By Getiye Yalew
As a war correspondent on the front lines in Ethiopia’s Amhara province, I witnessed the devastating consequences of war for civilians. I remember drone strikes against Amhara civilians and the explosions that remain deeply etched in my memory. I remember a family whose home was suddenly transformed into a battlefield position. I remember an elderly, sick man struggling to survive as gunfire erupted around his bed. I witnessed monasteries being struck by heavy artillery and monks facing gunfire while praying to God, risking and in some cases sacrificing their lives.
But among all the suffering I witnessed, one group of victims remains especially difficult to forget: survivors of rape who are left to endure not only the trauma of sexual violence but also social stigma, isolation, and rejection.
Among many more others, more than a year later, one woman’s story remains with me.
“I Deserve to Die”: A Rape Survivor’s Struggle Against Stigma in Wartime Amhara
More than a year ago, I sat face-to-face with a woman in Bergibi town, in Ethiopia’s Amhara province. She told me that she had been raped by a member of the Ethiopian regime’s security forces.
Still the area is affected by armed conflict between the Ethiopian National Defense Force (ENDF) and FANO, an Amhara armed self-defense movement.
For her protection, I will call her Meskel-Kibra. This is not her real name.
I introduced myself as a journalist and asked whether she would be willing to speak about her experience. Initially, she refused. She appeared deeply distressed and ashamed, and she did not want what had happened to her to become public. She wanted to keep her experience private.
I explained that responsibility for rape lies with the perpetrator, never with the survivor. I also told her that, if she felt comfortable sharing her story, it could help draw attention to sexual violence in conflict-affected communities and contribute to efforts to prevent further abuses.
I promised to conceal her face in the footage and use a pseudonym. After our conversation, she agreed to be interviewed, and we began recording.
Looking back, I recognize that protecting a survivor requires more than concealing her face and changing her name. It requires respecting her autonomy, ensuring that she understands the potential risks of publication, and allowing her to decide what she feels comfortable sharing. Agreeing to an interview should never be interpreted as an obligation to disclose every detail of an experience that may be deeply painful.
“They Were Defense Force Soldiers”
My first question was direct: “Who raped you?”
“I don’t know their names,” she replied. “But they were among the government forces. They were defense force soldiers.”
She then recounted the events leading up to the assault.
“After an exchange of gunfire with FANO, the government forces took control of the town. Many civilians fled, and I fled too. A few minutes later, I realized that my chickens were outside the house, so I returned to look after them.
“While I was attending to my chickens, two defense force soldiers entered my home and ordered me to prepare food for them. I gave them food. After eating, they left.
“But one of the soldiers came back. He aggressively ordered me to take off my clothes. I refused. He pointed a gun at me and threatened to shoot me. He was also playing with a hand grenade as if it were a ball.
“I was terrified. He pulled down my underwear and raped me. After that, I cannot remember what happened. I lost consciousness. When I woke up, I found myself surrounded by people.”
Her account was deeply disturbing. She identified the alleged perpetrator as a member of the government forces but said she did not know his name.
Her testimony documents her personal experience and the allegations she made. Establishing the perpetrator’s identity, military affiliation, and whether the assault was part of a wider pattern of abuse would require additional corroboration and independent investigation.
Yet beyond the details of the assault, another part of her story would prove equally devastating: what happened to her after she survived it.
The Violence That Continued After the Assault
The rape did not mark the end of Meskel-Kibra’s suffering.
She described becoming increasingly isolated from her community. According to her account, gossip about the assault and the stigma attached to sexual violence severely affected her psychological well-being.
Eventually, she attempted suicide by swallowing rat poison. Her family intervened and obtained emergency medical treatment. She survived.
But survival did not mean that her suffering was over.
When I asked how she had been coping and why she had attempted to take her own life, she spoke about social stigma, economic hardship, and her growing loss of hope.
“It is a taboo. I have lost my dignity. Life without dignity is meaningless. After what happened to me, no one will marry me.
“I own a small restaurant, but these days I have lost my customers. People in the village are talking about my rape and speculating that I may have contracted HIV/AIDS. As a result, customers have stopped coming to my restaurant.
“I have been completely isolated from society. I tried to move somewhere far away from Bergibi, where I could start a new life, but I cannot afford to pay rent.
“So why should I continue living? I deserve to die.”
Her words revealed how the consequences of sexual violence can extend far beyond the assault itself. In her account, the fear of rejection, rumours about her health, the loss of customers, and the inability to afford relocation had become interconnected sources of suffering.
The rumours about HIV/AIDS were community speculation, not a confirmed medical diagnosis. Nevertheless, their reported consequences were tangible: she said customers had stopped visiting her restaurant and that she felt excluded from the community.
Her testimony also exposed a deeply damaging social belief: that rape diminishes a woman’s dignity or makes her unworthy of marriage.
The shame she described was not evidence of wrongdoing on her part. Rather, it reflected the burden imposed on her by the stigma surrounding sexual violence.
She had survived the assault, but she felt that she was being punished for it.
When Survivors Are Punished Twice
Meskel-Kibra’s account raises questions that extend beyond the circumstances of the alleged assault. It draws attention to the treatment of survivors in communities affected by armed conflict.
When survivors fear rejection, gossip, or economic punishment, they may be reluctant to report sexual violence or seek help. Their silence can make it harder to document abuses, provide appropriate support, and hold perpetrators accountable.
Her experience illustrates why responses to sexual violence must extend beyond investigating the initial crime. Survivors may also need confidential medical care, psychological support, protection from retaliation, economic assistance, and acceptance within their communities.
The allegations described in this testimony warrant impartial investigation. Any such investigation must priorities the survivor’s safety, dignity, informed consent, and right to privacy.
Communities, too, have a responsibility. They must not compound survivors’ suffering through discrimination, unfounded medical rumours, or social exclusion.
Rape is a violation committed against a person. It should never become a reason to deny that person a livelihood, a future, or a place in society.
Her Dignity Was Never Lost
When Meskel-Kibra told me that she had lost her dignity, I heard the voice of a woman who felt abandoned by the society around her. She believed that the assault had taken away her future, her livelihood, and her prospects of marriage.
But rape does not take away a survivor’s dignity. The responsibility belongs to the perpetrator, and the shame should never be placed on the person who endured the violence.
Her words, “I deserve to die,” remain among the most painful parts of her testimony. They revealed the depth of the despair she described at the time of our interview. They must never be mistaken for a measure of her worth.
Meskel-Kibra deserved safety, medical care, justice, and the opportunity to rebuild her life without fear of humiliation or rejection.
Her story is one survivor’s account. On its own, it cannot establish the scale or prevalence of sexual violence across the Amhara province. But it raises urgent questions about the protection of civilians during armed conflict, the accountability of alleged perpetrators, and the treatment of survivors after violence has occurred.
No survivor should have to choose between keeping an assault secret and risking social exclusion by speaking about it. No survivor should be made to feel that death is preferable to living with what someone else has done to them.
The Question That Still Haunts Me
Today, I do not know what has happened to Meskel-Kibra.
Is she still enduring the same stigma and isolation? Has she found the support she needed to rebuild her life? Has her situation improved? Is she safe? Has she suffered further violence? I have no answers to these questions.
The war has continued in the region where I met her. I have since fled my home country and am living in exile. The distance between us has grown, but the memory of our conversation has never left me.
I still remember the woman who told me that she had lost her dignity. I remember her words about her restaurant, the customers who stopped coming, the rumours that spread through her community, and her inability to afford a fresh start somewhere else.
Above all, I remember the words she spoke at the end of her account: “I deserve to die.”
I wish I knew whether she has since found reasons to hope again.
As a journalist, I have witnessed the destruction of homes, the terror of gunfire, the suffering of civilians, and the devastation of war. I have reported from the front lines, and I have experienced the fear of being caught in the violence myself. Eventually, I had to flee Ethiopia.
But leaving the country has not meant leaving its suffering behind.
I continue to think about Meskel-Kibra and the many other ethnic Amhara civilians whose experiences of violence, loss, and displacement may never be fully documented. I think about those who are still living in conflict zones, those who have lost their livelihoods, and those who must endure the additional burden of stigma after surviving sexual violence.
I cannot tell you whether Meskel-Kibra is better today. I cannot tell you whether she is safe, whether she has found acceptance, or whether she has been able to rebuild her life.
What I can tell you is that I have not forgotten her.
The war may force a journalist to leave the front line, but it does not erase the memories of the people left behind.
And some stories are impossible to forget not because they are easy to tell, but because the people who lived them deserve to be remembered, protected, and treated with dignity.
Getiye Yalew
getiye.yalew12@protonmail.com
