facility, more commonly known as shock therapy.
I tried to escape as soon as I heard the stories. Grabbing my clothes and leaving the facility was easy enough, but even if I had escaped, it would have been hours before I would have seen a passing car in Lake Alice’s remote, rural area.
I was intercepted by staff in a car by the time I reached the gate. When they brought me back to the facility, I was put in a cell on the second floor of the dorms.
Three nurses held me down in a hospital chair while my limbs were strapped in. Dr. Selwyn Leeks, who ran Lake Alice, entered the room and began administering the punishment procedure.
A square box and instruments that looked like headphones were put on my legs and head. Currents of electricity were sent through my body, sending me convulsing in the bed.
The shock treatment made me lose control of my bowels and I urinated on Dr. Leeks.
The doctor then placed the headphone-looking instruments on my penis and ran electro currents directly through my most sensitive body part. I still have the scars.
That single act of electric violence was enough to scare me away from ever trying to escape again.
Attempted suicide after electrocution and rape
Unfortunately, the shock treatments continued anyway.
All of the patients could hear when one of us was being medically electrocuted because it was happening on the second floor of our dormitory.
We had regularly scheduled electroconvulsive therapy every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday on top of punishment for any matter of disobedience, like not talking during group therapy.
I was at Lake Alice for three months, meaning I would have been medically tortured with electrocution over 36 times.
The scheduled shock treatment would happen in a long room with all the patients, starting with the oldest and ending with the youngest.
I saw the nurses putting cloths over some of the patients’ bodies. I feared the rumors were true, that some patients died from electroconvulsive therapy and were buried in the vegetable garden.
A rejection letter from the Accident Compensation Corporation detailing that Malcolm Richards was not eligible for compensation because the scars on his penis from shock therapy were incurred at the Lake Alice psychiatric facility.
When they reached me and shot currents through my nervous system I would writhe in pain until I saw static and heard the sound of bacon frying. I passed out every time.
They’d put us in cells to recover after every session. One time I woke up to being raped.
I couldn’t tell who it was, but as I awoke with a throbbing headache, typical of the post-session hours, I could feel the rape happening.
It wasn’t until I’d come to and the rapist was gone that I actually realized what happened. I tried to kill myself using a bedsheet I tied to the emergency sprinkler on my bedroom ceiling as a noose.
A staff member came in and cut me down.
I ran away and told my story, but no one believed me
One of the more peculiar methods of punishment they had were injections of paraldehyde, which gave you searing internal pain within your muscles.
The chemical was designed for controlling violent patients, but it was administered to us for simply not immediately complying.
By the time the Christmas holidays came around, I was allowed to visit my family and the first chance I got, I ran away from home, this time for good.
Dr. Sewlyn Leeks ran the Lake Alice Child and Adolescent Unit from 1972 to 1978 before he moved to Melbourne, Australia upon the unit’s closure.
I lived under bridges for a while in the rural communities surrounding Hastings. Eventually, I started to get jobs on dairy farms, milking cows.
My permanent brain damage from the electrocurrent therapy makes it impossible for me to concentrate or take instructions. Milking cows, however, is repetitive enough work that I was able to earn a living.
I never made any friends and moved around a lot, always fearing I’d get found out and sent back to Lake Alice. My journeys took me from Maraetotara to well north of Auckland [a distance covering about 300 miles in New Zealand].
When I was 20-years-old I worked up the courage to report what happened to the police. I was shaking and sweating through my testimony. The police threatened me with arrest.
I would become accustomed to that kind of reaction from authorities at all levels in New Zealand, no matter how much evidence I provided.
Imprisoned and given shock therapy once more
For 24 years I lived in fear of being sent back. In 1999, I was 34-years-old and living in Auckland when I again tried to end my life.
The brain damage from the electrocurrent therapy and haunting memories of Lake Alice had become too much for me to handle.
I downed as much of my medication as I could fit in my hand. My landlady found me after I ingested a potentially lethal cocktail. She called the ambulance and I was rushed to the hospital.
A social worker found me shaking in fear at the hospital and asked me what I was afraid of. I told her I didn’t want to get sent back to Lake Alice, where I’d surely die from shock therapy.
The adolescent unit at Lake Alice had been closed since 1978, she told me, and the whole facility had closed earlier in 1999. A wave of relief washed over me.
I didn’t have to live in fear of being sent back to the place, which had continued to torment me with memories of electric convulsion. Sadly, the relief didn’t last long.
I was committed to the Auckland General Hospital psychiatric ward where I was again the subject of torture. The shock therapy techniques had softened by 1999.
I was given a series of muscle relaxers making me pass out before the medical team ran electric currents through my body.
You still get the brain damage and throbbing headaches following the treatment, but the dramatic pain and convulsing during the operation are hidden under sedation.
I was held there for three months and suffered shock therapy torture nine times.
My release was without cause or logic, I was simply put on the street after an arbitrary period of institutionalization.
Campaigning for change in psychiatric care
I tried moving on and forgetting my trauma, and for a while I did.
Receipt from the New Zealand federal government’s Human Rights Treaties Branch upon being served by the United Nations for a torture complaint lodged by Malcolm Richards.
In 2011, the memories and nightmares came roaring back to me, taking over my life the way they did in my darkest moments.
Getting acknowledgment for the abuse to change New Zealand law is fundamental to resolving my open mental wounds.
I’ve never reentered society since 1975.
I don’t have friends, I can’t make acquaintances, I’ve never been able to hold a steady job, and I can’t even follow a sports game because of my brain damage.
Mehnaz Sarwar, 35, is the founder of An-Nisa Taxi, an e-taxi app launched in 2018 that exclusively caters to women and children in Nairobi, Kenya.
Sarwar, a Muslim woman, had concerns about riding with a male driver and decided to develop a female-focused app.
She is a businesswoman in Nairobi and is creating safer transportation conditions while opening employment opportunities for women.
Background
In 2018, the Flone Initiative conducted a study on Violence against Women and Girls in Public Road Transportation and connected spaces in Nairobi County, Kenya in order to understand the prevalence of sexual assault on public transport.
According to the study, 73 per cent of the survey respondents had heard of or witnessed harassment of women and girls in public spaces. The most common forms of street harassment included the use of abusive language used by drivers and conductors, and inappropriate physical contact that includes unwanted touching and comments to female passengers.
This is a clear indication that the survivors of sexual harassment and assault either remain silent or rely on their own courage or resources to deal with the matter, and little is being done on the official side to curb the problem.
NAIROBI, Kenya — As a woman in Kenya, every time I called a taxi, I was uncomfortable. I was scared to be in a car with someone I didn’t know, especially if it was a male driver.
I always searched for a female driver and, over time, I realized this was a challenge faced by many women.
Moving from one place to another in Kenya’s city capital is like an extreme sport. If you are using public transportation, you have to be keen and watch out for groping fingers.
Sometimes drivers will hurl insults when you ask for your change back after paying for the fare.
You would think private cabs services are the safest solution, but as a woman getting into a cab with a male driver, who is a stranger, in the middle of the night, is a risk at best.
In Nairobi alone, cases of sexual harassment, kidnapping, and rape have been on the rise due to national insecurity.
My experiences and discomfort motivated me to start a taxi business. As a Muslim woman, I live in fear and I wanted to be driven by another woman, which is rare to find in Nairobi.
A search for safety leads to an innovative business
All considered, I saw a gap that needed to be filled. I decided to take a leap of faith and offer a transportation solution for women and vulnerable groups like children.
I took $10,000 from my previous business, which was a restaurant, added contributions from family, and launched a taxi company. In September 2019, I dubbed my taxi app An-Nisa which means “women” in Arabic.
I quickly realized the gap was bigger than I thought because, in the first week of service, I registered 100 women drivers and there were a thousand downloads of the app.
As I started this taxi business, my aim was to empower women cab drivers. The firm would only take a 10 per cent cut from each trip.
A majority of women feel much safer and more comfortable when driven by a fellow female.
Shrinking the gender gap in employment
The vision of this business is to change the narrative of having a low number of women in the employment sector.
As a female-owned company, I believe An-Nisa will go a long way in narrowing the gender gap by making women self-employed.
It is a source of empowerment for these women, who are mostly single mothers. It also creates a safer option for women who are not comfortable being driven by men, for religious reasons or for safety concerns.
Some people say our business may be discriminatory, as it only involves women and children.
However, I think it is not an issue of discrimination, but having women receive a share of the male-dominated taxi business.
While An-Nisa does offer a solution for transportation safety, the challenges that come with the business are alive and well.
Most customers first saw this as a hustle, but due to the safety and reliability we have offered over time, those customers stuck with us.
Muslim woman entrepreneur breaking boundaries
Being a female entrepreneur is not an easy venture and our businesses generally are not taken seriously. There are a lot of stereotypes in our society concerning women.
An-Nisa taxi service gives rides to women and children.
A few months into our business, we experienced technical challenges as the app became unstable. Now we work on a manual basis. In the digital era, this is a challenge. The customer is forced to call us so that we can connect her to the driver.
Then comes the setback of being a Muslim woman. I want to prove to people that, despite your religion or gender, you can achieve things and bring change to society.
In a world where peace of mind is not guaranteed, when you go about your business, take your kids to school, or head home after a night out, the An-Nisa taxi app brings safety and sanity to the transportation sector.
Afline Anyango is a coffin-maker in Nairobi, Kenya. She delved into the business despite the taboos attached to it in her community. She further defied the issues of gender that are attached to the business.
Her work as a coffin maker sustains her family. Before joining the business, she did laundry for a living and often experienced financial difficulties.
Background
The coffin-making business is a venture that is usually dominated by men. The business is also considered taboo to some communities in Africa because they see coffin makers as people who wish for more death.
According to one entrepreneur featured in Business Today, a small casket brings him 7,000-10,000 Kenyan shillings ($64-92 USD) and a large casket brings in 20,000-40,000 shillings ($185-370 USD).
In a good month, a busy, single entrepreneur can bring in around 100,000 shillings ($925 USD).
NAIROBI, Kenya — My community believes this business reflects my favor of death. People fear me.
I started working as a coffin maker close to a decade ago. I began as a trainee, helping dress coffins and affix handles, which is the final phase of the process.
I did so well, I decided to move into the business fully, even though I feared what people would think.
Despite the myths and perceptions, my husband supported and encouraged me. I thank God I found many other women here like me, and I have the moral support I need.
From doing laundry to building a business of my own
The money did not sustain my family and my husband’s salary was so small, he could not cater to all of our household needs. We had children in school and faced unavoidable expenses.
A friend told me about this job making coffins. I dismissed her, thinking she must be kidding me. She comes from the same community as me.
How could she think we could work as coffin makers? Our communities’ beliefs about death and anything around it are extremely polarized.
The next day she did not come to work doing laundry. She came in the evening, instead. She told me how things went on her first day as a coffin maker.
I joined her on the third day and here we are. We can comfortably pay our bills and life is no longer rough on us like it was before.
Facing superstition and stigma around the fear of death
This business has more challenges than any other business I know. You need a thick skin to survive here.
Readied coffins at Afline’s workshop awaiting buyers.
I don’t want my community to know about my work because they will automatically distance themselves from me. The Luo, which is my community, believes this business, working with the dead, reflects your favor of death.
Here in Nairobi, some of my neighbors who do know about my profession will not talk to me. They literally fear me because they believe I pray for death so I can make a sale. That is not the case. Death is present and will be forever; coffins will always be needed.
When I began, some people noticed because I was no longer washing clothes for a living. The news spread like hellfire all the way to our local church. On a Sunday morning, I walked into the church hall and sat on a bench. Everyone got up, leaving me to sit alone.
People started avoiding me, even though the offerings I made in church came from the coffins I sold. In my home village, they do not know. People already avoid me. I can’t afford to have my family’s village ostracize me as well.
In Luo-land, people see death as catastrophic; it takes good people away and creates a hole in the community.
When I was 15 years old, our neighbor lost a child. After the burial, the mother saw the coffin maker pass by as she was walking out of her home. She ran back inside screaming. She thought the man was there to deliver a bad omen upon her house.
More recently, a neighbor’s child told my son I make coffins for burying people. He told my son, “We should avoid your home.” I had the hardest time explaining the nature of my job to my son and had to confront my neighbor.
These experiences are embarrassing and dehumanizing.
The everyday life of coffin making
My business is located in a busy area where many people pass by. Working in Nairobi requires you to be aggressive in order to make sales. This is difficult for practitioners like me.
Sometimes, a person you thought was looking for a coffin was really just passing by. When you say something, it creates conflict.
When I started in the business, my trainer did not teach me how to identify a bereaved person. In my third year in the industry, a woman came and stood in front of the shop, facing away from it. I guess she did not know what I was selling. When I approached her, utilizing our sensitive sales script, she almost slapped me.
It took other shop attendants intervening to calm her down. They convinced her that she looked like a potential customer.
Challenges like this have made me good at studying people’s walking styles. I can tell when a person is bereaved now. I can calm them down, and then do business.
A job that made me brave and understand death
When I started this job, I was afraid like anyone else would be. I was afraid of handling coffins on a daily basis, but life demands you to be on your toes, to pay bills, and to support your children.
The fear faded away in time as I thought, “Would I rather be a beggar when I have all this physical and mental capability to work and earn a living?”
This work has helped me grow. I don’t fear death. I have come to learn death is a part of life, placed at the end of everything.
When I began, I feared coffins like other people. When I walked into the shop, all I could think of was death. In the early weeks, I had many nightmares. All of these situations made me brave. I can do things other people fear, like the time I had to rush a new coffin to the morgue because a client purchased the wrong size.
On my arrival at the morgue, I had to put on a pair of gloves, swap the body to the new coffin, and bring the old coffin back to the shop. At first, I thought the morgue attendants were kidding me when they asked me to lift the body.
When I attend funerals, even when it is a family member, I don’t cry. I understand that death is a necessary transition in human life.
People should regard coffin makers as humans, like any other. We are simply working in an industry that is different from their own.
Hope Virgo is an author and a multi award-winning, international, leading advocate for people with eating disorders.
Hope helps young people and employers (including schools, hospitals, and businesses) deal with the rising tide of mental health issues which affect one in four people and costs employers billions annually. She has been described by Richard Mitchell, CEO of Sherwood Forest Hospital, as “sharing a very powerful story with a huge impact.”
Hope is also a recognized media spokesperson, having appeared BBC Newsnight, Victoria Derbyshire, Good Morning Britain, Sky News, and BBC News.
For four years, Hope managed to keep it hidden; keeping dark secrets from friends and family. Then, on November 17, 2007, her world changed forever. She was admitted to a mental health hospital. Her skin was yellowing and her heart was failing. She was barely recognizable.
Forced to leave her family and friends, the hospital became her home. Over the next year, at her lowest ebb, Hope faced the biggest challenge of her life. She had to find the courage to beat her anorexia. Learn more about Hope’s work at Hope Virgo.
Find her on Instagram at “hopevirgo_” where she provides the most up-to-date communications. Hope’s books Stand Tall Little Girl and Hope Through Recovery: Your Guide to Moving Forward When in Recovery from an Eating Disorder are available on Amazon.
Background
The National Institute of Mental Health states that while many misconceive eating disorders to be a lifestyle choice, they are actually a serious, sometimes fatal, illness.
Types of EDs include anorexia nervosa, bulimia nervosa, and binge-eating disorder. They impact people of all demographics and backgrounds.
They are among the deadliest mental illnesses, second only to opioid overdose. ANAD estimates 10,200 death each year are a direct result of an eating disorder and 26 percent of people with EDs attempt suicide.
Less than 6 percent of sufferers are medically diagnosed as underweight. This illustrates the misconception about what people with EDs look like and often results in them not receiving the treatment and care they need.
A larger body size is common outcome for people struggling with bulimia or binge eating disorder. People with larger bodies are half as likely to be diagnosed as normal or underweight people.
LONDON, England — I developed anorexia when I was about 12 or 13-years-old. For me, it was something that had been brewing for quite a long time.
I grew up in a family where we had a lot of dysfunctional behaviors. I was also sexually abused as a child.
It started very slowly, restricting [food] here and there; and I upped all of my [long distance] running. The more I did [these unhealthy behaviors], the better I felt about things going on around me, and it numbed a lot of those emotions I didn’t want to feel.
In the evenings, lying in bed, I would listen to all the arguments going on downstairs. In those moments, I felt so low and so lonely; so stuck in my emotions.
My mind would always wander to the abuse and not feeling good enough. Because of the abuse and how I was treated, I felt there was something categorically wrong with me: no one stopped it from happening.
The eating disorder filled the gap and helped me feel like if I changed myself, something would shift. I was so taken over by the shame around [the abuse] that I started to detest myself; the eating disorder provided comfort in those moments.
I would have thoughts in my head that I’m not good enough or I’m not right the way I am. As soon as I felt any of those emotions, [my eating disorder] would immediately tell me to start thinking about food and calories and exercise.
I thrived off that and longed to do more of it. By that point, I had convinced myself that the more I listened to it, the better I would feel.
Reg flags lead to intervention
I didn’t think there was anything the matter with me at all. The school contacted my mom about my weight change.
I sat through that first appointment not wanting to say anything or disclose what was going on. The guy was trying to get stuff out of me. I put up this complete and utter wall.
I left the appointment and went home and researched eating disorders and anorexia. I was convinced I didn’t have anorexia because I had this image in my head of what someone with an eating disorder should be like and how they should behave. I thought they didn’t like food. I thought they never ate.
I am based in the United Kingdom and we have access to the National Health Service here. I was entered into NHS treatment to try and not only get me to accept that something was the matter but to start to get the support I needed.
Over the next six months, I was placed in outpatient treatment but nothing worked for me. I spent those six months still in denial. I was so convinced people were trying to take away this one thing in my life that made everything feel amazing.
After six months I was admitted to an inpatient hospital where I then spent the next year of my life in recovery learning a lot about food and exercise. The biggest thing for me was learning to talk about how I felt.
Discovering my distorted thinking
Although my body image and my feelings about my body didn’t cause my eating disorder, those thoughts and feelings got so wrapped up in things. By the time I was admitted to treatment my body image was distorted.
I remember sitting in the hospital on this Friday night, so fed up and unhappy about being there. I did this exercise with one of the nurses. I had to draw an outline of my body – a life-size version of myself. Then she drew this life-size tracing of my body from me lying on the same piece of paper.
It was then I realized there was something wrong with my brain because the way I viewed myself was so distorted. I remember on that Friday night, I was like, I’m just going to start eating a little bit. Then I can at least get out of the hospital and do exactly what I want to do.
The next year, I began to talk about, process, and understand things. A starting point was having that space to talk; realizing that I didn’t have to show people that I wasn’t okay through the food; that it was okay to feel things.
So often when you have an eating disorder, you forget that it is a coping mechanism for life; that it is serving a purpose in the short time. The more I started to unpack that and think about it, the more I was able to shift a lot of that thinking and get to a place where I was able to process in more of a healthy way.
If I wanted to have the life I wanted to have, I would need to reframe a lot of things. I used to make so many lists of reasons to get well, my motivations, and the positives of eating. It was like ammunition that things were going to be okay if I kept doing what I was doing.
Unhealthy behaviors return
For over half my life I have had an eating disorder. I developed it when I was 12 or 13. I am now 31. I have been in a state of recovery since I was 17.
I have had moments when I thought maybe I was fully recovered, then I relapsed in 2016 following the death of my grandmother. I had a bad visit with her in the care home before she passed away and found the whole thing quite traumatic.
I felt like I let her down and let my mom down because I hadn’t been around for her to offer that additional support. When she passed away, I was so determined to be strong for everyone else that I pretended I was fine all the time.
I could feel myself going back into those unhealthy behaviors but was loving the short-term validation it gave me. I kept convincing myself if I did what I was doing, at some point I could completely switch it off and I could go back to full-on recovery mode.
That’s not how eating disorders work. You can’t get up one day and have an eating disorder and the next day decide you don’t want it to be there anymore. What I was doing was dangerous, getting back into that mindset again.
After a couple of months of struggling, I went to the eating disorder services in South London where I lived and tried to get support but unfortunately, because I wasn’t underweight, there was nothing they could offer me. That was when things began to go downhill quickly.
The road from relapse back to recovery
I would get up in the mornings and feel so unhappy, so emotionally and physically exhausted, and so stuck in what I was doing. I would go to work and put on a face, pretending I was fine. I would get home in the evening and cry a lot, just really struggling with life.
Hope stands in front of “Number 10 Downing Street,” the official residence and executive office of the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, where she went to advocate for her #dumpthescales campaign. | Hope Virgo
I went back to my doctor and they put me on anti-depressants to lift my mood a little bit. They definitely helped. I went on medication for about four years but also went back to that structure around my eating and my routine. I sat with those uncomfortable feelings I didn’t want to feel.
Eating disorders are such competitive illnesses. You don’t feel validated in your illness. For me, that’s what hits a nerve a lot of the time. This voice in my head was telling me you’re not sick enough; you don’t deserve this support. It was difficult to work out what to do and how to manage.
I have made a lot of mistakes in my recovery. I do not know what the long-term effects of my eating disorder will be on my body, but I am now doing everything I can to shift things; to get to that space where I will be fully recovered.
I started journaling a lot; writing down all my feelings and emotions. Having that space, particularly in the evenings, to offload helped. I booked loads of nice things to do with my friends as a distraction, to create happy memories, and get out of my head.
Something that always helped in recovery was being able to travel. It is a massive motivator for me. I also learned to talk about things.
To others struggling
Over the last year and a half, I have stepped up my recovery and I’m pushing for this final phase. I work with a dietician. With her, it’s unpacking food beliefs and making sure the behaviors support the outcomes I want with my life.
Just after Christmas, I decided something I want to be able to do when I have children, is go for a last-minute pastry with the kids. Every Friday morning since Christmas, I’ve gone out for a pastry. At first, it was really difficult and I got upset about it. The more I did it, the easier it got and I gradually began to trust myself and shift the thinking in my head.
[To others struggling], I would first ask what the eating disorder behavior is doing for you. Take a little bit of a step back and ask yourself, “Do I want to spend the rest of my life feeling like I have to do this?”
Your feelings matter. Yes, life can be difficult at moments. What the eating disorder is doing for you and how it is making you feel is a short-term solution.
Try and think about what you can put into place whether that is going to therapy, talking to your doctor, telling a friend, or booking fun things to do. Start challenging the thinking.
So often with eating disorders, we get stuck. We label foods as good and bad. We are afraid of pushing things out. If you are in that situation now, stop for a moment and think. Yes, it feels like I’m scared of it. Yes, I’m worried about what this will do to my body.
That fear is so unfounded. If I work through that fear and those feelings around food, I’ll get to have the life I want and deserve. Don’t wait until you are at that so-called crisis point.
Advocacy work: a new purpose
Today, I work full-time doing mental health campaigning. I spend my life traveling all over the world, working with schools, corporations, hospitals, and the government in the UK.
Hope is joined by Wera Hobhouse, a British member of Parliament since 2017; Sean Fletcher, an American-British journalist and broadcaster; and her two friends Andrew Mitchell and Tatjana Trposka. Together they presented the #dumpthescales campaign to the Prime Minister. | Hope Virgo
I look predominately at issues around eating disorders and diagnosis but also more broadly at that whole spectrum of eating disorders, disordered eating, and mental health.
A huge part of my work is trying to get people to understand that eating disorders present in all different shapes and sizes. Just because you can’t see that someone is visibly struggling, it doesn’t mean they aren’t. I am trying to shine quite a big light on that so every single person, regardless of what they look like, can get the support they need.
I am in an ongoing state of recovery. I do believe every single person with an eating disorder can make a full recovery if they get the right support and the right interventions. I am still on the journey of hitting that marker.
Most recently I set up a steering group called the Hearts, Minds, and Genes Coalition where we are looking at bringing together the genetics, the nature side, the nurture side, and the heart, to try and marry up that eating disorders are a mental illness but present with physical outcomes.
I also have a campaign called Double the Scales to make sure people can access support and treatment regardless of their weight or body mass index. It is a UK petition but [this issue] affects people all over the world.
How to support someone with an eating disorder
I often reflect on the fact that I spent that year in the hospital and was extremely privileged that I got to have a space in treatment. Worldwide, we are seeing this massive influx of people struggling with eating disorders. The lack of care and support is just awful.
Remember, you do not need to fix that person. We don’t want to be fixed. We don’t want sympathy. We just want someone to walk alongside us and offer space to talk things through, if we need that distraction around mealtimes, or are feeling anxious. We want to feel heard and really understood.
I believe in direct conversations. We shy away from them because they are difficult or might upset someone. The more we bring these behaviors out into the open, the more people are likely to get that full freedom and start to recover.
So, have the direct conversation, offer support, distract them, be patient, don’t judge, and don’t just see the eating disorder when you look at them. Often it becomes someone’s whole identity which is just not right.
There is so much more to that person than just an eating disorder. Whether they are struggling, in recovery, or living with it and not realizing it, there is another side to them. We need to work to help them see that and love life again.
