Despite shocking rape statistics, let us chose hope over despair

If you think of rape as a rare occurrence, let me shatter that illusion — a rape happens every 26 seconds in SA.

Sometimes, the survivor is a child no older than two years; sometimes an elderly grandmother; sometimes a young man.

But more horrifying is how often these stories go unreported. Less than 15% of all rapes reach the authorities, meaning our statistics merely scratch the surface.​​

Last December, in Buffalo City metro alone, more than 150 people, many tragically young, were sexually violated. Of 157 survivors, 45 couldn’t identify their attackers and 74 were children aged between two and 18.

In my former hospital, the Thuthuzela Care Centre (TCC) helped numerous people — 131 survivors in December alone; 231 between April and June; with a further 81 cared for at our sister centre. These are not numbers. They are sons, daughters, neighbours.​

Working in the emergency room, I see trauma layered on trauma. The physical wounds are palpable.

But most survivors flee the scene carrying invisible wounds:

• Night terrors and sleeplessness;
• The constant fear of being stigmatised or blamed; and
• Hesitation to seek justice, fearing the police may not believe them.

This under-reporting is a slow-burning tragedy. Only a fraction of cases reach conviction, and most perpetrators roam free.

Children arrive, clutching their mothers, their innocence shattered.

Men and women break down, numb and voiceless, desperate not just for medical care, but for dignity, understanding.

Standing beside my operating table, I often wish I could do more.

Sometimes, it’s my watercolour brush or the verses in my notebook that come to my aid —tools to express grief, hope and anger when medicine runs out of miracles.

I have seen aid to vital NGOs like Masimanyane and others dwindle away.

They once trained counsellors, providing meaningful work and lifelines for survivors. Today, underfunding and bureaucracy threaten these organisations’ existence, leaving both survivors and frontline workers adrift.​

Yet, despite these challenges, communities rally. Children’s rights activists, local nurses, social workers — they scrape together resources and reach out to survivors even when the state falters.

Centres like Cecilia Makiwane TCC strive to give survivors shelter, medical care and a gentle space to reclaim their stories.

If I have learnt anything in decades of trauma care, it is that silence is as deadly as violence.

Survivors stay silent due to shame, fear of reprisals and the crushing belief that their voices will not change the world.

Some communities, still wrestling with old norms, blame the victims or deny the existence of sexual violence altogether.​

As a doctor, poet and global humanitarian, I believe that healing demands we name the problem, eradicate stigma and provide practical channels for survivors to be heard through health services, counselling and art.

We must demand far more from society and our leaders.

• Rape should be declared a national disaster, as activists have pleaded;​
• Police must receive intensive training and resources;
• The justice system should be streamlined and survivor-focused — not just efficient but also compassionate;
• Hospitals and clinics must have secure, confidential digital systems so that survivors are protected from further harm;
• NGOs must be empowered, not stifled;
• Every community member must honour survivor stories, refuse to tolerate gender-based violence, and become a watchful guardian.

I have seen firsthand — when survivors are supported, they emerge not as victims but as survivors, and eventually as leaders.

Medicine, after all, is not just about repairing flesh. True healing welds body to spirit.

In workshops and art sessions, I see survivors using paint and poetry to transform trauma into testimony.

Art is a soft light, leading survivors back towards self-worth and agency.

I recall one young woman who, after months of therapy, stepped forward to lead a survivors’ support group. Her story did more than fill a case report — it stitched hope into a community torn by violence.

Every day, I walk from the chaos of the operating room into the quiet of my studio.

There I create — for my patients and for all who carry the pain of sexual violence and silence.

Yes, our statistics are grim. Yes, our systems are broken. But healing is possible. I know, because I have seen the light return to haunted eyes.

I write, I paint, I stitch wounds. I dream of an SA where every survivor’s story leads to justice, and where medicine is a song of renewal.

Let us be the hands that heal, the voices that uplift and the visionaries who choose hope over despair.

• Dr Amitabh Mitra is a trauma surgeon, poet and survivor advocate