This remembrance day I drove to the town where my abusers grew up. I stood in a large crowd in the surprising November sunshine, and listened to the speeches and watched the offering of the wreaths. One of these wreaths was laid in honour of a man I knew privately as a child sexual abuser. As a child, I grew up in an unofficial foster home where I was ritually abused, tortured, trafficked and photographed by a group of men. Some of them were veterans. I now understand that these were men traumatized by war, who came home and began using the techniques of war: intimidation, torture, and violence on the women and children around them. They enjoyed public prestige but were private bullies. I thought my case was an isolated incident until I began doing activist work.