The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the village as night crept in. I stood on the edge of our small compound, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and the distant sounds of evening chatter. I could hear my mother’s voice calling me for dinner, but I lingered, lost in my thoughts. 

My name is Amina, and I am not just a survivor. I have lived through horrors that would haunt anyone for a lifetime. I was twelve when the men came, their faces obscured by masks, their intentions clear. They took everything from me that night, leaving only a husk of who I once was. I had survived, but I was not whole.

In the months that followed, whispers followed me like shadows. “Amina, the girl who was taken.” They didn’t see me as I was; they saw only my trauma. I retreated into myself, my laughter fading into silence. I watched the world from a distance, a spectator in my own life, as friends and neighbors went about their daily routines, blissfully unaware of the darkness that lurked just beneath the surface.

I had learned to navigate the world with caution. I wore long sleeves to hide the scars that marred my skin, remnants of a struggle that felt like a lifetime ago. I attended school, but my heart was never in it. I excelled in my studies, but the accolades felt hollow. I was just a ghost, drifting through the motions of life.

Yet, there were moments of light. I found solace in the stories my grandmother told me, tales of brave women who defied the odds and stood tall against adversity. She would sit by the fire, her voice a soothing balm, and I would close my eyes, imagining myself as one of those heroines. I wanted to be more than a survivor; I wanted to be a warrior. 

But the weight of my past pressed heavily on my shoulders, and as the years went by, the darkness began to seep into my soul. I watched as other girls in the village flourished, finding love and joy, while I remained trapped in a cycle of pain. I felt like a pariah, an outcast in my own skin.

Then came the day that changed everything. I was walking home from school when I saw them—two men standing by the roadside, their eyes glinting with malice. They called out to me, their laughter echoing in the stillness. I froze, my heart racing as panic clawed at my throat. I turned to run, but they were faster. They grabbed me, dragging me into the shadows.

As I fought against them, memories flooded my mind—the night of my assault, the helplessness, the despair. But this time, I was not the same girl. I had been molded by my experiences, forged in fire. I screamed, I kicked, and I clawed at their faces, fighting with a ferocity I didn’t know I possessed. 

In the chaos, I managed to break free, stumbling into the open, gasping for breath. I ran until my legs burned, until I collapsed in front of my house, sobbing. I had survived again, but at what cost? The fear that had once been a distant memory now loomed larger than ever.

Days turned into weeks, and I found myself spiraling deeper into despair. I was haunted by the thought that I could never escape my past. I was not just a survivor; I was a prisoner of my memories. The village became a cage, and I felt the walls closing in around me.

I sought help, speaking to elders and counselors, but their words felt like empty platitudes. “You are strong, Amina. You will overcome.” But I was tired of being strong. I was exhausted from the fight. The idea of being a warrior felt like a cruel joke, a burden I could no longer bear.

One fateful evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon once more, I made my decision. I sat in my room, surrounded by the silence that had become my companion. I penned a letter to my family, my friends, and the village. I wanted them to know that I had tried, that I had fought with every ounce of strength I had left.

As I placed the letter on my bed, I felt a strange sense of calm wash over me. I was ready to escape the pain, to finally find peace. I stepped outside, the cool night air wrapping around me like a shroud. I walked to the edge of the river, the water glistening under the moonlight, and took a deep breath.

In that moment, I realized that I was not just a survivor; I was a soul seeking liberation. And as I took the final step into the unknown, I felt the weight of the world lift from my shoulders, leaving behind only the echoes of a life that had fought so hard to be free.

( To anyone who needs someone to talk to, about anything…… Let us reduce cases of Suicide among the youth)