News of three-year-old Sana's death sparked disturbing memories for Naveen Naqvi.

I’m not sure how old I was, but I figure I was in kindergarten then because I was learning how to count and write my ABCs.

I would pretend that the letter ‘a’ in the lower case was a high-heeled shoe like so: a. Hmm. Maybe you can’t see it, but I could, and I must confess that I still do. I guess my romance with the shoe began at an early age. And like a lot of children, I had problems with the ‘b’ and the ‘d’. Why, oh why, did they have to look so alike? I was convinced that it was only to confuse me.

Numbers were my least favourite. No surprises there. I’ve struggled with math all my life, and can scarcely keep my accounts without feeling dizzy or wanting to vomit. The number six was the hardest to master. That's funny, given that my birthday falls on January 6, which I could remember perfectly well. But there would be my poor patient father counting 1-2-3-4-5-6-7… and there I'd be, staring up at him, happily parroting away, 1-2-3-4-5-7… Six, he would say. With a look of terror, I would repeat 'six', but in continuity, the number would always slip. Ultimately, I would resort to tears and cry out, 'Why does there have to be a six? It’s so unfair.' The logic that would come to my father’s aid was that if there were no six, I would have no birthday. Now, that gave me room to pause.

During the 12 years that my family and I lived in Saudi Arabia, where I spent my formative years and was working hard to retain my alphabet and numbers, neighbours and work colleagues took the place of extended family. This is not uncommon in expatriate communities, where uncles and aunties replace mamoos (maternal uncles) and khaalas (maternal aunts).

One evening, and I remember it to be around dusk, Rabia Auntie’s husband (I can’t for the life of me recall his name) from two doors down our street offered to help me do my homework. My mother, being quite protective, had my older brother escort me over to their home. This was a most exciting adventure as Rabia Auntie allowed me to drink tea - that too doused with Carnation Condensed Milk - which was forbidden by my mother. Notebooks in hand, off I skipped down the street.

Rabia Auntie, who had no children of her own, covered me with kisses and went off to the kitchen, leaving me in the care of her husband. Uncle X pulled me up on his lap, took out my notebook, and started helping me with my homework. Now, I’m not sure when it happened, but it was an almost imperceptible change. It was something about how his arm cradled me, or a breath exhaled, or how his hands, in cartoon-like fashion, suddenly seemed much larger to me. I looked up at him in surprise, squirmed off his lap, and said that I was going home.

I never said a word to anyone, but it was around then that I began to dream of never-ending dark staircases from which I would fall, fall, fall to land with a thud on my bed. And that is only one manifestation of the effects of that episode from my childhood.

Later, much later, in high school, I mentioned it to girlfriends of mine and found that there was not one among them who had not had a similar experience. Most stayed silent about the uncomfortable and traumatising encounters; one who had spoken out had been told that it was she who was bad.

I recount this incident now because it came back to me when I read the story of three-year-old Sana, raped, beaten to death and dumped in a gutter by a couple of police constables. Not that there’s any comparison whatsoever between the two cases. It is just to say there are Sanas all over the world. Those who survive even minor acts of molestation or harassment (if there can be such a thing as 'minor' violations) are indelibly marked for the rest of their lives in innumerable ways. Speaking out now is just my way of saying that we have to find a way to keep our girls safe.