In this powerful survivor story, Adiely Cifuentes shares her experience as a survivor of sexual violence navigating cultural and systemic barriers. Her experience highlights the unique challenges many Latina survivors face, with cultural taboos and gaps in culturally informed care. Adiely speaks to the importance of breaking the silence and building a system that supports survivors of all backgrounds.
Trigger warning: This blog post contains references to sexual violence, medical and legal mistreatment of women of color, and cultural shame.
The Silence After Violence
Adiely Cifuentes
It’s something that people would see in the news, or in TV shows and movies, but you never expect it to happen to you. My abuser was an acquaintance, someone within my community that I thought would understand my life and my choices. After arriving home on a Saturday night, it took me a while to realize the chain of events that had just transpired, and whether or not the things that I would see in movies and the news had just happened to me. Denial started to kick in, and I no longer felt comfortable in my own skin.
Every Sunday, I was expected to visit my parents for our traditional Spanish breakfast. While I walked in, I noticed my mother in the kitchen, hyper-focused on the plantains that were starting to overboil. I thought to myself, “How do I even bring this topic of discussion to my parents, if they themselves don’t understand what sexual violence is?” Growing up in a Latin household, the precautions of sexual violence were never a topic to be discussed because no one ever knew about it. There is this lingering stereotype that most victims are white women who might be walking alone at night in a dark alley. Our media demonstrated that women of color were not considered to be the “ideal victim,” so in our communities, the topic of sexual violence was never discussed, let alone given importance.
Women of color are often not seen as “ideal victims,” and harmful assumptions can influence how seriously their cases are taken. This bias affects not only justice outcomes but also the quality of care survivors receive.
Years went by, and with time, I noticed that I was dealing with grief, losing my own sense of identity and sexuality. It was hard to seek support knowing that my own community wasn’t able to understand the severe circumstances that I underwent. It was hard to find support when I noticed that no one who looked, spoke, or had the same cultural background as me had a similar experience. My personal cloud of denial increased.
Sexual violence is already one of the most gut-wrenching violations a person can experience. For many Latina women and other women of color, the harm does not end with the assault itself. It continues through systems that fail to protect and care for them. For many survivors, that silence doesn’t just come from institutions; it also comes from home.
In many communities of color, conversations about rape and sexual violence are taboo. Cultural expectations around family reputation and gender roles can make it difficult for survivors to speak out. There is often pressure to stay silent to “protect the family,” avoid shame, or even disrupt community dynamics. For Latina women in particular, I felt like the values that we hold, such as familism and respect, can be used to discourage disclosure. There might be the misunderstanding that families don’t care, but it took me a while to understand that this can reflect generational trauma and a lack of resources or proper language to address these experiences. Nonetheless, survivors are left to carry their pain alone.
In my last year of grad school, I had the opportunity to take a class that focused on Sexual Violence and Trauma-Informed Care. The outcome was something that I didn’t expect, since it put me face-to-face with the challenges that I never went head-on with, and the validation I needed to understand that my experience is not something uncommon. I had the opportunity to hear a speaker from BARCC who shared their survivor story, as well as read Michelle Bowdler’s “Is Rape a Crime?: A Memoir, An Investigation, and a Manifesto.” Although I still faced the challenge of not hearing stories and support from women of color, I noticed that I had resources and an experience that maybe others could relate to. The question always lingered: Why have I not heard of stories coming from Latin communities or women of color?
The aftermath of sexual violence is shaped not only by trauma, but by the response survivors receive. For women of color, that response is often coming from inadequate care. One of the most pressing issues is access to trauma-informed care. Survivors need care that prioritizes safety, choice, and emotional well-being, but even so, many providers lack cultural awareness. Without understanding how race, language, immigration status, and cultural stigma shape a survivor’s experience, care can feel dismissive. Survivors may already be struggling to speak about what happened, so a lack of understanding or having an open mind can lead survivors to think that their voice does not matter.
Language barriers also play a major role. For some Latina survivors, especially immigrants or those from multilingual households, accessing care in their language is not guaranteed. Without having the proper interpretation, survivors may not be able to fully explain their experiences or build trust towards a person to share them. Silence is not a choice, it’s imposed.
Trust is another barrier. Many communities of color have long histories of mistreatment by medical and legal systems, which makes seeking help feel risky. Survivors may fear not being believed or even facing legal consequences tied to immigration status. When combined with cultural stigma around speaking out, these fears can make reporting or seeking care feel nearly impossible.
The issue is not a lack of resilience; it’s a lack of support.
Addressing this injustice requires more than awareness. It means creating culturally responsive, trauma-informed systems that understand both the barriers and the realities survivors face. It also means gently challenging the silence within communities by creating spaces where survivors can speak without fear of shame or rejection. Breaking these taboos is not about blaming families but about building new ways of supporting one another.
Women of color deserve to be heard, especially in spaces closest to them. They deserve care that acknowledges their full identities, and communities that make room for truth instead of silence. Until that happens, the aftermath of sexual violence will continue to be shaped not only by the harm itself, but by the silence that surrounds it.
Adiely Cifuentes
