Don't let her story become a number, and don't let numbers discourage your fight.

I vaguely remember the classroom. I remember Eva being there, but I can't quite remember the other girls. We played with one of those miniature plastic kitchen sets they place in all preschool classrooms. I couldn't say who played with what or even how I felt about our imaginary games; all I have is a faint picture of pastel yellows, blues and pinks, faceless silhouettes, and an open door leading to a dark hallway. For now, this is my first memory I can recall. Me, at 4 years old.

My five year old self is not so hard to place. I remember the halls of Woodland Elementary; I remember pooping my pants, waddling to the bathroom, and then putting my underwear in the hamper when I got home believing my mom wouldn't notice (she never did say anything); I remember receiving an honorable mention in the school art contest and having my picture hang on the wall; I remember Tommy who taught me how to braid my hair and wrote my name all over his notebooks. I could go on about having my school picture taken, almost accidentally stealing a book from the library, playing with Kristen's hair during story time, but I won't get carried away.  

When I read online that a four-year-old girl was raped in India and had passed away this week, I thought the article made a typo and miscalculated her age. Only a few weeks earlier had a five-year-old girl been raped and was in critical condition. Surely, this article must be referring to the same girl. But as I read on, I realized this was not true. Here was another girl, another name, another family, another heartbreak, another protest, another day in India. Rape. Rape. Rape. Multiplying like fruit flies. 

The gang rape and brutal murder of a 23-year-old female medical student in India shook the world in outrage just a few months ago. Protesters were rampant across India crying for justice and safety for women. Did these cries fall on deaf ears? Did they fall on the wrong ears? Because here we are, months later, in the same predicament. 

I can't help but think about my earliest childhood memory and wonder if that four-year-old girl ever had a chance to store one of her own before she was erased from the earth. And the five-year-old girl, what memories had she been holding onto before her murderer suffocated any chance of future reminiscence. 

I am not yet 23, but can only imagine the 18 good years of memories that were shut out for that medical student. Gone like a smothered flame. 

What's the point here? I'm not so sure myself. I sit halfway across the world, typing a blog post in order to attempt to process the grotesque actions of certain individuals on this earth. I guess what I want to say to you is this: don't let her story become a number and don't let numbers discourage your fight. 

Today is the story of a four-year-old girl. Tomorrow's story is out of our control. Another rape does not mean we have lost, it means this war is not yet over.