Why Are we Not fighting For Justice?

I just don’t know…

As a mother, there is no pause, no moment when the weight lifts. I live in constant motion, with a mind always scanning for danger, a heart always stretched toward the safety of my babies. They are entirely dependent on me, and I take that responsibility seriously. I do everything I can to shield them, to prepare, to be present. And yet, despite all my efforts, I am often left with a gnawing uncertainty. Are they truly safe? Whether at school, at home, at church, or even just riding in the school van, can I really say I have covered every corner, closed every door?

My engagement with Mulika has brought me face-to-face with stories that unravel me. Things I cannot unhear, truths I cannot unsee. The reality of what happens to children in our communities has left me bruised on the inside. I carry this trauma not only as a mother, but as an aunty, as a woman, witness to a violence so intimate, so brutal, it alters everything

There is a terrifying helplessness in realizing that in places where lawlessness thrives, there is no true refuge. There is no one to run to. No comfort in the systems meant to protect us. I find myself haunted by the thought of women whose homes became the sites of their worst nightmares. Mothers who live with the knowledge that the man they loved, the man they once called protector, friend, partner, defiled and destroyed their own child.
I cannot imagine their grief. I cannot comprehend their days. What happens after the truth comes out? After the discovery that the one person entrusted with your child’s safety turned out to be their tormentor?
There are no words for that kind of pain. No balm for that level of betrayal. It is a darkness that doesn’t lift. A wound that doesn’t heal.

And I find myself questioning God. Wondering what He sees, what He feels, as this unfolds. Why doesn’t He move faster? Why doesn’t He stop them? I know the truth of grace, of forgiveness. I know we are all His children. But why do those who harm the innocent seem to carry on unscathed? Why is it acceptable, or even possible, to use power and proximity to silence a child?

And why don’t parents believe their own children? Why is their pain so often ignored, their truth questioned, their voice dismissed when it dares to name someone close, someone trusted?

I’m left grasping for language, for understanding.

I don’t know how to process the way society allows this. How the systems we rely on to protect children often collapse when they are needed the most. How the very beings we treasure, who bring joy to our marriages, who are seen as the fruit of love, can so quickly become victims of the same homes they were meant to complete.

Justice, when it comes, is a slow, bitter road. Often, it never comes at all. I sit with more questions than I have answers. And honestly, I don’t know who does have the answers. I feel broken by it. Sad. Deeply helpless. But under all of that sorrow is something else too. There is rage. There is fury.

A fire rises in me. The kind that wants to shout, to fight, to confront every single perpetrator and show them exactly what they’ve done. I want them to understand that what they have taken from these children is more than innocence. It is life. It is trust. It is light. And their actions are nothing less than murder.