My Doctor was my Rapist

I was pregnant, and I was so excited—full of hope and anticipation. Then, there was the attempted carjacking. The fear, the adrenaline, the helplessness— the AK-47 held to my head. Later, I would wonder if that stress was what caused me to miscarry.

He was a missionary.

I didn’t know him.

That day, I was vulnerable. Weak. I had just found out the baby I was carrying had died. My world was already crumbling.

He asked me to come back early—before the clinic even opened.

I still don’t understand why.

The day before, the room had been full—at least four other adults.

But this time, it was just him.

Why so different?

He stayed in the room while I undressed.

He didn’t look away.

He didn’t leave.

Everything inside me was screaming that something wasn’t right.

But I kept telling myself:

He’s a doctor.

He’s a missionary.

He’s a Christian.

He’s here to spread the gospel.

Of course I can trust him... right?

But when I started asking questions, something changed.

He got angry.

Why would a doctor get angry just because I had questions?

I was already broken—bleeding, grieving, and miscarrying.

I didn’t want to be there.

I didn’t want any of it.

I said no. I argued. I protested.

It didn’t matter.

He was over six feet tall.

I was barely half his weight.

It was supposed to be a medical procedure.

But it didn’t stay that way.

He held me down.

He sexually assaulted me. Raped me.

Touching me in ways that had nothing to do with medicine.

Unnecessary. Violating.

Making it painfully clear—this wasn’t about care.

It hurt.

Not just physically.

It hurt in the way he did it—angry. Harsh.

There was no dignity. No robe. No covering.

Just pain.

And shame.

It felt like punishment.

Like he wanted to hurt me.

At first, I froze.

Then I cried.

I sobbed.

He walked out. Cold. Detached.

Like I was nothing.

And the only thing he said—like some final blow—was:

"That’s why you should use birth control."

I scrambled to put my clothes back on. I remember running—half walking, half stumbling—back to the guest house from the clinic, my whole body trembling. I could barely breathe. Shock had taken over. I almost never cry in public. I try not to ever lose control. But I was shaking, crying, unraveling. I could feel people’s eyes on me, but I couldn't stop. I had no words yet, only panic

I didn’t want to believe it had really happened. I knew that picking up would possibly cause us to lose everything: our home, our jobs, our community. This was the only home my sons and daughter had ever known. I did tell my husband that day. But I kept trying to convince myself it didn't happen. I didn't want it to have happened.

We had moved to this country to serve, to share the gospel. Our supporters had been funding that mission for years. How could I face them? How could I explain this? We couldn’t just pack up and leave. And even if we did, what would I tell everyone?

Not one person in leadership asked me if I was okay. Not one person in leadership asked me what had taken place. It was clear to dozens of people that whatever happened in that room had traumatized me to the point where I could barely speak. I changed that day.

The leadership knew there was an accusation, but they chose not to look into it at all.

The only question leadership directly asked me was 2 years later when I was asked if I'd forgiven this man. They knew that something terrible had happened.

This mission— they weren’t just coworkers. They were our church, our community, our friends, our employers, and even our landlords. They were our entire support system. They had made themselves everything: the government, the medical care, the police, the investigators. And they held all the power.

So I made a choice.

I said what they wanted me to say. They wanted me to apologize and say that nothing had happened. So I did. It was clear to me that I would be going home if I chose to stand up for myself. There is so much to this part of the story, but I'm just not quite ready to share it. Honestly, the aftermath and the way I was dealt with was incredibly traumatic as well. As long as I was willing to shut up and get back to work, they were willing to look the other way. I'm not proud of it, and of course, I would do it differently if I could do it all over again.

I thought I was doing the right thing—being a “good Christian,” forgiving, forgetting, moving on. I thought I was sacrificing for the greater good because the people we came to serve still needed the gospel.

~unsigned as I’m not the only one