I Am What I Am: Memoir Chronicles Life Of Sex Traffic Activist Sunitha Krishnan

I Am What I Am delves into the personal journey of Sunitha Krishnan, a tireless activist and child survivor of sexual assault. It highlights her unwavering determination to confront and combat sex trafficking in India. While chronicling the impact of her organization, Prajwala, the focus remains on Sunitha's struggles and resilience, making it a powerful testament to the strength of the human spirit and the ability of one individual to inspire significant change

Here's an excerpt from Sunitha Krishnan's memoir I Am What I Am

Any sexual assault is a traumatic event and leaves deep scars on the psyche of the survivor. The shame, the guilt, the feeling of being tainted, the self-loathing that it brings in its wake is universal. I was no exception.

I was fifteen when I was sexually assaulted.

It was in a village I’d gone to for a neo-literacy campaign. I’d been visiting this village for a year, interacting with the girls and motivating them to go back to school.

My persistence had borne results, and a handful of the girls I worked with managed to convince their parents to resume their schooling. I’d give them remedial classes to catch up with the syllabus. We’d become friends over time and discussed a variety of subjects, including menstrual hygiene and other intimate issues. Some of my ideas were rather ‘revolutionary’, I suppose. For instance, when I told them that I didn’t believe in physically isolating women during periods, they’d look at me with awe.

On these visits, I’d stay over on weekends to reduce the commute, then return home the following evening in time for school on Monday. My room was some distance from the classroom, and I’d usually cut across some fields to get there. It was usually late in the evening by the time class was over. I was used to the terrain, and the lack of light didn’t bother me. A torch was good enough to show me the way. Perhaps my experience camping as a Girl Guide had helped.

That night, I was walking back to my room after class. It was dark, no street lights around. I had the torch on. The beam caught a group of men coming towards me. I hadn’t even heard them. I focused the torch on them. There were about eight men approaching. Yet, they didn’t greet me or break their stride. While this wouldn’t have made me pause in the city, in the village, that was rather odd. I hesitated for a second, then made to move past.

Out of nowhere came a fist to my face. The blow knocked me to the ground. My screams were crushed under somebody’s palm. And then, nothing. I have no recollections, vague or detailed. No faces or other identifying features. Just random impressions—figures and body odours.

Hours later, when I gained consciousness, my clothes, the aches and bruises on my body told me what I had experienced.

When I managed to gather myself, I was filled with anger. Righteous rage. I wanted to fight. The villagers I went to, mostly women, pointed out quietly, ‘What has happened has happened. What good could come of making a scene?’ They thought it was best to hush up the incident and urged me to return to the city. But I disagreed. I thought, why should I be ashamed? It is the creatures who violated me who should hesitate to show their faces.

I met the panchayat, mostly men. Their response was even more humiliating. I got what I deserved, they told me. It was all my fault. I had been swaying the girls and giving them bad ideas. I am not sure what triggered their anger or animosity towards me, but I guess it had been building for some time. Mine was a good lesson to learn from, a warning for those who were a bad influence, they said.

They were treating me as if I was the criminal. I was enraged. 

I have no idea how I got home; I was on autopilot by then. My family took the news in complete silence. My parents did not question me, but I could sense their shock and pain. There was no way they would report the incident to the police, and I was not interested in being berated and humiliated once again. Over the next few days, my father held a gentle silence that gave me space, helped me get back to my routine. The rest of the family followed his lead.

Excerpted with permission from I Am What I Am: A Memoir by Sunitha Krishnan, published by Westland Books.