Open Letter to My Rapist

(Trigger warning.)

My rapist.

It’s strange to use that possessive pronoun with a word like ‘rapist’, but that’s what you are. Perhaps you’re someone else’s rapist, too, but that doesn’t change the fact that I can still claim ownership over you– for something no one wants, which is still mine.

I listen to a cheerful song as I write this, so I don’t tear the skin off my lips in anxious anger (yet I still do). As I reflect on our relationship, which I have rarely done in the past three years, I realize there are really only two things which I will always hold against you. There are other things for which I hate you, but I imagine some day I’ll get over them. All things save two.

We had Spanish together my junior year, your senior year. It wasn’t planned, it just ended up like that. Inevitably at some point we were put in a group together for a project, which thrilled me at the time. I was also excited about the project, itself– creating a Spanish menu– because it involved creativity and the chance to draw, which you knew I liked. But when we distributed the workload, you alloted yourself nearly all the artwork. When I expressed that I wanted to draw, too, you told me I wasn’t as good as you, and because I foolishly worshiped you, a stone idol, I agreed. On the day we were to submit our projects, I felt a bit resentful; I saw your sketches of paella and tortilla de papas, and thought I could have done as well. I was always small to you. I was never as good as you.

Then came the day, not long after the Spanish project, that we were watching a movie in the basement of my house. My home. My parents were outside, in the barn or the garden, maybe. Giving us mistrustful privacy.

For months you had been telling me that we should have sex, because “people who love each other should give everything to each other” and, well, we were going to get married anyway, weren’t we? Yet I steadfastly resisted: my position was that sex was reserved for marriage, which at the time I was resolutely convinced was God’s Will– a god, as it turns out, who does not exist.

On this day you were going on about something like that, we should share everything with each other, don’t you love me, if you loved me you’d have sex with me, blah blah blah. I wasn’t really listening because I already knew what my answer was. I already felt a terrible anxiety about the state of my virginity (how much could you kiss someone before you lost your virginity? Did making out count as sex?), so it was easy, simple, for me to say “no”. I couldn’t believe you’d even consider it– weren’t you worried that we were already going to hell?

You said, then, that you wanted to know “what it feels like”, meaning my vagina. You said you wanted to touch it. I lost my patience. If we weren’t already fallen from God’s grace, we surely were now. Or at least you were. I got up to leave, exasperated.

I never could have guessed, would have allowed myself to believe, what you would do next.

You grabbed my arm, which didn’t immediately alarm me until I tried to pull away. When you didn’t let go, I felt a deep, primal urge to dig my nails into your face, your eyes, but I rationally resisted the impulse: why would I do such a thing to someone I loved? But you did not let go. Your hand was like a vice grip, likely the outcome of all that baseball you played, all that sculpting of clay you did. You pulled me down to the carpet and knelt on top of me in one smooth, swift movement, almost as if it was practiced. As I look back at myself then, I appear as a small animal, a young child, pathetically weak, with huge, round eyes brimming with the realizations of fear. My little animal brain hadn’t caught up to reality yet, not even as you forced your hand down the front of my jeans (How did you do that? I pondered vaguely; I had thought the waistband of my jeans would prevent such a thing from happening, it was much too tight, wasn’t it?), and your digits into my vagina. Strange pain. Blink, blink. It must have been less than ten seconds, but I remember thinking then that it had lasted much longer. I finally registered how strong you were and felt shocked that you’d used it against me, and how heavy your knees were as they pinned my arms down, like a straight jacket. Then you were talking about me, about my body, as you still had your fingers inside me, like a scientist describing matter-of-factly a newly discovered landscape (words like “soft” and an exclamation of “Wow!”, when remembered still make me want to throw up). You felt around in me as though I were an inanimate object, a garbage disposal into which something had fallen and caused a jam. I noticed how itchy the carpet was.

And then you got off me. I just laid there at first, my arms still at my sides. I felt nothing, I couldn’t describe how I felt. You noticed my blank face and suddenly all your joy was gone. You seemed instantly, intensely apologetic– “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ll never do that again”– but in retrospect I imagine you were terrified I’d tell someone. I got up and your I’m-sorry-so-sorrys followed me to the stairs where, one step ahead of you, I turned around and looked down at you and I said– I don’t fucking remember what I said, something like “You will never do that again,” something which I would not say now.

So let me tell you what I would say now.

What you did to me the State of Michigan defines as Criminal Sexual Misconduct of the First Degree according to Chapter 76 (Rape), Section 750.520b. Being that you used force, and that your actions resulted in physical pain and mental anguish, it was a felony.

But let’s face it. Even had I filed a police report, and even if that report had been examined by the DA and taken to court, you would have easily escaped punishment. Rich all-star travel team white Christian boys do not go to jail for sticking their hands where they don’t belong.

So what I’m left with is this.

That to you, I was a gutter clogged with rain-soggy, rotting leaves. A skinny, dirty glass in the sink, that you can’t quite reach the bottom of with a sponge. A pencil that has rolled off the table and under a couch, and now you’re on your knees reaching, reaching for it.

You talked about me in the third person. “Hello, I’M RIGHT FUCKING HERE. I can hear you,” I should have said. You talked about me in the fucking third person, like you were having a nice little chat with yourself. Let me try that for a moment:

“He is a despicable, abhorrent, perverse, loathesome creature.” “A violator, to be sure. A fascist, a betrayer of human rights.” “He must have turned out like his dad.”

Do I find it as satisfying as you did? You thought me cold all those years you tried to talk to me, and I wrote you back with words of venom. You forfeited your right to my kindness when you assumed your desires trumped my bodily autonomy.

You are a violator of space. You put your hands where they didn’t belong. You did things which you can’t take back. Maybe there are people in the world who love you and deeply care about you. That is entirely inconsequential to me, whom you betrayed, in my own home. My home. You will always be a selfish, pathetic 19 year old jerk, in my mind.

Understand this: I will never forget, and you best hope you never meet me on the street, for I will greet you loudly and clearly with your most enduring title:

“Hello, rapist.”

Take Back the Night 2012, Koh Kong!

Only two weeks in, and already June has been an eventful month. The first weekend was the national commune elections, and I was happy to see the political hubbub finally die down. But the very next weekend (after a week of my being sick) was the event which has been months in planning.

Click the link below to open up the full post and see photos of the event! ^_^

Cultures of Silence: rethinking GBV prevention education

In the back of Thursday’s issue of the Cambodia Daily was an article headlining “Girl, 7, Raped, Murdered in Kompong Speu”. Kampong Speu is a province not far from Phnom Penh. Perhaps the age of the victim and the extremity of the violence used against her seem ghastly and unbelievable, but rapes and rape-murders of young children are frighteningly commonplace here. Many people blame a culture of impunity which overlooks and trivializes violent crimes in Cambodia. This culture of impunity would not be thriving as it is today were it not for an underlying and more prevalent culture of silence. Rape is possibly the most under-reported crime here– which, considering that in January alone there were 24 rapes, 11 of which were child rapes, shapes up to a very poor situation.

The article ends with a statement from a bureau director at the Ministry of Interior: “We found out that victims and perpetrators always tend to know each other.”

Statistics in the States say that between 75-90% of rapes are acquaintances rapes. According to available data, that also holds true in Cambodia. Oftentimes, victims are raped near their homes, often within shouting distance of neighbors. So how is it that so many perpetrators can rape and go unnoticed?

This is a multifaceted problem, but a major contributing factor is a culture of silence surrounding anything which relates to sex. Rape survivors have reported to police, village chiefs, and other authorities that they did not cry out for help or waited hours or days to report the crime because they were afraid of the consequences. That is, the survivors face consequences– whereas the perpetrators often walk away with reputation and civil liberties intact.

Another darker, more ominous reason is that people also look the other way. Even when they are aware of someone raping a child, especially if it is occurring within the family, to speak of it would be to bring shame upon the family. Moreover, to report it to the police would be to betray the family, and if Khmer culture promotes any kind of loyalty it is familial loyalty.

by MSLucy

This culture of silence also functions (though perhaps to a lesser degree) in the U.S.

Why do people remain silent after something horrible has happened to them? Self-blame. Denial. Fear that others won’t believe them, or will mock them or discourage them from speaking out. Fear of retaliation by the perpetrator. Fear of other consequences (related to work, family, school, etc.) Debilitating depression. There is rarely a single reason that inhibits a survivor from telling others what has happened to them, but all of these reasons are fueled by rape culture: if you are a woman, why didn’t you think twice before letting that guy come home with you? If you are a strong, independent woman, guess those self-defense classes didn’t pay off, huh? If you are a man– well, men just don’t get raped. If you are gay, rape is simply a pathology of the condition of gayness. If you are Black, rape is an integral part of Black culture– don’t you ever watch BET?! The “reasons” are numerous; the fact that they lack reason has no bearing on their prevalence. This is what rape culture looks like, and it functions to shut you up.

Lately I’ve been pondering the ineffectiveness of “sexual assault prevention education” back home. During college I attending a session or two of these, myself, often promoted by the university with all good intentions. Likewise, after college I attended a session which was conducted by a sorority and hosted by the university. These sessions provided very little statistical information on rape, and very little information about what to do after you or someone you know has been raped. The main focus was on advice-giving for how to not get raped, which tended to be “monitor your drinks,” “don’t go out alone, go with friends,” “never walk home alone; make sure your friends get home safely, too,” and “avoid going home with people you have just met.”

This advice, however, still functions on the principles that rapes are largely perpetrated by people we have never met before, often in unfamiliar places, and that ultimately the responsibility for not getting raped falls on the potential victim. All of these ideas are ultimately unhelpful and ignore significant facts: the majority of rapes (possibly a greater majority than we know, since acquaintance rape is even less likely to be reported than stranger rape, for a variety of reasons) are perpetrated by people familiar to the victim, they are often perpetrated in places we have been before (and perhaps even consider places of safety, including our homes), and finally and most importantly, the perpetrator is responsible for rape, not the victim. As in, 100% responsible. No, that dress you wore does not make you 5% accountable, or the fact that you invited the perpetrator into your home before he raped you doesn’t make you a little a fault. No. The rapist is responsible for the rape.

I’ve often wondered, how can one make rape prevention education more effective without denying reality, which is that even if you take every “precaution” you may still experience rape?

The first mistake may be giving people a false sense of security by suggesting that taking precaution will reduce their chances of being raped. Sure, we can suggest safety tips like “safety in numbers”, “monitor your alcohol consumption since it is the number one date rape drug”, etc. But they should not be administered as a solution. In that sense, it is better to promote the truth that rape is not the fault of the survivor, that fault lies completely with the perpetrator. Knowing this fact will empower many more people to come forward after they have experienced rape, as they will be less likely to place all blame on themselves and less fearful (if only marginally) of other people placing blame on them.

Does that mean that rape prevention should focus on the perpetrators, and not survivors? Of course not, they are equally important.

The major taboo of talking about rape is still well and alive in our “outspoken” American culture. In spite of slow progress being made by the anti-rape community to reduce the stigma and ill treatment which survivors endure, there is still a great deal of shame and self-blame that survivors must face. Any rape prevention education program should make a focal point of its curriculum the elimination of stigma. I think there are many ways to go about this, but one very powerful way to reduce stigma is to encourage people to speak out about their own rape, in a safe and supportive environment. I have experienced group dialogues wherein a safe space was provided; once one survivor had the courage to speak about their own rape, others poured out their stories in what often seemed to be a flood of relief: “Finally, someone is listening, and they care.”

In the same vein, people who trivialize or ignore rape are just as responsible for rape prevention. To say, “I don’t want to see it, hear about it, or talk about it,” while at the same time participating in a larger rape culture that promotes sexual violence in everything from magazine articles to music videos to pornographic movies, is to condone rape. No, rape is not a comfortable subject; if it was, maybe it wouldn’t be so prevalent. But breaking down the barriers of silence (while simultaneously halting our voyeuristic indulgence of rape culture) will be crucial to ending survivor stigma and achieving real justice, which is holding rapists accountable.

These are just the first steps. Achieving them will help us move into a culture wherein all sexual violence is identified as unacceptable, and that any form of education, commerce, entertainment, etc. which trivializes, ignores, exploits, or profits from is also unacceptable. There are many steps ahead of us, though, and many questions which first need to be openly discussed: What is sexual violence? How does it function in the context of relationships? In the context of society? What is love? What does it mean that love and sexual violence often occur in overlapping functional spheres? Until these questions become acceptable questions to ask, we will continue to live in a rape culture. To encourage discussion of these questions and related subjects should be a fundamental goal of rape prevention education.