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A memory buried under medals and politics—what silence cost me as a young woman in engineering.

Flashback

I was scrolling through the digital archives of my hometown newspaper when a name struck me like a thunderclap:
“Don José dies at 100.”

I paused, then clicked. The article praised him as a man of honor, awarded for business excellence and hailed as a pillar of the local economy. “A man of character and impeccable trajectory,” the tribute read. I stared at the screen, heart pounding. Funny how nobody knew Don José the way I did.

To most, he was a respected businessman. To me, he was the father of the man who almost raped me. He was also the man who harassed me at work with a shamelessness that now feels unbelievable—and yet, back then, it was routine.

That obituary cracked open a memory I’d buried long ago.

#MeToo Before the Hashtag

Today, the phrase #MeToo appears in headlines, documentaries, and courtrooms. It signals solidarity. But years ago, it existed only in silence, in sidelong glances among women who had endured the same things. We didn’t have hashtags. We had shame. We had fear of losing our jobs, our reputations, our place in the world.

I was just 20, in my second year of civil engineering at university, and working full-time at Juárez, a small construction firm owned by Don José. Back then, it was just a dusty yard with a few machines, one secretary, one accountant (me), the old man, and his sons: Pablo, my boss and a friend, and Martín—an assistant engineer and intern like me.

They were a powerful family. Pablo Macías, the governor of Sinaloa at the time, was close to them. Contracts came easily. Their rise was assured, no matter how small the company had once been. Connections meant everything. And I was just a young woman trying to survive.

Don José had no fear of consequences. He’d pinch me, grab me, whisper vulgar things as I passed his desk. It was almost daily. I never told Pablo—how could I? His father was the harasser. I didn’t want to shame him or make him feel responsible. Maybe that was naïve. Or maybe that was just what women did back then. We internalized everything.

But the worst night was still to come.

The Night I Slept with a Knife

Before Juárez—before the construction company, before university—I was just a young woman adjusting to life in the state capital. I had landed a job in a government office, thanks to Pablo, a family friend who had always looked out for me. When I arrived in the city, he gave me the number of his younger brother, Martín.

I share this story not to expose, but to liberate.1111

“He’s my brother,” Pablo said. “Call him. At least you’ll know someone.”

I did. Martín and I met at a Peña, a cozy cultural venue where trova musicians sang poetic songs. No alcohol, just music and conversation. He seemed friendly—maybe a little too self-assured, but polite enough. Later that evening, he suggested we stop by El Delfín, a trendy new disco. I hesitated, but agreed.

We took a taxi. Halfway there, he told the driver to take a detour. “I just need to change clothes,” he said, directing us to his apartment on the outskirts of the city. I followed—young, polite, and caught off guard.

The moment we stepped inside, he locked the door.

What followed happened fast. He grabbed me, threw me on the bed, and tried to tear my clothes off. I fought like a wild animal—kicking, clawing, biting. I screamed. I struck him in the groin and managed to push him off. As soon as I had space, I ran—straight to the kitchen, where I grabbed a knife and held it tight

For hours, we circled each other. He made more attempts, but every time I raised the blade and warned him. My hands never trembled. I wasn’t afraid—I was furious.

Eventually, he gave up and passed out on the bed.

I stood guard in the kitchen, gripping the knife like it was an extension of my body. At some point, I heard voices in the hallway. Then a key turned in the lock—someone was coming in. I didn’t wait. I bolted out the door and into the street, caught a taxi, and went home.

I never told Pablo. I never told anyone.

I wasn’t afraid. I was brave. And I was mad.

Why I Never Reported It

I never went to the police.

Not because I didn’t know what happened. Not because I was confused. Not because I was scared of Martín. I wasn’t. I had faced him down with a knife and made it through the night.

I didn’t report him because of who he was—and who I was not.

Martín came from a powerful family. His father, Don José, was entrenched in Sinaloa’s political and business elite. His brother, Pablo, had helped me get a foothold in the city. The governor at the time, Pablo Macías, was practically family to them. The Sánchez family didn’t just run a construction company—they moved in the same rooms where state contracts were handed out behind closed doors.

And me? I was a 20-year-old university student with no last name that carried weight. My word against theirs would be buried faster than a city permit in a corrupt registry.

Besides, how could I tell Pablo?

He had been good to me—gotten me my first job, helped me feel like I belonged in the big city. He wasn’t responsible for what his brother did, but I couldn’t bear the idea of placing that shame on his shoulders. I didn’t want him to feel like he had failed me. So I stayed silent.

When I returned to my hometown and enrolled in university, Pablo invited me to work at Juárez—to help with the books and join their engineering projects as part of my internship. I said yes, even knowing Martín worked there.

And when I saw Martín again, something shattered all over again. He acted like he didn’t recognize me. As if I was invisible. As if nothing had ever happened. In that office, in that yard, around those machines and ledgers—I became a ghost of the girl he tried to break.

But I never gave him the satisfaction of fear.

I stayed. I did the work. I built my career. And I kept my silence—not because I was weak, but because I understood the world I was in. A world where women were dismissed, discredited, and discarded the moment they dared to speak.

The Woman Who Remembered

Decades have passed.

That young woman who once sat trembling in a kitchen with a knife in her hand is now someone else—someone older, wiser, unafraid to look the past in the eye. I never forgot what happened. I just carried it differently.

I’ve built a life out of truth and light, even when shadows tried to silence me. I never let that night define me—but I’ve come to understand that it shaped me. My resilience didn’t come from being untouched by harm. It came from surviving it, and from choosing to live beyond it without letting it consume me.

So why speak now?

Because I no longer carry their shame. That shame never belonged to me. It never belonged to any of us.

Because when I saw that obituary praising Don José—a man others saw as honorable—I remembered the daily harassment I endured at his hands, the power he abused casually, shamelessly. And I remembered his son, Martín, who tried to violate me and later pretended I didn’t exist.

They moved on with their lives. They were celebrated, awarded, promoted.

But I remember.

And now, I write this not out of vengeance—but out of clarity. To remind others that sometimes the people history calls honorable are just the ones who controlled the narrative. And sometimes the most courageous thing a woman can do is remember—and speak.

Because silence protects no one but the guilty.

And I’m not afraid anymore.

Disclaimer:
This personal narrative is based on true events. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, beyond these changes is purely coincidental. The intent of this publication is not to defame but to speak truth to personal experience and social realities that often go unspoken.