Silence kills! Teaching boys not to harm is the conversation we keep avoiding
Society has normalised violence against women as an expression of and an inalienable component of love and marriage.
What you need to know:
- Gender-based violence thrives not only because of the perpetrators, but also because of our silence, excuses, and indifference.
- GBV is no longer something happening to “others” — it’s woven into our everyday lives, and our silence sustains it.
Gender-Based Violence (GBV) is not a distant tragedy. It’s not something that happens to “other people” in “other places”. It’s happening all around us—in our neighbourhoods, workplaces, schools, and even behind the doors next to ours. And the worst part? We’ve grown used to it.
We’ve normalised pain. We’ve learned to walk past bruises. We’ve mastered the art of pretending not to see.
GBV doesn’t always come wrapped in dramatic headlines. It’s in the couple arguing down the hall, the child too scared to speak, the colleague who flinches when you raise your voice. It hides behind the phrases we use to excuse it: lover’s quarrel, discipline, domestic matter. But violence is violence—no matter what name we give it.
What troubles me most is how easily we justify it. Every time a woman is beaten, someone says, “Maybe she provoked him.” Every time a survivor speaks out, another asks, “Why didn’t she leave?” We twist logic until the victim becomes the problem—and the perpetrator walks free, protected by our silence and our comfort.
Let’s be honest: silence is convenient. It spares us the discomfort of confrontation. It lets us keep scrolling, keep walking, keep minding our business. But silence also kills. It kills confidence. It kills courage. It kills women.
Kenya’s numbers tell a grim story. According to UN Women, GBV surged during the Covid-19 lockdowns, when victims were trapped indoors with their abusers. Yet, even with new policies, helplines, and awareness campaigns, the violence hasn’t stopped. And part of that is on us—on how we raise our sons and daughters. We teach girls how to stay safe: don’t walk alone at night, dress decently, be careful what you say. But who is teaching boys not to do harm? Who is teaching empathy, respect, and restraint?
We cannot keep blaming women for the violence committed against them while doing nothing to ‘unteach’ the toxic ideas we hand to our boys. I think often about how many people have witnessed violence and done nothing—out of fear, habit, or the misguided belief that “it’s not my place.” I understand that fear. But doing nothing doesn’t make you neutral; it makes you a bystander to someone’s suffering.
GBV doesn’t end because one person speaks up. It ends when all of us refuse to be silent—when neighbours intervene instead of looking away, when friends stop making jokes about “discipline,” when workplaces stop protecting abusers, when we finally admit that love should never come with bruises.
Ending GBV isn’t just about rescuing victims. It’s about reshaping the culture that creates perpetrators. It’s about accountability, empathy, and action. It’s about breaking the silence—even when it’s uncomfortable, especially when it’s uncomfortable.
Ending GBV is not just a task for activists, police, or policymakers. It starts with everyday people refusing to normalise abuse—by speaking up, supporting survivors, teaching our sons empathy, and showing our daughters that love is not supposed to hurt.
For many victims, help feels out of reach. The least we can do is ensure that when someone asks for help, they are not met with silence. Because silence kills.
