by Cavelle Nelson

22 February 2026 marks one year since I returned home permanently to Grenada. I returned not only as a citizen, but as a woman shaped by lived experience and committed to contributing meaningfully to national development. 

I want to make a positive contribution in support of the issues of violence against women and girls on the island. These are not isolated incidents. They are indicators of a deeper, unresolved issue that has lingered within our society for decades.

It is deeply concerning that, in over 30 years, the issue of sexual abuse continues to surface without sustained national resolution.

I speak not as a commentator, but as a survivor. In 2003, during a season marked by recurring panic attacks, I wrote a poem. At the time, writing was not about craft — it was survival. It was the only coping mechanism available to me as I confronted the lingering trauma of childhood sexual abuse.

The Silence They Never Heard

She stood in the shadows screaming,
never saying a word.
She looked into the distance, wailing,
never seeing a soul.
She listened for a long time, moaning,
never hearing a sound.

Her tales were endless —
tales of anguish,
tales of pain,
tales of sorrow,
tales of shame.

Wounds that never seemed to heal.

Misused and abused,
not respected but rejected —
a woman of much scorn.

Tarnished.
Deprived of affection.
She hated to be touched,
hated to be embraced,
hated the sight of men.

They tormented her.
Panic attacks gripped her painfully.
Her cries for help were never heard.

She sought refuge in dark and dismal places,
shunned crowded streets,
trod down lonely paths —
a safe haven,
a desperate escape.

Day after day she lived in constant fear:
fear of being raped,
fear of being violated,
fear of losing her sanity.

Every look, every stare
sent blood racing through her veins
and paralysed her soul.

She was certain everyone knew —
what she had done,
how terribly bad she must be.

Her thoughts badgered her:
Was it me?
Did I encourage this?
Did I welcome this awful tragedy?
Was I to blame?
God gave me a mouth —
why didn’t I speak?
People must think I am weak
to have allowed such things.

And so it repeated itself —
again
and again
and again.

She was angry.
She was sad.
She was bitter.
The hurt, the pain, the shame —
more than she could bear.
Her emotions formed a whirlwind in her head.

Death seemed a comfort;
she sought it,
but it never came.

Burdened, she longed to be free.
She searched tirelessly for escape,
but her back was against the wall —
freedom nowhere in sight.

Moments of intimacy were torture.
Passionless.
She felt nothing.
Thought nothing.
Said nothing.

She lay there motionless,
pretending it was all good,
though she was never really there.

She felt violated.
She wanted to scream,
but her voice choked.
She wanted to lash out,
but her hands coiled inward.
She wanted to push them away,
but she was frozen.

They were predators —
heartless, demanding criminals
who tore through her flesh ruthlessly,
invading her private space,
defiling her childhood.

They robbed her innocence,
attacked the very roots of her being —
the most precious part of her existence.

Nothing eased the pain.
Not self-gratification.
Not silence.
Not exile.

Pregnancy became the epitome of her distress.
She hated the one who impregnated her —
a demon in her eyes,
for no decent man could do such a thing.

She was a great mother despite her struggles,
yet sometimes she could not bring herself
to embrace her male child.
Not because she did not love him —
but because he was male.

I saw her.
And I knew.

Her eyes said everything —
windows to a broken, troubled soul.
A crushed spirit.
A fractured mind.

She was overshadowed
by a spirit of heaviness —
a damsel in need of healing words,
warm hugs,
reassurance,
undivided attention.

She needed someone
to truly see her,
to quiet the raging tempest within.

But no one took the time.
No one shared her pain.
No one saw her tears.
No one saw her scars.
And no one who mattered
believed her story.

So she bottled it all inside,
fermenting animosity,
harbouring distaste,
pining away in despair
while never giving herself away.

A Black woman of many pains,
imprisoned in her own Guantánamo Bay,
bound by shackles she longed to break.
Her suffering was boundless —
deeper than the ocean floor,
higher than the starry skies,
wider than the breadth of the earth.

Yet she had dreams
that kept her afloat —
dreams of a time
when pain would subside,
when her heart would not be heavy,
nor her mind ensnared.

A time when true love would abide.
When tears of sorrow
would become tears of joy.
When beauty would replace ashes.
When peace would comfort
and free her burdened soul.

Her tales would be endless —
tales of joy,
tales of laughter,
tales of healing,
tales she would cherish
forever.

The woman portrayed in that poem represents not only my younger self, but countless survivors whose pain often goes unseen, unheard, and unaddressed. Her questions, her shame, her fear — these are the invisible consequences of abuse that extend far beyond the moment of violation.

The poem reflects the paralysis caused by trauma — how abuse steals voice, presence, and even a sense of self. It mirrors dissociation and the psychological aftermath many survivors endure, particularly those abused during childhood. Internal trauma becomes a form of captivity — silent, isolating, and often misunderstood.

The woman in those lines was drowning. Voiceless. Condemned. Alone. That poem was my nervous system’s attempt to survive. It was my psyche’s refusal to be silenced. I endured. But endurance should never be the requirement for our children. No child in Grenada, Carriacou, or Petite Martinique should have to turn to poetry — or silence — to survive abuse.

The cost of silence is generational. Trauma does not end in childhood; it echoes into adulthood, relationships, parenting, and community health. When violence against women and girls increases, we are witnessing the visible cracks of unresolved cultural and systemic failures.

Grenada is small enough for accountability. We must move beyond outrage to structured action:

• Strengthen community vigilance and bystander responsibility
• Educate parents and guardians about grooming behaviours and warning signs
• Ensure accessible, trauma-informed counselling services
• Create safe and confidential reporting pathways for children
• Demand timely and visible legal consequences for perpetrators
• Integrate prevention education into our schools and community institutions

Safeguarding our children and protecting our women is not optional. It is foundational to national stability, economic productivity, and collective well-being. This is not a women’s issue. It is a national priority.

As the founder of SoulEvolution, a transformational coaching practice devoted to guiding individuals toward wholeness, I return home not merely to reflect — but to contribute. My story is not presented for sympathy; it is presented as evidence. Evidence that the impact of abuse is long-term. Evidence that silence compounds harm. Evidence that prevention must be deliberate.

Grenada, Carriacou, Petite Martinique — this is our moment to decide who we are. Will we remain a society that whispers around these issues? Or will we become a nation that confronts them with courage and coordinated action?

The safety of our girls and women must move from conversation to commitment. The time is now.

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