A Quiet Afternoon and a Deafening Silence

It’s a sunny afternoon in November. I’m sitting at my sewing machine, adding a little finishing trim to a pair of old curtains I found on eBay. Nothing extravagant—just a small detail along the edge to give them new life. The soft rhythm of stitching should feel soothing, something simple and meditative.

But instead, my mind is elsewhere.

As I pin the trim to the fabric, my thoughts drift to something much heavier—an uncomfortable question that has been weighing on me. I’ve been reading a book about the long history of women being dismissed, overlooked, and controlled. Women whose voices were silenced, whose contributions were erased, whose bodies were taken without consent. It’s not ancient history. It is not over. In many places—quietly, brutally—it continues.

And what I cannot understand is this:

Why are so many women silent about what is happening to other women and girls today?

We often hear celebrations of “the first woman to do this” or “the first woman to sit in that position.” Milestones applauded on stages with polished smiles and carefully worded speeches.

But where, I wonder, are the voices raised for the hundreds of thousands of girls worldwide who are still being exploited?

Where are the cries of outrage?

Where is the sisterhood we claim to champion?

We speak so proudly of Britain as the nation that abolished slavery. Yet modern slavery continues—hidden, disguised, denied. And the silence around it is chilling.

Some days it feels like walking into a field where even the birdsong has stopped. A silence so heavy it rings in the ears. Not peace—but avoidance.

There are people who speak loudly about injustice when it is fashionable, when it earns applause, when it elevates their image. Some create new terms or labels designed to silence anyone who questions them. The conversation becomes about protecting feelings and reputations—not about protecting the vulnerable.

And in that silence, harm continues.

Sometimes I speak, quietly, to the women who came before us—my own ancestors. I ask for their guidance, for their strength, for their courage. I ask them to watch over our country, and over the girls who have already endured more than many of us could imagine.

The tragedy is not only the suffering itself—but the way it has been allowed to happen.

Enabled.

Ignored.

Pushed to the edges while society busies itself with distractions.

We cannot pretend we did not know.

We cannot pretend it is not our concern.

If justice means anything, if womanhood means anything, if compassion means anything—then accountability must come.

The scales must be balanced.

Not for revenge—but for truth, dignity, and healing.

And as I return to my sewing, I find myself hoping—quietly but fiercely—that more of us will choose not to look away.