#C11109

Chapter1: I was the middle child in a family of five siblings: two elder sisters, an elder brother, and a younger brother. Each of us carried our own scars, but mine always felt uniquely heavy. My mother ruled our home with anger and unpredictability. She had a sharp temper that lashed out at anyone who crossed her path, and more often than not, her fury found its way to me.

From as early as I can remember, my mother’s hands were not ones that comforted or nurtured. They were hands that hit, grabbed, and punished. She would strike with whatever she could find—a broom, a slipper, or her bare hands. There was no mercy in her blows. One day, I accidentally stepped on my brother’s notebook. It was a small mistake, but in her eyes, it was unforgivable. She grabbed a broom and swung it at my head with so much force that it broke. I still remember the sound of the broom snapping and the pain that followed.

I didn’t just endure physical pain; my body betrayed me in other ways. I suffered from seizures, episodes that came without warning, leaving me vulnerable and helpless. My seizures were often triggered by stress, exhaustion, or physical pain, but they never stopped my mother’s rage. Even when I collapsed, trembling and gasping for air, she would scold me for being weak. Despite the severity of my condition, I was never taken to a doctor. I lived without medication, and as the years passed, my seizures became more frequent and more severe.

The neglect extended to every aspect of my life. I was growing up, my body changing, but there was no guidance, no care. When I got my first period, my mother handed me a pack of cheap sanitary pads and said nothing. Ten pads to last through a cycle that stretched 7 to 10 days. When they ran out, I had to make do with whatever I could find—cloth, old rags, or sometimes nothing at all. The shame and discomfort were unbearable, but there was no one to turn to.

I watched as my classmates grew into young women, their appearances neat and polished. They wore bras, styled their hair, and came to school in crisp uniforms. Meanwhile, I wore hand-me-downs and went without a bra, even though I desperately needed one. My elder sister finally convinced my mother to do something about it, and she sent her brother to buy me my first bra. It didn’t fit well, but it was all I had, and it would be the only one my mother ever gave me.

At school, I tried to be invisible. I was embarrassed by my unkempt hair, my wrinkled uniform, and the whispers of my peers. Despite this, I excelled in my studies. I was always at the top of my class, winning awards and recognition from my teachers. I thought that if I worked hard enough, if I became the best, my mother might see me differently. Maybe she would finally love me. But no matter how much I achieved, it was never enough.

One memory from school still haunts me. My social studies teacher had given birth, and our class decided to visit her with gifts. Everyone brought something—a toy, baby clothes, or a wrapped gift. I asked my mother for money to buy a gift, and she gave me five rufiyaa. With that, all I could afford was a bottle of water. Embarrassed, I went to my grandmother, who gave me 50 rufiyaa. I bought a small pack of sweets for the baby and went to the teacher’s house, hoping it would be enough. When I arrived, I saw my classmates with their parents, carrying beautiful, expensive gifts. I stood there alone, holding my little bag of sweets, feeling small and out of place. That day, my grandmother called my father to demand the 50 rufiyaa back. I was humiliated all over again.

At home, loneliness was my constant companion. My elder sisters left as soon as they could, each escaping in their own way—through fights with lovers, through drugs, through anything that took them away from the suffocating walls of our home. My brothers had their own struggles, but I was too young to understand them fully. Left behind, I spent most of my days in silence, trying to stay out of my mother’s way.

There were other shadows in my childhood, memories I’ve buried deep but can never truly forget. When I was in kindergarten, my elder sister abused me. She took me to a secluded place, stripped me of my clothes, and did things I didn’t understand. At the time, I thought it was a game, something innocent. But as I grew older, I realized the weight of what had happened. She likely believes I don’t remember, but I do. I’ve never spoken about it, never confronted her, but the memory lingers, a silent wound that never heals.

Even the smallest mistakes at home could lead to violence. Once, my eldest sister placed her baby on my back while I was sleeping. I shifted in my sleep, and the baby fell. The baby cried, and my mother and sister stormed into my room. They didn’t check if the baby was hurt. Instead, they climbed onto my back and began hitting me, punching and scratching until I could barely move. When they finally left, I stayed in my room, too hurt and humiliated to come out.

For years, I endured this life, dreaming of escape. I told myself that if I could just finish school, I could leave the island and never look back. Malé became my beacon of hope, a distant place where I could start over, where I could build a life free from the pain and neglect of my childhood.

This was the beginning of my journey—a journey born not out of ambition, but out of desperation. I didn’t just want to leave the island; I needed to leave it. It was the only way I could survive.