Places and names have been changed for her safety.

She stumbled into a police station; black eyes adorning her face and cuts made from shards of glass ran up and down her arms.  After three hours of laying face down in the swamps outside of Casablanca, mud covered her face. Her clothes were torn and she knew she was half-naked.

Fatima is that horror-story rape victim.

The police ushered her in, barely listened to her story and handed her some toilet paper so she could take care of the blood on her arms. She was then put in one of the cells where they keep prostitutes they arrest off of the streets until her parents could come pick her up.

After her parents arrived, they immediately took her to the doctors where she was examined and her wounds taken care of. Medical tests confirmed both vaginal and anal rape. She's just two months away from finishing her degree and her friends expect no sympathy or understanding from her university.

Surely the events of the previous sixty hours kept replaying through her mind. The nightmare she couldn't awake from.

Cat-calling was common. And she always hated it. Fatima's friends always warned her to not be so hot-headed in her replies to men on the streets. This time, as she walked away from the bus stop, the two men in the car followed her. When she reached the corner, they stopped the car; one jumped out, grabbed her by the hair and shoved her into their car.

Her parents began to worry when she hadn't shown up-- four hours after her usual arrival time. They went straight to the police, but were told no one would begin searching for her until forty-eight hours had been up. Turns out, she was only missing forty-eight hours before she managed to escape and find a police station herself.

The men took Fatima to an abandoned house on the outskirts of Casablanca, where they abused her for two days. Its a miracle she survived. On the second night, one of them went to the bathroom while the other looked for something in the car. She seized her chance and headed straight to the swampy fields.

But back in that house, she left her wallet. Her national identification card. Her university ID and her home address.

And now, as she recovers at home, her friends urge her to find a woman's support group. To speak up. To share her story. But she fears. She fears for her sisters. She fears for her mother. She fears for herself.

I heard this story first-hand from one of her friends. Nausea overwhelmed me and I couldn't get the story out of my head... out of my heart. 

Maybe that's the point. 

Maybe I'm not supposed to. 

I tried thinking of the "point" to writing a blog post about her... she'll still be living in a city where she feels unsafe, the men who raped her will still be free, and women everywhere-- not just in Morocco-- will certainly continue to live in fear for themselves and their daughters. 

Maybe, sometimes, there doesn't have to be a point. 

Maybe, sometimes, we can see pain, but never fix it. 

Maybe, sometimes, all you can do is try to be a voice.