Stories of Resilience #2 | “They took me to a sheepfold and did every horrible thing imaginable to me. The only thing they didn’t do was let me die.” — The harrowing story of Mihaela, the child who was kidnapped, abused, and tortured by three so-called ‘men’.

I’m tired. So very tired. It’s not the first time I’ve felt like there’s no place in this world for me. I know that thought isn’t fair, but it’s always there — especially when I think back to those years that were stolen from me, piece by piece.
This October cold reminds me of those nights when the wolves came for the sheep. I don’t even know why I always make that comparison — it’s just how I felt. I was the sheep. They were the wolves.
Only, unlike the sheep, I didn’t have a shepherd to protect me. I was alone. Completely alone.

Now I’m here, wrapped in a blanket, sitting in a warm, quiet room. But inside me, it still rains. It doesn’t go away, no matter how hard I try. And it hurts — differently now, but it still hurts. I never thought I’d be able to talk about it. Every time I close my eyes, I go back there — to that place, in the cold, left alone, my screams vanishing into the night. He had hurt me before, but back then I was too young to understand. He knew I had no one. My mother worked wherever she could, and exhaustion — and the drinking — made her forget she even had a child. My father was gone. He took advantage of that, again and again. He beat me until I could barely move. I was just a body that breathed. He’d snap over nothing, turn into a monster the moment he saw me. I still remember the numbness, the metallic taste of blood… and the moment he dragged me toward the car.

He took me to a remote sheepfold. And there, he and others like him did unspeakable things to me. They didn’t let me die — that was the only mercy. For two weeks, I lived through hell — forced to work by day and endure unimaginable pain by night. I didn’t know if I’d live to see the next morning. I learned only to survive — and to stay silent.

Somehow, I escaped. I don’t even know how. If I had stayed one more night, I don’t think I’d be alive today. But he found me again, later. And once more, the torment started — this time with others, laughing, humiliating, destroying what was left of me.I know what hell looks like. Sometimes it lives inside people who prey on your weakness. I felt it on my skin. But I don’t want to talk about him anymore. I’m tired of telling that story. I want to tell mine.

Because now, I’m okay. Someone heard what happened to me. Someone cared.
You see, my mother’s drinking cost her the right to be my guardian. A stranger — a woman with kind eyes — told the police about me. I think God sent her. She said she was part of an “assistance team.” [1].

I didn’t know what that meant, but she and her colleague were the first people who showed me that the world still had gentle hearts.

They took me to a safe place. I cried when I saw it — quiet, warm, clean. At first, the silence scared me. It was too foreign. They offered me tea, asked me questions, told me I could speak freely. And as I spoke, it felt like the air itself was tearing apart from the weight of my words.

During the hearing, I told everything. Every word felt like being torn open. But I knew I had to speak — for justice, and for myself. The process was long and painful, but those women — my psychologist and my lawyer, I later learned — stayed by my side. They helped me heal, piece by piece.

Eventually, I was moved to a special center, a safe home. The women there helped me rebuild myself, to trust again, to believe I deserved peace. I thank God every day for them.

At the Center, I’ve learned new things, rediscovered myself, and found kindness again. I took a makeup course, and now I’m planning to go to vocational school to become a chef. The staff believe in me — and slowly, I’ve started to believe it too. I’ve started to believe that I am more than what was done to me.

A few months ago, in March, justice was served. The three men who destroyed my childhood were sentenced to long prison terms — one for 19 years, the others for 25. It doesn’t erase what happened, but at least I know they can’t hurt anyone else.

My name is Mihaela. This is my story of resilience.
If you’ve read this far, please consider supporting the Assistance Team that helped me — and continues to help other children like me find justice and safety. Your contribution will help the psychologist who still visits me, helping me grow into an adult who lives without fear, in safety, with confidence, and hope.

Note: This story is based on real events.
[1] The Child Assistance Team (EAC) operates within the International Center “La Strada.”