"Women taught me to stop feeling guilty: I didn't choose to be assaulted."

“Everyone looked at me as if it were my fault, as if I had provoked it. They looked at me with horror, with disgust, with guilt, as if I were the worst person in the world. I felt panicked because I thought I had done something wrong, but I didn't understand what wrong I had done.” This is how Keilyn Andrea González, a young Honduran woman, explains how she felt after suffering sexual abuse at age 11. She forgot it, she blocked it out. It wasn't until many years later that the sexual violence resurfaced, and with it, the need for redress. A need she transformed into a public cry: “I wasn't to blame for what happened to me.”

Keilyn's case is not unusual. The media had been reporting on sexual assaults and abuse for many years when different women's movements emerged, such as Yo Te Creo in Guatemala or Me Too in the U.S. Keylin also broke her silence thanks to the example of other women, and paved the way for shame to shift: "One day, with my ex-partner, I remembered that assault because he tried to do the same thing. Then I understood that I had been a victim of sexual assault and that at that moment I was still a victim." Years had passed, and the guilt remained: "I felt that I had brought it on myself, that I deserved what had happened to me, that perhaps it was my bad decisions, that perhaps I was having a bad attitude, but I stopped and began to let go of the guilt."

What Keylin did know was that she couldn't resort to the official justice system, because the Honduran judicial system has low conviction rates for aggressors, and in her case, the statute of limitations had already expired. In 2024, according to data from the Honduran Public Prosecutor's Office collected by the Women's Rights Center (CDM), 3,350 reports of sexual violence against women and girls were filed. 62% of the victims were minors. Of the total reports filed, only 298 resulted in a conviction. According to the prevalence survey by the National Institute of Statistics, 24 out of every 100 women in Honduras have experienced sexual violence at least once in their lives.

The lack of response in cases of sexual violence, coupled with institutional violence and revictimization, leads women to fight for redress that is not part of the punitive judicial system that prevails in most countries. For Keylin, it was crucial to identify with other women: "In 2018, with the rise of feminism, I understood that many other women had had experiences similar to mine and were taking to the streets to raise their voices for their rights." It was about moving from individuality to collectivity and breaking the silence: "They also mobilized for women who, like me, didn't have the necessary knowledge to endure these situations. They taught me to stop feeling guilty: I didn't choose to be assaulted. These things happened, they were very unfortunate, but I didn't choose them."

From victim to survivor

Like Keylin, Honduran women are seeking alternatives to institutional proposals that will allow them to stop being victims and become survivors: "We have realized that we do not have access to state justice, and that is why we seek social justice," explains Julissa Rivas, a member of the Honduran collective. I Don't Want to Be RapedJustice, she adds, is not only about surviving, but about being happy despite what has happened to them. "And above all, by organizing ourselves to prevent another woman from going through the same thing, and if it does, to ensure she can find spaces where she can express herself and transcend from victim to survivor."

Julissa Rivas's healing process, who, like Keylin, also suffered sexual assault, has led her to become an activist fighting against sexual violence. "From the resilience of daring to be happy," she explains. She is clear that this fight must be collective: "Organizing is a way to survive, to act, and to be the protagonist of a change that at some point we wanted but couldn't have." A change, she adds, becomes "a political act and an act of justice to reclaim our bodies, our freedom, and our lives."

The reparations for sexual violence that Keylin and Julissa propose stem from community justice. It is the justice they also practice in Guatemala. The experience of legal proceedings for the multiple forms of sexual violence suffered by women during the civil conflicts and the dictatorship reaffirmed Guatemalan women's commitment to seeking reparations through collective processes. The justice system, they assert, neither defends nor respects the sexual and reproductive rights (SRR) of women and gender-diverse people. "It is the law of men, the law of patriarchy, which continues to generate humiliation, stigmatization, shame, guilt, responsibility, and threats," explains Elsa Rabanales, from the Guatemalan organization Actoras de Cambio (Actors of Change). In Guatemala, according to various sources, there is 99% impunity in the courts for cases of sexual violence, and SRR and the right to a life free from violence are violated by the lack of a clear legal definition of certain crimes, such as sexual harassment. According to 2024 data from the National Institute of Statistics of Guatemala, 34.48% of women have suffered some type of sexual violence in their lifetime.

"This impunity is broken when women say enough is enough, and rape survivors become protagonists of community festivals and publicly declare that we are survivors of a crime committed by the state," says Liduvina Méndez from Guatemala. These festivals, which break the silence, are organized. "Then women begin to be taken into account, and they are the ones who then work for the recovery of other women," says Rabanales. This is the process that Keylin has gone through in Honduras and that, as she explains, led her to be who she is today: "Support circles are important for letting go, and with the knowledge I have today I can help other women understand what they are experiencing and get out of a situation that I also went through." This support "is fundamental. I can tell a woman that I was also a victim, but that doesn't define us. Outside there are many good things, extraordinary women who are giving us support and affection and reminding us that we are not alone," she adds. She is clear about it and states emphatically: "Feminism saved me; I couldn't have survived without the women who accompanied me and helped me become who I am today."

No law will tell us about justice

As Virginia Gálvez of Actoras de Cambio (Actresses of Change) explains, they all take alternative paths that become a form of justice for women outside of official channels. This justice goes far beyond punishing the aggressor because "the feeling of justice is born when justice is served in every area of ​​life that was shattered by sexual violence." In this approach, "the voice of patriarchal and colonial authority, embodied in the figure of the judge, ceases to play a central role." "It's a shift in perspective and symbolic order in which we give value and authority to what we feel and what we do, among ourselves as women, to build justice, instead of waiting for the state, as the perpetrator, to do something. It's a political practice to escape the trauma of humiliation and oppression," concludes Liduvina Méndez.

However, criticism of the judicial system does not imply that they are "against the laws, nor that they want to live without laws." "But no law will bring us justice," Elsa Rabanales emphasizes. Iris Romero, from the Honduran collective, expresses a similar sentiment. There are many of us.For her, "the state must also be compelled to assume its responsibility and respect the sexual and reproductive rights of all women." She also frames her struggle within the non-punitive feminist tradition, because "the punitive approach of the official justice system does not help to redress sexual violence nor does it respect sexual and reproductive rights." One idea is repeated among women's rights defenders in Guatemala and Honduras: "We know that defending our rights is not a priority for governments, and our way of achieving justice is also to force them to make it so," Romero insists.

Nevertheless, these women, as is happening in Catalonia and in the Spanish state, do not abandon the formal justice system, even if the response is not what they expected. This has been the case in the case of M., who denounced the sexual abuse committed by the Spanish Prime Minister Adolfo Suárez, or the two former employees of the singer Julio Iglesias who denounced him for abuse and harassment. Going to court isn't always the solution, especially considering that "punitiveness has never been a defining characteristic of either autonomous feminism or the left," as the Feministes per la Autodefensa collective states. They add that "refusing to use the state as a means of denunciation or redress abandons to their fate all women who lack a feminist network around them." The importance of this network was exemplified at the end of January by the actress and singer Jedet. She explained that, although the audiovisual producer Javier Pérez Santana was convicted of sexual assault and harassment, she doubted the sentence would be truly restorative. She asserted that she had lived through three very difficult years, impacting every area of ​​her life, and that she had been able to endure it thanks to the network of women who had supported her. "They have been my refuge, my strength, and my home during all this time," Jedet said.

That the informal support network among women is a key resource for confronting this violence is reflected in the latest survey on sexual violence in Catalonia from 2024: in almost 70% of the incidents recorded by the survey, women had shared their experiences, mainly with a friend. And more than 90% said that sharing was positive. In Guatemala and Honduras, they go beyond simply sharing and take the breaking of the silence to the streets, publicly denouncing the aggressors: "Girls who have experienced sexual assault can write the rapist's first and last name on a sign. 'You are a rapist, the justice system won't do anything to you, but women know. It's our justice,'" Julissa Rivas proudly explains.

The right to abortion in Guatemala and Honduras is nonexistent.

Honduras and Guatemala have alarming rates of teenage pregnancy. In Guatemala, according to data from the Observatory of Sexual and Reproductive Health, between January and November 2025, nearly 51,000 births were registered to adolescents between the ages of 15 and 19, and almost 2,000 to girls between the ages of 10 and 14. Social and human rights organizations point out that the first step to reducing these numbers is to teach children about their bodies and how to set boundaries, although in classrooms in these countries, topics such as rape, abortion, and sexual diversity are prohibited. In Honduras, the law prohibits comprehensive sex education, and in Guatemalan schools, the only permitted teaching is that "heterosexuality is the norm." Feminist organizations, such as Yo No Quiero Ser Violada (I Don't Want to Be Raped), find loopholes in these laws. They offer workshops where "women learn that they have the right to reclaim their bodies as territory and defend them," explains Julissa Rivas. However, they do so without speaking explicitly to avoid legal penalties. And it's because "the girls themselves don't want to talk about rape." "It's a word no one wants to hear, but we talk about pregnancy prevention and they all understand," she says, satisfied.

A sex education that also prohibits talking about abortion. In Guatemala, abortion is only permitted when the woman's life is in danger, and it is strictly illegal in cases of preserving physical and mental health, rape, incest, fetal malformation, economic or social reasons, or at the woman's own request. Various articles of the Constitution detail the prison sentences that women and doctors who seek or provide abortion services risk. Every year in Guatemala, more than a third of unplanned pregnancies are resolved through induced abortion, according to the study. Unplanned pregnancy and unsafe abortion in Guatemala: causes and consequences from the Guttmacher Institute, an organization that works to defend sexual and reproductive health and rights worldwide.

In Honduras, the situation is worse: it is one of six Latin American countries that prohibit and criminalize abortion under all circumstances. Since 2021, this prohibition has been enshrined in the Constitution to prevent its future legalization. The Honduran Penal Code defines abortion as "the death of a human being at any point during pregnancy or childbirth." Penalties range from three to ten years in prison. The law leaves the door open to prosecuting women who arrive at public hospitals for miscarriages and other obstetric emergencies. This situation could worsen with the new government that emerged from the November 2025 elections: women's rights advocates point not only to the electoral platform but also to the symbolism of President Nasry Asfura taking office with the pro-life flag at his side. For Iris Romero, from Honduras, "in such violent and restrictive contexts, not only is criminal decriminalization important, but also social decriminalization, because stigma and prejudice against women who have abortions still persist." Marcela Lara, from the Honduran collective, speaks forcefully about this social criminalization. The Unlimited"The real violence is not being able to have an abortion in a country that forces us to give birth."

The fact is that women continue to have abortions, without the necessary healthcare and enduring the stigma that falls upon them. The social and legal penalties for abortion are so severe that it's difficult to discuss it with feminist organizations in these countries. It's a taboo subject that, when it comes up in conversation, is quickly sidetracked. The fear of saying anything that could implicate or expose them prevents us from delving deeper into their situations. Despite this secrecy, some organizations dare to speak about it anonymously because, nevertheless, there are organizations and some clinics that women can turn to. They explain that secrecy is fundamental because if it becomes known that a woman has had an abortion, even her family will interpret it as the murder of a living being. "Due to the influence of religions, people may become violent and could even lynch the person who is helping," they add.

Faced with states that neither support them nor demand justice, they fight for individual and social reparations that respect sexual and reproductive rights and end the impunity of perpetrators. This impunity, says Suli Rodríguez of the CDM, "is not measured solely by whether or not there is a conviction: making violence invisible or failing to recognize certain behaviors as violence is also impunity." For them, "silence is complicity." "We want silence to stop being the norm," she adds. The idea of ​​"shifting the burden of shame" has long been a reality in Honduras and Guatemala.