In the heart of many Christian communities, pastors are revered as shepherds—guardians of faith, protectors of the weak, and moral beacons meant to light the path toward righteousness. But what happens when the shepherd strays? When the hand raised to bless becomes the hand that wounds?
These are the questions Amina—not her real name—found herself asking, not once, but again and again, in the silence of the night. Over months, those questions burned through her spirit, clawed at her sense of self, and haunted her dreams. She was only sixteen.
Amina had been raised by her aging grandmother in a home where love was abundant, but money was not. The family’s struggles were no secret. So when a local pastor—respected, charismatic, and trusted—offered to support Amina’s education, it felt like a divine intervention. He promised to give her a better chance at life, to lift the burden from her grandmother’s frail shoulders.
But what seemed like salvation was the beginning of something far darker.
Behind the holy facade, behind the prayers and promises, the pastor began to defile her. Slowly at first—subtle manipulations cloaked in spiritual language. Then brutally, shamelessly, repeatedly. The man who claimed to be her spiritual father became her tormentor.
Trapped and terrified, Amina bore it all in silence. Who would believe her? Who could she run to when her predator wore the mask of a saint? Eventually, the weight of the secret became too much. She confided in a school friend—her only safe space. The friend, shaken and unsure, told a teacher.
And then Amina vanished.
Days passed. Alarmed, the friend and teacher sought her out. When they found her, they were horrified. She had been impregnated by the pastor.
In a desperate attempt to erase his sin, he had handed her abortion pills. No medical supervision. No concern for her safety. Just pills—and silence. The drugs ravaged her body, leaving her in pain, confusion, and fear.
She was rushed to a health facility. But even then, justice came at a cost. To file a case, a police medical form was required—yet another hurdle with a price tag. Who would pay for it? The grandmother who couldn’t afford to raise her? The teacher with barely enough to survive? Or the pastor?
This is the cruel irony that girls like Amina live with every day.
Where the State Fell Short: A Regional Lifeline for Abuse Survivors
Disturbed by the growing number of abuse cases involving young girls in the Upper East Region, the Widows and Orphans Movement (WOM) convened a high-level meeting—one that would bring together both state and non-state actors in search of urgent solutions.
Around the table sat representatives from the Commission on Human Rights and Administrative Justice (CHRAJ), the Domestic Violence and Victims Support Unit (DOVVSU), the Upper East Regional Coordinating Council (UERCC), Department of Gender, Social Welfar Department, Ghana Health Service, and members of WOM itself. Their shared goal was simple, but deeply necessary: to find a sustainable way to support survivors of domestic violence across the region.
It was during this meeting that a landmark decision was made—to establish the Upper East Regional Support Fund for Victims of Abuse.
The idea was born out of frustration and necessity. Ghana’s own Victims of Domestic Violence Support Fund, created under the Domestic Violence Act of 2007, had not been funded for nearly two decades. While the law promised survivors medical care, legal aid, safe housing, and other forms of essential support, the reality on the ground was far more sobering. With little to no money allocated to the national fund, survivors were left to fend for themselves.
Determined to change that narrative, WOM took action.
Since the inception of the regional fund in 2022, it has provided critical support to six young girls who survived various forms of abuse.
“We have had to provide support in terms of medical care. Sometimes it has been to see a gynecologist. Sometimes it is to get the medical doctor to sign the medical forms. Sometimes it is injections to treat STIs. The fund is focused on the medical aspect, but it doesn’t bar us from tackling the legal aspect. In some cases, we have had to provide counseling for survivors. Sometimes food and transportation as well,” Ms. Abdulai said of the 6 girls who had been supported in diverse forms by the fund.
Though modest, the fund has already proven life-saving—and life-affirming. For girls who once had no place to turn, it offers a small but growing sanctuary, Ms. Abdulai said when she spoke to A1 Radio’s Mark Smith.
When Justice Is Too Expensive for the Poor
The establishment of the Upper East Regional Support Fund for Victims of Abuse couldn’t have come at a better time. That’s according to Abdulai Jalaldeen, the Upper East Regional Director of the Commission on Human Rights and Administrative Justice (CHRAJ).
“The fund is targeted at people who earn below the minimum wage. If you earn below the minimum wage, you are already struggling to survive, and if that same person has to cough up money to pay for medicals to seek justice, that’s unfair,” he said.
For Jalaldeen, the challenges aren’t abstract. They are real, tangible, and heartbreaking—especially for girls from rural communities who face nearly impossible odds in their pursuit of justice. He painted a vivid picture of just how daunting that journey can be.
“The person stays at Sakote. That is not closer to any court apart from the court in the regional capital. He or she has to travel from Sakote to the main road. Even if she walks there, can she walk to Bolgatanga? Can she meet in court that would sit at 8:30 a.m. or 9:00 a.m.? She needs money to take transportation. That person has to eat, because you do not determine when your case will be called in court. In the event that your case is being called after 11, someone who left home very early to be in court and as of 11 has not eaten, where is she going to get the money from? For that person, the probability of her not returning after an adjournment is very high,” he explained, his voice heavy with concern.
For survivors who walk away because the burden is just too much, justice dies quietly.
“If the survivor walks away from the case, the perpetrator would go free because the prosecution cannot manufacture evidence to support his or her case,” Mr. Jalaldeen stated bluntly.
The Money That Never Came: Disappointments in Funding the Support Fund
The committee in charge of the Upper East Regional Support Fund for Victims of Abuse began with a clear, well-thought-out strategy for sustaining the fund. But in practice, the support they counted on has simply not materialized.
The model was simple: draw on public empathy to encourage donations from individuals, appeal to NGOs in the region who had a stake in protecting survivors, and—critically—involve the state. Fifteen municipal and district assemblies were each expected to contribute GHC500 annually. Together, this would have generated over GHC7,000 every year to support survivors of domestic violence across the region.
The rationale seemed sound. After all, the cases of abuse emerged from across these same districts. GHC500, in the eyes of the committee, was a manageable amount for any local assembly. They believed the contributions would flow in steadily.
They were wrong.
Since the pledge was made in 2022, not a single assembly has paid into the fund.
Yvonne Wonchua, the representative from the Upper East Regional Coordinating Council responsible for overseeing the Gender and Children Departments across the MDAs, expressed her deep frustration. Despite persistent follow-ups, her appeals to the assemblies have fallen on deaf ears.
“I have followed and followed and followed, but nobody has said anything,” she said, exasperated by the lack of response.
Still, Ms. Wonchua holds onto a sliver of optimism. A new group of Municipal and District Chief Executives (MDCEs) is currently being confirmed, and she hopes that under new leadership, the tide will turn.
In the meantime, the fund has stayed afloat largely through the personal contributions and sacrifices of the committee members themselves—an act of dedication, but also a stark reminder of the institutional neglect that continues to plague efforts to protect vulnerable girls and women in the region. For Amina, and the 5 other girls, this is how they were supported.
Conclusion: A Crisis of Care and Commitment
Amina’s experience is emblematic of a broader, persistent crisis in the Upper East Region, where survivors of domestic and sexual violence are left to navigate trauma with minimal institutional support. The Upper East Regional Support Fund for Victims of Abuse was established as a necessary intervention—a locally led effort to provide survivors with access to medical care, legal aid, and counseling.
Despite the urgency that drove its creation, the fund remains chronically under-resourced. Municipal and district assemblies, though committed in principle, have yet to contribute financially. This lack of follow-through has placed the burden of sustaining the fund on the shoulders of a few dedicated individuals, many of whom have had to step in personally to fill the gap.
For survivors, the consequences are far-reaching. Accessing justice is often impeded not only by fear or stigma, but by the simple inability to afford transportation, medical fees, or sustenance during lengthy legal processes. In such an environment, cases are abandoned, perpetrators go unpunished, and cycles of abuse continue unbroken.
The promise of protection and justice for vulnerable girls and women remains unfulfilled—not due to a lack of solutions, but due to a lack of consistent commitment. Until structures are adequately funded and responsibilities upheld, survivors will continue to bear the cost of institutional silence.
To donate, here are the details:
Account Name: Upper East Regional Support Fund for Victims of Abuse
Name of Bank: Fidelity
Accounts Number: 1050367791313
Voda Cash Number: 0506478675
Registered Name: U/E Regional Support Fund for Victims of Abuse.
Source: A1radioonline.com|101.1MHz|Mark Kwasi Ahumah Smith|Ghana
