Understanding GBV in Humanitarian Context

Understanding GBV in Humanitarian Context

Understanding GBV in Humanitarian Context, When conflict uproots people, the danger they are fleeing often follows them. For refugees and displaced families, gender-based violence is not a distant risk. It can shadow every stage of their journey, threatening their safety, dignity, and even survival. 

Gender-based violence refers to harm inflicted because of socially constructed gender roles and inequalities. The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees defines it broadly, including physical assault, sexual violence, psychological abuse, and economic control. It can take many forms, from domestic violence and rape to forced and child marriage, coercion, and increasingly, online harassment. 

While GBV affects people of all genders, women and girls face disproportionate risk. Globally, one in three women experiences physical or sexual violence in her lifetime, according to UN Women. And in humanitarian crises, those risks escalate rapidly. 

Displacement fractures protective systems. Families lose homes, livelihoods, and community networks that once offered safety. In overcrowded shelters with little privacy and limited access to services, vulnerabilities intensify. Economic stress, legal uncertainty, and prolonged instability can heighten tensions within households and communities. For many survivors, the collapse of support systems means violence becomes harder to escape and even harder to report. 

Therefore, understanding GBV in humanitarian settings requires looking beyond individual incidents. It means recognizing how crisis environments can deepen existing gender inequalities and create new layers of risk for those already displaced. 

How YCWS Tackles GBV 

At Yayasan Cita Wadah Swadaya (YCWS), we know stopping GBV takes more than just reacting—it takes real change. We believe everyone deserves food, a voice, and a place where they feel safe. Since launching in August 2024, building on years of work in Indonesia, we’ve put community-driven prevention and survivor-focused care right at the center of our Refugees and Migration program. 

Alongside UNHCR, we run layered GBV programs that offer immediate help and long-term support. Our GBV Mentors—refugees trained as volunteers—are the first people survivors can turn to. They bridge cultural gaps and earn trust where stigma usually keeps folks silent. We run a 24/7 GBV hotline, offer counseling, arrange safe accommodation, and make sure survivors get medical and legal help. 

We also believe prevention starts with honest conversation. At Refugee Talent Program (RTP) centers and local gatherings, we hold trainings and discussions, even around topics people usually avoid. Everybody’s involved—men, women, everyone—because changing harmful beliefs isn’t a one-person job. 

16 Days of Activism Campaign 

In December 2025, for the 16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence, YCWS joined UNHCR and Refu+ure to host an art competition on Online Gender-Based Violence (OGBV). Over six days, 26 artists used visual stories to share what OGBV means to them. Five of them showcased their work in Bogor, in front of teachers, students, RTP staff, and three of our GBV Mentors. 

One comic, in particular, got people talking—a story about a public figure whose video was leaked and faked with AI without her permission. That set off deep conversations about digital privacy, tech responsibility, and how to protect yourself when technology can easily fake intimate content. Afterward, a film screening helped everyone think more about how gender stereotypes in the community fuel violence. 

What really stood out? Men showed up too including three of the five featured artists. Their involvement sent a clear message: GBV isn’t just a “women’s issue.” It’s something the whole community has to face together. 

What We Learned and Achieved 

The 16 Days campaign brought some big lessons. First, representation is powerful. Our GBV Mentors, Samira and Hodan, said that public speaking training was a game changer for them. They went from quietly helping individuals to leading open discussions on topics nobody used to touch. 

Second, safe spaces make change possible. The art contest gave people a less intimidating way to talk about tough issues. Creative expression opened the door for conversations that might not have happened otherwise especially in places where GBV is a huge taboo. 

Third, survivors need clear, easy ways to get support. Our GBV Mentors offer immediate help and safety planning, but they noticed the need for stronger referral systems to specialized services. Right now, a lot of survivors still hold back because they’re afraid of stigma or don’t know who to trust. 

True Love Comes from Peace of Mind

True Love Comes from Peace of Mind

Have you ever wondered what true love really looks like? It is not found in big promises or beautiful words. True love is tested in the hardest moments — when everything else has been stripped away.

My name is Raha. I am an asylum seeker in Indonesia who sought safety from my homeland.
While awaiting resettlement to a third country, a move I hoped would bring new hope, I married a man who instead brought only pain.
After surviving one abusive marriage in my homeland, I soon became trapped in an even harsher one in a country where I had hoped to find safety for myself and my sons.
I married someone who is more controlling, more violent, and crueller.

A month ago, I escaped from my abusive husband. My body was still marked by bruises, and my heart carried wounds no one could see. But on September 4, 2025, under the burning Indonesian sun, I held my eldest son’s hand as we walked to pick up his younger brother from school.

On that day, as my eldest waited for his younger brother, who was still in class, I brought him along to help me relocate to a safer place for us.

A safer place that I finally found after searching almost every day, spending nearly the entire day outdoors during the peak of summer, when the sun felt three times hotter than usual.

A safer place, in contrast to our former home, I chose to live in a densely populated area.

A place I’m certain my husband never expected me to settle.

I carried a bag of clothes on my back, a water container in one hand, and a mop in the other.

I asked my son to help me carry his school bag, the one he still hopes to use someday. Since our last relocation, we’ve been searching for a school for him, but as refugees, our opportunities to enrol in an educational facility remain limited.

The day before, I had already moved a stove, a carpet, and two more bags — all by myself, using buses and walking long distances. Each trip was heavy, but it was the only way to protect my children.

I was exhausted. But giving up was never an option. Because my children’s safety must come first. Their education, second.

Even knowing my abuser was still searching for me, I chose to keep moving forward.

That afternoon, as we walked together, my seven-year-old son asked me for a kite. I had no money — not even for food. I smiled and told him, “We will wait a little.” To him, it was just patience. To me, it was protecting him from fear and hunger.

I almost broke then. Tears filled my eyes. But I told myself, “It’s just dust.” And I wiped them away.

Those tears carried questions: Will I survive this? Is this more than I can bear? How long can I keep going? But I also whispered Alhamdulillah. Because I still had my sons. Because I still had hope.

My name, Raha, means peace of mind. Even in hardship, I hold on to that peace. I am a mother whose love is my strength. A woman who rises again and again — not because life is kind, but because my love is fierce.

This is what true love looks like. It is not easy. It is not comfortable. But it is powerful enough to keep us alive.

*Note: The name used in the story is not the original but was carefully chosen to have the same meaning in Arabic. This maintains the authenticity of the narrative while preserving the individual’s confidentiality.

Seeds of Strength: Hope and Inspiration from the Complementary Pathway for Refugees

Seeds of Strength: Hope and Inspiration from the Complementary Pathway for Refugees

My name is Asadullah. I was born a Rohingya in Myanmar. Because of persecution, my family fled to Bangladesh when I was a child. It was an unexpected, painful journey. But we had no choice.

My father, an Islamic scholar, believed education was our only weapon. Even though we were denied schools, he made sure we studied at home later though the British Council. In Chittagong, I built a life. I worked as an accountant, got married, and tried to live normally.

But being Rohingnya in Bangladesh meant living in hiding. As laws grew stricter, the fear became unbearable. Every day we feared the risk of being found out. If the authorities discovered our identity, we could be forced into the camps, where life was unimaginably hard. One day, I realized we had no future there.

I moved to Indonesia, where some relatives had already settled. For the first time, I felt kindness and compassion, I was not hated for who I was. But there were new struggles. Refugees in Indonesia cannot work legally, open bank accounts, or access basic services. Language barriers made daily life harder. Once again, our lives were restricted by rules we did not choose.

Still, I refused to give up. I became an interpreter for NGOs and UNHCR, and my wife worked with IOM. We helped bridge communication gaps, giving our community a voice. It gave us purpose and dignity.

Then I discovered something new, labor mobility pathways. Unlike traditional refugee resettlement, labor mobility allows skilled refugees to migrate to another country for work, based on their qualifications and experience. It’s a solution that recognizes refugees not just as people in need, but as professionals with potential. For many of us, it’s a chance to rebuild our lives with dignity.

I believed my background could open a door. I applied for jobs across the world, attending over a hundred interviews. Finally, a Canadian employer said yes. It was me fighting for my future, using my skills, persistence, and hope. With support from TalentLift, IOM, UNHCR, and the Indonesian Immigration Office, I applied for permanent residency in Canada. I am now waiting for visa approval and preparing to begin a new chapter.

But my journey is not only for me. I speak to other Rohingya, encouraging those who speak English to teach others. I organize sessions on labor mobility and remind my community: You have potential. You have dignity. You have a future. We must lift each other up.

My dream is simple, to live in peace, respected like any other human being. My biggest hope is to become strong enough to support my community, especially those still stuck in limbo.
More than anything, I want refugees to be seen not for our past, but for our potential.

We are not just victims.
We are survivors.
We are ready to build.
We are ready to contribute to a more peaceful world.

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