When I was under ten, my best friend and I had a neighbor—a man who, by all appearances, was friendly, harmless, and respected in our small community. He always grew flowers in his garden, harvesting them and letting us take what we wanted. We took them home to our moms, and they decorated our dinner table. But behind his kind demeanor lurked something much darker.

One day, he kindly invited us – two little girls – to come into his basement. His gesture exuded genuine kindness and generosity, adding an extra adornment to his offer.

“Anytime you want, you can use my shower,” he said with a smile. He told us about a calendar of nude women hanging on the wall as if that would somehow entice us. We were just kids. Why would we care about naked women? But that wasn’t the point, was it? His invitation wasn’t innocent. It was bait, and he ensured we knew the basement door would permanently be unlocked, “just in case.”

What if we had gone inside? What would have happened? As children, we were innocent and trusting, naturally inclined to believe in others. However, this man was no ordinary stranger. Our family held a special place for him as a dear friend and respected elder, someone our parents taught us to admire deeply. Our parents had taught us the importance of respecting adults, being courteous, and following their instructions unquestioningly. Unfortunately, no one had prepared us for the possibility that danger could sometimes exist within the confines of our neighborhood, embodied by someone familiar, someone who greeted us with a warm and friendly smile.

It wasn’t just him. Something strange was happening in the garages and basements of boys our age—or older brothers of my friends. They always had a reason to get us to walk by a garage door left open, a casual wave, an excuse to come inside. But once we stepped in, the tone shifted. They’d try to corral us deeper into the space, behind cars or corners where no one could see. I didn’t fully understand what they were after—I knew I had to escape before it was too late.

We were so young, so ignorant. Sex wasn’t something we knew anything about, and our parents didn’t talk about it—not even to warn us. Their idea of protecting us was silence. In our Christian community, the answer to everything was abstinence. No one talked about boundaries or consent, and that left us defenseless against boys whose hormones were raging, driven by urges they couldn’t control.

When we became teens, three of my best friends became unwed mothers. If only someone had provided us with adequate education, we could have prevented their pregnancies. Unfortunately, adults responded with shame, embarrassment, and silence.

Those pregnancies stole their childhoods, forcing them into adulthood long before they were ready. And the burden didn’t stop there. Often, their mothers—the grandmothers—ended up raising the children. These grandmothers, who had hoped for a chance to live their own lives, found themselves tied down for another 10 or 20 years. I saw how the exhaustion bred resentment.

And the young mothers, struggling to make ends meet, never earned enough to support their children properly. It was a cycle of hardship passed down from one generation to the next. Our society could have avoided so much of that pain if it had been more honest, educated, and willing to face these uncomfortable truths.

The men in our neighborhood seemed to have intense desires, as if they expected us to fulfill some kind of need for them. It was as if they saw us as mere objects, something to be used to ease their inner turmoil. I can still vividly recall the unpleasant sensation of their hands and the way they attempted to seize me. One of my relatives would grab me and try to kiss me. I always squirmed out of his grip and ran away. His behavior disgusted me and made me wonder why no one had stopped him.

Even though I didn’t fully understand its reasons, I felt I needed to escape. I had to make my getaway before they could achieve their desires. Being so young, I didn’t grasp the concept of procreation and how it led to the creation of babies. All I knew was that I had to run.

When I finally learned what sex was, I felt lucky—lucky that I had made it through with my choice still intact. When I fell in love, I gave my virginity to someone I cared about. It was my decision, and that mattered. But not all of my friends were as fortunate. From that time onwards, I knew that a few of them had fallen into traps from which they couldn’t break free, compelled to face hardships that no child should ever experience. And the worst part was, we had no words for what happened to them—no way to speak the truth out loud.

There was something even darker lurking in the shadows of those years. Child pornography was present, even during the innocent 1950s and 1960s. I heard rumors about our neighborhood children coerced by the adults into participating in same-sex acts, which were then recorded and shared. The Lord knows the location of those films only. Years later, I discovered that the authorities had arrested one of my family members for transporting a truck loaded with pornography. When I heard about it, I felt ashamed and embarrassed. Why was that? I wasn’t the one doing these heinous acts.

 Even to this day, I am unaware of the complete narrative, as those specific details remain concealed beneath layers of shame and secrecy. They conveniently brushed aside these matters and never discussed them again.

But I mention all this because it’s still happening sixty years later! The abuse, the manipulation, the exploitation—it didn’t disappear. It just found alternative forms and alternative places to hide. Some people want to dismiss these stories as conspiracy theories, but I know better. In my middle-American, Leave it to Beaver childhood, the real danger wasn’t strangers in dark alleys. It was the people we knew—our neighbors, our relatives.

That’s what made it so insidious. The predators weren’t monsters lurking in shadows—they were people we were supposed to trust. They smiled at us from across the dinner table, waved at us from their lawns, and patted us on the back at church. We weren’t afraid of them—until it was too late to be scared.

The hardest part is knowing that many stories like mine never saw the light of day. They stayed buried in silence, rotting in the dark. But silence doesn’t protect anyone—it only allows the sickness to grow. If we want to heal, we have to start with the truth. We have to tell our stories, even when it’s hard, especially when it’s hard.

Maybe, if we speak openly, the next generation won’t have to rely on luck to keep their innocence intact. Perhaps they’ll grow up knowing they’re worthy and may say no. Speaking openly enables us to create a safer world for children by safeguarding their innocence and preventing silence from being misconstrued as protection.