When Ruqayyah* (24) was 9, she thought her only worry was doing her homework on time and praying 5 times a day. That was until a trusted teacher did something that shattered her sense of safety, forcing her to confront fear, silence, and the courage to speak up. 

This is Ruqayyah’s story as told to Sofiyah. 

TW: Sexual Abuse 

As a child, I only ever knew what it meant to be Muslim. I was born into a deeply religious home to a father who lives and breathes Islam. Having a parent obsessed with ensuring his children followed every doctrine heavily defined my childhood. 

Growing up, my father made sure we were surrounded by Muslims and Muslims only. Our landlord was a muslim who only took Muslim tenants, and he built a community mosque that everyone in our neighbourhood attended. I started attending Islamic camps before I even knew how to spell my name. The majority of my childhood friends were Muslim, and most of us attended the same muslim primary school, which was recommended to our parents as the best in the area. 

Whenever I mention primary school, I feel conflicted. While I have great childhood memories from there, it was also the place where I was sexually harassed at the age of 9 by my class teacher. 

My class teacher, Mr Faheem*, was loved by everyone. The students, the teachers, the headmistress, and even the board of directors absolutely loved him. He presented himself in a way that made everyone feel they could trust him, so it made sense that I never minded staying in an empty classroom with him after school. I thought I was safe with him. 

The day it happened started like any other day. Everyone had gone home, my okada rider was late as usual, and Mr Faheem was giving after-class lessons to a boy in nursery school. While teaching the boy, he asked me to help him wash his lunch box in the ablution area. It was the first time he’d asked, but at that age, I was a people-pleaser, so I didn’t mind. I was trying to wash the plate, wondering how to remove the oily residue without detergent, when I felt a presence behind me.

When an arm wrapped around my waist, I jumped, dropping the lunch box I was washing, and when I turned to see Mr Faheem, my heart started racing as if  I were being hunted for sport. I was so scared. My mother’s version of sex education had been ‘Don’t let any man touch you, or your dad will send you out of his house.’ As Mr Faheem’s hand started to fondle my breasts and his lips brushed against mine, all I could think was ‘My dad is going to kill me’. 

When I finally regained my voice and managed to push him away, I told him, with the naivety of a 9-year-old, that my mum wouldn’t appreciate me being touched. He laughed in my face. He told me that what my mum didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. I think he would have done much more if I hadn’t heard a classmate yelling my name from outside. He’d left the playground to let me know my okada rider was around. It felt like a divine intervention, and I didn’t even think twice before packing my bags and leaving. 

The day it happened, I couldn’t sleep. The scene replayed over and over in my head. I wanted to talk to my mum and cry in her arms because of how violated I felt, but then I remembered what she said about my dad kicking me out. I decided it was better to keep quiet. I thought of talking to the headmistress,  but I remembered a time I got a knock on the head by a teacher just for playing Tinko Tinko with a male classmate. If even minuscule contact with a boy was a crime, how could I tell them about a teacher touching me? What if they blamed me? 

I knew I had to talk to someone before I burst. The next day, during morning assembly, I gathered three of my closest friends and bluntly asked them if Mr Faheem had ever touched them inappropriately. Immediately, two of them looked so relieved. They started talking about their experiences. We realised he had a pattern. He targeted the girls who were experiencing maturity faster. All three of us were already growing breasts faster than the rest of the girls in our class. 

After we shared our stories, my third friend and seat partner, Maimunah*, the only one among us whom Mr Faheem hadn’t harassed, simply asked, “When are you going to tell your mummy?” None of us had an answer. 

We were all scared of being dismissed by our parents or the school. Instead of telling Maimunah, I lied and promised I would speak to my mum the moment I got back home. 

As the days passed and Mr Faheem was still our teacher, Maimunah would look at me with narrowed eyes, asking over and over when I would tell my mum. I gave her every excuse I could think of, hoping she’d stop, but she was like a dog with a bone. She didn’t give up. 

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Maimunah was only a year older than me, but she took up the role of a protective elder sister.  If she so much as saw me interacting with Mr Faheem, she’d ask me why I was talking to him despite what he’d done. She made sure I was never alone with him. Whenever he was in my vicinity, she gave him the nastiest glare ever known to man and refused to interact in his classes. It was surreal because, before the incident, Maimunah had adored him just like everyone else. 

For three weeks, I kept giving excuses. Finally, as second-term exams approached, she sat me down. She told me that if I didn’t tell my mum, she would tell someone in authority herself. She wasn’t comfortable with him being our teacher anymore. Knowing how serious she was, I knew it was finally time. 

The evening I told my mum was nerve-wracking. My body shook, and I could barely form words. My mum was worried but patient. She locked the door so we wouldn’t be interrupted and assured me I could take my time with my words. When I finally found my words, she listened. When I finished, she hugged me and told me it wasn’t my fault. 

Afterwards, she told my dad what happened, then grabbed her phone and called the headmistress, even though it was pretty late at night. That night was the first time I saw my mother truly angry. She raised her voice, demanding to know what kind of teachers they were employing. She told my headmistress everything and also gave her the names of my two friends who had also been harassed. 

The headmistress assured her it would be resolved. The next day, a disciplinary committee was formed. They gathered the three of us in an office while Mr Faheem was present. 

Our headmistress knew it was important that we stuck together; having us all there made it easier to talk. Mr Faheem did his best to gaslight the board by saying we were lying, but we stood our ground. He didn’t have a chance because, for once, the adults believed us. 

By the next day, he was packing his belongings. The following week, we had a substitute teacher. Knowing I didn’t have to see Mr Faheem again made me breathe for the first time in weeks. Maimunah celebrated by buying us frozen Bobo drinks and plantain chips. It’s a memory I keep close to my chest. 

Maimunah and I haven’t spoken since graduation, but she completely changed the trajectory of my life. Before her, I felt I had to keep quiet about uncomfortable situations because my father’s strictness had crippled my voice. After she stepped in, I began to speak out more. I realised I didn’t have to accept or endure horrible things just because I was scared to speak up. 

Mr Faheem was the first man to harass me, but he wasn’t the last. Over the years, I’ve encountered many men who think they deserve access to a woman’s body. But thanks to Maimunah, I know I don’t have to keep quiet about their actions towards other girls or me.

I have stepped on some important toes for loudly calling out the men whose hands wander to bodies that didn’t invite them to touch, but I don’t really care. My male lecturers may detest me for calling out their micro-aggressions and sexual harassment. I’m not a fan of them either.

Whenever I think of Maimunah, I feel ​​really grateful for her. She could have decided it wasn’t her business, but she took it upon herself to make sure I spoke up. Every time I remember she was just a child herself, it makes me want to do better for the girls and women who don’t have a Maimunah in their corner to tell them that the world won’t end if they speak up against their abusers.

If you or anyone you know has experienced harassment and abuse, please know that you are not alone. Consider reaching out to someone you trust or a support organisation like Stand To End Rape Initiative. 

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