First-hand: “Silence is not neutral” — Dr. Elizabeth’s journey of healing, advocacy and hope

My journey into GBV and HIV advocacy didn’t begin in a classroom or at a training. It began the day I realised that silence can be harmful. Years ago, a well-known artist in Nigeria passed away in circumstances linked to domestic violence. Her story shook the country. It shook something in me too. At the time, I was experiencing a form of violence myself but didn’t know how to speak about it. Her death became a turning point. It became the voice that broke my silence.

That moment didn’t just awaken me personally, it shaped the work I do today. I now serve as a medical coordinator with the Centre for Population Health Initiatives (CPHI) in Lagos, supporting vulnerable communities with clinical care, mental health services, and legal referrals. Every day, I meet people living through trauma, survivors navigating shame, and young people trying to make sense of violence, sexuality and HIV in a world that often refuses to hear them.

More than a job, a responsibility

Working in this field taught me that violence is not something we measure by scale. There is no “small” or “big” violence. What matters is its impact. What matters is dignity. What matters is whether someone feels seen, believed and safe.

My passion for this work grew as I listened to people’s stories. People with no support system. People who feared judgement. People who walked into the clinic alone because they had nowhere else to turn.

I realised that the work was not only clinical. It was emotional. It was holding space. It was creating safety. It was helping someone reclaim their health and their power.

It became clear to me that if I wanted to help survivors truly heal, I needed to be part of the bridge. I needed to be a bridge to care, to safety, to dignity, and sometimes just to hope.

In my line of work, every story teaches something. Some stories stay with you forever. I once supported a young man who had been raped multiple times. By the time he reached us, he had treated only his physical injuries. He didn’t know he needed HIV post-violence care. Months later, he found out he had tested positive for HIV. The news broke him. He was suicidal, scared, and felt completely alone. Through counselling, mental health support, and patient follow-up, he slowly began to rebuild. He said he didn’t want to press charges. He just wanted safety, and we tried to give him that.

Another survivor came to us recently. She is a young woman I first met two years ago. She used to be bubbly and full of life. But when she returned, she had lost weight, withdrawn emotionally, and confessed she had stopped her HIV treatment for almost a year. She had experienced verbal abuse and stigma at her previous clinic and no longer felt safe to return. We enrolled her into care immediately. We offered her mental health support and assured her she deserved dignity in every part of her health journey. Only when she felt safe did she open up fully.

Stories like these remind me that healing begins where safety begins. These stories also remind me that silence, stigma and fear can steal years of someone’s life.

Challenging stigma in difficult spaces

Speaking up about violence, gender norms, HIV, or the rights of vulnerable communities is not easy in Nigeria. Sometimes, our culture doesn’t always allow certain conversations. Sometimes it feels like working against the tide.

But change often happens one person at a time. One voice at a time. One survivor at a time. The reality is that HIV and violence are deeply connected. In Nigeria, women living with HIV face higher odds of experiencing intimate-partner violence. And yet, we still treat these issues as separate when they are closely intertwined. Violence increases vulnerability to HIV. Stigma increases hesitancy to seek care. Fear keeps people trapped.

This work requires courage, not the loud kind, but the steady kind. The type of courage that stays rooted even when society pushes back.

At CPHI, we’ve seen how young people express themselves through art, storytelling and safe community events. When someone picks up a paintbrush during an art session, they are not just creating art, they are releasing something heavy.

We’ve also used short films, documentaries and social media to gently shift how people see violence and HIV. A story told honestly can do what lectures cannot. It can make someone feel understood. It can open doors for disclosure. It can help someone take the first step toward care.

These tools remind people that they are not alone, that their pain is valid, and that their voice matters.

The links we still don’t talk about enough

One of the most misunderstood realities is how closely HIV and violence intersect. Many people still assume they are two separate issues. But the data tells a different story. Survivors’ experiences confirm it.

When someone is living with fear, financial dependence, or emotional abuse, it becomes harder to seek care or stay on treatment. When society denies that rape can happen in marriage, people lose their safety nets. And when clinics stigmatise patients, treatment interruption becomes more likely. These connections, between dignity, safety, health, and HIV, need more honest conversations.

Young people, especially young men, have a crucial role to play. They can challenge harmful norms, speak up when they witness abuse, and build safer spaces in their peer circles. Engaging young men as allies, not enemies, opens doors for real change. At home, in schools, in community centres, and online, they can influence attitudes. They can become the ones who say, “This is not right,” and stop violence before it escalates. When young people lend their voices, they help create a culture where everyone, women, men, adolescents, can feel safe enough to speak.

What keeps me hopeful

Hope shows up for me in small ways. When someone returns for follow-up care. When a survivor says, “I feel safe here.” When someone who arrived broken comes back stronger, even smiling. When young people choose to speak instead of staying silent.

Every day, I remind myself that if I can help even one person reclaim their dignity, that is already light entering a very dark place. One transformed life can ripple out to many others.

A message to any survivor who feels alone

If you are reading this and feel alone, hear me when I say: You are not alone. Your healing matters. Your voice matters. Your future matters.

Even if all you have is a whisper, someone out there is willing to amplify it. Someone is willing to stand with you. Silence does not protect you, but safety and support can. Speaking up is not just about telling your story. It is also about protecting your health, your dignity, your justice, and your right to live a life free of harm.

When we speak about violence, we speak about health. We speak about dignity. We speak about justice. And we speak about everyone’s right to make healthy choices without fear, without shame, and without silence.