02/03/2026
An incredible story about survival and strength. A must read!!
She held her head on with one hand, her organs in with the other, and crawled toward the light.
December 18, 1994. A quiet Sunday night in Port Elizabeth, South Africa. Twenty-seven-year-old Alison Botha dropped a friend home after an evening of pizza and games. Then she drove to her apartment, parked her car, and reached for her laundry bag.
In that single, unremarkable moment, everything changed.
A man forced his way into her car at knifepoint. He drove to pick up a second man. They took her to a remote stretch of bushland where no one could hear what was about to happen.
What they did that night defies human comprehension.
They r***d her. They stabbed her thirty times in the abdomen, deliberately trying to destroy her ability to ever become a mother. When her leg twitched, they knew they weren't done. They slashed her throat sixteen times—so deeply that her head nearly separated completely from her body. Then they left her in the dirt, certain she was dead.
They were wrong.
Alison Botha was still breathing.
Lying in the darkness, unable to feel most of her body, covered in her own blood, she understood with absolute clarity: if she didn't move, she would die here and no one would ever know what happened.
So she made a choice.
First, she needed to leave evidence. With her fingers, she scratched into the sand beneath her. The names of her attackers: Frans du Toit and Theuns Kruger. Then, beneath their names, four words that would later break the world's heart:
"I love Mom."
Then she began to move.
Her head wouldn't stay upright—the wounds were too deep. It kept falling backward. Her intestines kept spilling from her abdomen. She used one hand to hold her head forward. The other to hold her organs inside. And with nothing left but the most primal will to exist, she crawled.
She collapsed. She rose. She collapsed again. Her vision faded. The pain transcended anything a conscious mind should be able to endure. But each time she fell, she found the strength to rise.
She reached the road.
At 2:45 AM, veterinary student Tiaan Eilerd was driving down that highway. He saw something in his headlights he couldn't understand. Then he realized—it was a woman. He thought she was already dead. Then she moved.
He stayed with her. He kept her conscious. He called for help. He would later say that something placed him on that road at that exact moment for a reason.
At the hospital, doctors stood in stunned silence. One surgeon said that in all his years of practice, he had never seen injuries of that severity in a living patient. Alison wasn't expected to survive surgery. She wasn't expected to survive the night. She wasn't expected to survive the weeks that followed.
She survived all of it.
And while still in her hospital bed, unable to speak because of the tube in her throat, she did something extraordinary. She identified her attackers from police photographs by writing their names. Du Toit and Kruger were arrested. They pleaded guilty. In August 1995, they were sentenced to life in prison.
But Alison refused to wait for the courts to give her back her voice.
In a country where r**e survivors were expected to remain silent and carry shame that was never theirs, Alison chose to be seen. She became one of the first women in South Africa to publicly identify herself as a r**e survivor. She became a motivational speaker, traveled to more than thirty countries, and told the truth about what had been done to her. She wrote her memoir, "I Have Life."
Then she did what her attackers had tried to make impossible—she had two sons. Doctors warned her the damage might prevent motherhood. Her attackers had deliberately tried to destroy that possibility.
They failed.
Then came the day she had always prayed would never arrive.
In July 2023, after twenty-eight years, both men were granted parole. Alison wasn't consulted. She learned about it only after the decision had been made. She later wrote it was the day she had always hoped and prayed would never come.
Many believe the emotional devastation of reliving her nightmare contributed to what happened next.
On September 25, 2024, Alison suffered a brain aneurysm. She spent three days in a hospital before emergency surgery in Cape Town. The damage was severe. She lost the ability to sit, stand, or walk independently. Her left side was weakened. She needed speech therapy. The road ahead seemed impossibly long.
But then, in February 2025, after public outcry and legal review, the parole was revoked. Her attackers were sent back to prison. The Minister of Correctional Services made the decision personally, citing the imperative to protect the community.
Today, Alison is recovering. Slowly. Patiently. Fighting again—not against violence this time, but against the quiet, grinding toll of surviving what no one was meant to survive.
She recently shared this message:
"Whatever you're going through, it's just a patch. It might hit you unexpectedly and feel heavy, but if you keep moving forward, you'll come out the other side. I WILL be okay."
Some people survive tragedy and move on quietly, letting time do its healing work.
Alison Botha did something harder.
She turned her worst night into a reason for someone else to keep going. She held her own body together with her bare hands when everything said she should let go. She chose life when the entire world had already decided she was finished.
As she once said: "I realized my life was too valuable to let go of."
That's not just survival. That's something else entirely. Something that reminds us what human beings are truly capable of when everything is taken from them and they still refuse to disappear.