#WeAreBrave
SPEAK OUT. SPEAK LOUD. SPEAK TOGETHER.
Welcome to a safe, carefully moderated world of testimonials from survivors of sexual assault and rape. Join our community by sharing your story or showing your support. This platform is meant to heal and not re-traumatize. Please remember to practice self-care if reading these stories is triggering to you.
The #WeAreBrave Story Platform has made BraveMissWorld.com the #1 Google search result worldwide for survivors seeking to share their stories. Yet it was born by accident. When Miss World Linor Abargil decided to step forward and speak publicly about her rape in 2008, she launched the website LinorSpeaksOut. Her mailbox was quickly flooded with emails from survivors wanting to share their stories with someone who would believe them and offer words of support. Linor met with many of the women and men who wrote to her, and included their stories in her film.
When the documentary Brave Miss World was completed and launched in 2014, LinorSpeaksOut was merged into BraveMissWorld.com, which became the online hub for survivors wanting to share their stories. With generous grants from The Artemis Rising Foundation, The Fledgling Fund, The Francis Family Foundation, and The Roy A. Hunt Foundation among others, the filmmakers and a small team of volunteers have curated this one-of-a-kind collection of over 2,500 testimonials, each carefully moderated to screen out any remarks that are disrespectful of survivors. We are committed to making sure that everyone submitting and reading stories on our site feels safe.
Our goal is to change the conversation around assault and rape. Women’s voices are finally being heard. Until now, we have not demanded that the culture be changed. We are saying no to the deafening silence that has surrounded rape and assault. We encourage members of our community to share their stories, because we believe that healing begins with speaking out and receiving support. Each story on our site receives a supportive comment from a trained advocate, as well as comments from our #WeAreBrave community. Every story is incredibly different and unique, but they all share the tremendous strength and resilience of survivors.
We know our platform works, because of the feedback from those using our site whose lives have changed in significant ways as a result of watching the film and/or sharing their story with others. Every day, new viewers and visitors discover and explore #WeAreBrave and many write to thank us for creating and maintaining this important space. For all those sharing their unique personal experiences and brave accounts of the lasting emotional impact of rape and assault, you are not alone.
Our work needs you. Your continuing support has enabled us to upgrade this site and add the ability to submit audio and visual testimonials. Please DONATE to help us make sure this resource continues to remain available to all those who need it. All donations are 100% tax deductible through our 501c3 fiscal sponsor, Los Angeles Filmforum.
Contact us here: producers@BraveMissWorld.com
Watch the Emmy-nominated Brave Miss World on…
Netflix: https://www.netflix.com/title/80222025
iTunes: http://apple.co/1Og611n
Amazon: http://amzn.com/B0194BJ5MO
Vimeo: https://vimeo.com/ondemand/bravemissworld
“I should do this more often”
Creepy Grand Uncle
En Enero de 2010
Obsessed Abusive Ex
November ’08
Everyone Else Likes You, Too
חיה בשני עולמות מקבילים
Black Girl
Naive College Freshman
I Barely Knew Them
Molested, Tortured, Rape, Survivor
The First Time
כמוני כמוך
A Message from the Director
The Party I Will Never Forget
Por Fin Puedo Decirlo
Rape
He was supposed to be a friend
I “needed” to do this!
A Day My Life Changed Forever
Ex
When I Was 8 Years Old
@ years of rape and being drugged
Was it rape? Or my fault?
Knowledge is Power
My rapist sent me a friend request...
I Thought He Loved Me
I Was Only 7
Why Me?
Keeping Faith
Ashamed
Thank you
Help
Not just me
My Horrific Nightmare
My Biggest Secret
Choose healing over silence
A Guy With Crooked Teeth
My Step Brother Raped Me
I was 8 years old
היי
Raped by school ‘friend’
Accepting myself and my story after…
Forced, De-flowered
SURVIVOR OF RAPE
Drunk and Alone
Drugged
First Frat Party
My Ongoing Journey
Army
My Best Friend’s Boyfriend
My story
High School Orientation
Frozen in fear
23 with a secret
Narcissistic Ex
Amusement Park
Summer 2019
My Story
It was not my fault
Jules story
Once Again
Ms.
Good Guy
He was right
I know when I see a rapist...
I Didn’t See It In Time
My/our German “Weinstein” Case
Tinder Rape
I like to think I won’t feel...
A respectable collegue
An Embarrassing Situation
I survived
I Dated My Rapists
הטרידו אותי
Employer rape
Sexual Abuse
Mi Historia
I was 14
Because of You
#IStandWithHer
Mental Breakdown
So Long Ago
Raped Three Times
My Best Friend’s Brother
Abused by the boyfriend of my mom...
Abusée par un voisin de mes grands...
Even Lawyers Get Raped
The Monster With The Pretty Smile
Too naïve
The First Man Who Broke My Heart
Raped at the Air Force Academy
Rape
When All Hope is Gone
Childhood
Start of grooming at 15
Hostage
Black Out
Dads boss daughter!!!!!!
Bringing the Stories to Light
J’avais 13 ans
Rape and Anxiety
Not all friends are true
It was
My Story of a Gang Rape
Myself
Rape Victim / Rapist in Hollywood
Age 6 abused
Holiday Rape
So Now What?
So Many Years to Remember
Had Her Back
I Thought I Was Safe
גבר אלים וחולני
So Many Times
My experience of societal views on victims...
Naive
Raped twice within a few hours
Rape !!
He said he loved me
The Statistics that Changed Me
I did Not need to know this
Just Words
Seis Años
Date Rape
Still Unable to Tell People
Survivor
Drug raped
Weak
My Story
My Only Brother
Set Up
Stronger Every Day
Drunk and taken advantage of
לדבר, להלחם, לנצח
My best friends dad
Losing My Virginity
Grooming
You Were My Friend
It wasn’t my fault
Rock It!

I guess it was rape
Speaking Up for Women
It Can Happen To Anyone
It Was the Second
לא יוצאים מזה…
When I Was 7
Broken Trust
My story and this amazing documentary film
Still Think It Was My Fault
Myself
My Friend’s House
At the Movie’s
Child sexual abuse
Raped by my boyfriend
I Was 10
The Statistics that Changed Me
I Didn’t Know I Was Raped
I let it happen twice
עדיין מציק
Growth
So Young
I Woke Up In The Tub
Roommates
Was led by the quarterback
I wanted to get high
Confused
Metoo
Nearly 50 years later
A Childhood of Sexual Trauma
Rude awakening
75 Percent Humidity
I Thought He Loved Me
Broken Homes, Broken Families
Senior Trip
My/our German “Weinstein” Case
I didn’t fight back.
I am More than a Victim
Family Member
Only I get to make choices for...
Not friends
A Victim No Longer
I wanted to get high
Manhandling to Rape
Date Rape
First Friend at University
Anxiety
What Was I Thinking?
Sexual Assault
I Didn’t Even Know Him
Date Rape
Not Blood Cousins
Two Continents, Two Different Men!
What Should I Do?
ללינור היקרה
The Night That Changed Me
My Sister and I were Abused
I thought it was my fault
I was just 9.
Memories Are Back
Lying Child Molester
Sex doll
Forced, De-flowered
I was 17 and survived
I can say it now
NO MORE TEARS TO CRY
Unethical or illegal?
Just Another Night
My teacher and my step-brother
It’s still happening
De Los 6 a Los 12
Freeing myself of demons
The Devil You Know
More Witness than I Care to Live...
No Wasn’t Good Enough
I regret not telling
A Survivor’s Mindset
Metoo
It Felt Like Rape
A person to trust became my worst...
Life of Trauma
Wedding Horror Story
School Principal
Molested and Confused
My Story
We met at the bar
The thief
Through the Window
I Thought I Knew Hi
I Didn’t Want to Do It
I’m Finally Moving On
Forgiving My Rapist
Two Men Lifetimes Apart
It Wasn’t Love
Male dancer
Friend of mines set me up
Never Be the Same Again
What am I doing wrong
Home from School
The First Time
Date Rape
Abusive Uncle
I Was Prepared
His opportunity
Raped at 16
Unethical or illegal?
Bartender Lies
Halloween Nightmare
My Daughter and I Both
Stand Strong
i was a child.
I want my innocence back
Workplace Sexual Harassment
So drunk I can’t remember
My Last Party
No Wasn’t Good Enough
Not A Trustworthy Man
From Scared Girl to Strong Mother
Agressée deux fois, mais toujours debout.
my story
Naïve
I was raped and I didnt know...
The Cliche
Warning
My husband raped me when I took...
Liar, Liar
Exploitation Was My Lifestyle
My Own Brother
Rape, Sexual Abuse
My story growing up with a secret
Unbelievable
יש חיים אחרי אונס
Case Dropped by Prosecutor
My Story
Survivor, Still Struggling
The Park
Extremely Terrified
Unspoken
לפני 14 שנים
Running With Bare Feet
Erase and Rewind
Drugged
He Never Apologized
Supposed To Be There
Holiday Rape
Motel 6 Nightmare
Love of My Life?
Raped Study Abroad in Seoul
Spoke out and was blamed
Ya perdoné pero nunca olvido
Bleeding Through My Tears
Ex-Boyfriend
Indigo
I returned to fine art in 1990 when I took at class in indigo dyeing at San Francisco State University. I was lucky that the instructor, Yoshiko Wada, and another student from her class, were in the East Bay so that we could carpool together. We would talk textiles on our weekly journey across the Bay Bridge to the Campus. The other student was an accomplished Quilter named Linda MacDonald. Linda lived in Willits near the famous Mendocino Art Center, but traveled to Berkeley to attend this class once a week.
The Indigo vat was made in a 32-gallon garbage can and had to be kept covered between dyeing sessions. Indigo is a unique rich blue dye that develops with an oxidization process when exposed to air. Dipping the fabric several times, and allowing the natural fiber to oxidize before dipping it again, creates darker shades of blue. The dye in the vat is created from a mixture of indigo pigment, various chemicals and a reducing agent to remove oxygen from the dye. It is a rich green color while in the vat, which shows up on the fabric before it is fully exposed to the air. The smell emitted from the dye is unusual, a musky odor in my mind. I like to think that it smells like the color blue. The vat needs to be carefully stirred and maintained between dyeing sessions. There is a “bloom” on the top of the vat created by oxidized indigo, making a bubbly and shiny ball of material reminiscent of a flower. The “bloom” gets moved to the side before entry of the pre-wetted fabric. The process reminds me of baking bread or making yogurt where the steps need to be carefully followed to achieve the desired results. In the process of bread and yogurt making, there are living cultures involved in order to create the product, and with the creation and dyeing process of indigo, it has that same feeling of being alive.
In order to create interesting patterns, my classmates and I would use resist techniques on the fabric like pastes, stitching and clamping. Simple household items like clothespins could be used to create patterns by folding and then placing the pins at intervals along the fold lines. Beautiful and surprising results were achieved using these methods.
Image of Indigo dye on fabric during the oxidization process.
My dream of being a professional artist, all started in early childhood, and the first memories of my creations go back to Nursery School. I loved playing with all kinds of materials, like paint, clay, and crayons, just to name a few examples.
Mel (Melanie), painting at Jack and Jill Nursery School, Walnut Creek, California, 1960.
In 1974, a neighbor in Marin where I was living at the time and studying art at College of Marin told me about an Art School in Mexico. I ended up sending off slides of my work with an application to the Instituto Allende, and was delighted to hear that I was accepted. I began my journey to study there in San Miguel de Allende by flying to Mexico City in January of 1975. A bus ride completed that journey.
When I first arrived, I moved in with a family who had two small children, including a newborn. It seemed like a safe living situation for a 19-year-old woman, but that shortly proved to not be true when the husband started coming on to me. I ended up finding my own place on the other side of town. It was a spacious abode with a wall that was shared with a weaving factory next door. There were 2 adjoined bedrooms, a bathroom, a large living/kitchen area and a small concrete patio out the back door. There was no hot water, refrigerator or a telephone. When I needed hot water for dishes, I would boil some on the stove. For showers, I had to build a fire in a box below a water tank outside to get hot water. I felt much more secure living there and walking a further distance to the Instituto on the other side of town than living with the husband who had made me feel so unsafe. There was the Central Plaza, which was called the “Jardin” that was in the middle of town, and I would pass through it on my walk quite frequently. This was the site of fireworks and festivals, like the celebration of Cinco de Mayo. The streets were cobblestone and many charming shops and galleries were located downtown. The School itself was on a beautiful campus with large ornate doors in front that were closed when school was not in session.
Photo of the closed front doors of the Instituto Allende
I had heard about you and what you had done to other women before you appeared in my main living space one sunny spring afternoon pointing a gun at me.
You had a bandana wrapped around your face and tied behind your head.
I had heard you first, in the bathroom.
Dressed in a long polyester dress with colorful psychedelic patterns.
I wasn’t wearing any underwear or shoes.
I walked through the 2 bedrooms and turned left when I saw you standing there.
I screamed and shouted, “help me,” thinking that workers at the Weaving Factory would hear me and come rescue me.
Nobody came.
You said to me “Coyote” which I later learned meant to be quiet or to shut up.
You grabbed my shoulders and dragged me out the unlocked back door onto the concrete patio.
The tops of my feet got scraped.
I gave up.
I knew you were going to rape me.
I just wanted you to finish as quickly as possible.
You took off your belt and put down your gun.
Somehow I managed to pick up your gun and threw it over the wall embedded with glass on the top, into the alleyway. The same wall you had climbed over to get into my place through the unlocked back door.
Towards the end of this ordeal, I heard a knock on my door.
You left, climbing back over the wall.
I answered the door. My friend Rhonda had come by to visit me.
I told her what had happened and we walked to the Police Station nearby.
I had your belt with me. The one you left behind.
I went to the front counter, telling the officers behind the counter what had happened to me. They were laughing and playing cards at the time.
I showed them your belt.
They told me to bring you in if I saw you again.
I left with Rhonda and took a bath at the where place she lived. We didn’t talk about what happened.
We moved in together shortly after that.
I sent a telegram to my father and stepmother about what had happened to me.
Nobody came to help me.
Rhonda helped me when I got hepatitis A and could no longer go to school.
I was on my own when it came to figuring out how to return to the Bay Area.
I moved in with my father and stepmother.
They didn’t talk to me about what happened to me.
They sent me to a doctor who diagnosed me with type 1 diabetes. He showed me how to give myself insulin injections. He told me to practice by injecting oranges with empty syringes.
My mother told me years later that “You were never the same again” after what you did to me.
I survived. I gave up art for 15 years before realizing that I wanted to go back to art school. In those years, I became so disturbed that I had panic attacks, deep depression and needed to move in with my mother at age 30. I started therapy after becoming self destructive in my 20’s.
Depression also called “the blues” has been my long time companion. It has taken me a lifetime to heal. My iPhone predicts the words, depression, PTSD and C-PTSD for my text messages.
After my Indigo dyeing class at San Francisco State, I enrolled in the Textiles Fine Art program at California College of Arts and Crafts (now known as California College of the Arts) in Oakland. I was married at the time and had become pregnant with our daughter Emily right before classes started in September. Emily was born on May 13, 1991. By the Fall of 1992, I was a single mom and an art student. An inheritance from my mother who died in 1995, allowed me to graduate and to buy my first home.
I continued to work with indigo dyeing and created a large textile piece about my experience in Mexico.
After many years of therapy and other healing modalities, I recently started painting on canvas. Part of that process has been a Soul Retrieval session to bring back my 4 year old self who loved to paint. I am feeling uplifted and encouraged after many years of recurring periods of severe emotional pain. Stay tuned for more details about my new work.
One of my final pieces was a textile called “Out of the Blues.”