The invisible survivors and a dark corner of victim blaming - #whyididn'treport
*Warning for potential triggering - victim blaming
The hashtag #whyistayed has popped up recently - it started with a series of tweets by Beverly Gooden after the whole Ray Rice incident. What basically happened there is that the NFL player was accused of assaulting his wife. The NFL gave him a paltry 2 game ban for the offence.
Then there was an enormously disturbing video of Rice making a public statement about the it all, with his now wife sitting next to him, silent, while he talks about the incident as if they were just having a marital spat - ‘we’ve learnt from it’ ‘we’ve had counselling’…What the flying fuck?
Then a CCTV video of the assault surfaces (Jesus Christ I’m not linking that, but there’s an alarming amount of copies on youtube) , that showed Rice (TW:description of dv) knocking his then fiancé out and dragging her body out of an elevator.
After this video the NFL banned him indefinitely.
Unsurprisingly, a bunch of fucks clamour on to the internet to ask why she married him after this incident, why she’s still with him - she must be asking for it obviously.
The #whyistayed campaign was started to show the variety of stories of women who’ve suffered abuse at the hands of a partner, to show that the reasons for staying are numerous, personal, involve coercion, manipulation - that it’s not a fault of the victim, that it’s an aspect of the abuse, that it’s not the *responsibility* of the victim to end abusive behaviour of men by leaving it.
The #whyistayed movement was started to bring together women who have suffered abuse, to create a visible stream of all of their experiences, to blow apart the simplified view that women should stop the crimes committed against them. This reminded me of another kind of responsibility that we place on women who’re victims of violence - the responsibility to report.
6 months ago while I was volunteering for a local rape crisis centre I represented them in a radio interview about anonymity for those accused of sex crimes. Me and this woman have the interview, and aside from the fact that she clearly has more concern for the tiny number of men effected by false accusations than the thousands of women who’s potential for justice would be taken away with accused anonymity, it goes swimmingly. She emails me afterward, asks for an interview with a survivor. The centre can’t ask its service users to represent them in the media, but I don’t want to leave her empty handed.
My hands hover over the keyboard. I clench my teeth and think about it. What will it be like to talk about my rape? It’s only recently I’ve begun to process all of what happened to me as sexual violence, and not as just how i got used to men treating me. I haven’t even had the chance or the money to talk to my councillor about it yet.
I type back that I can talk to her as a survivor. I wanted to be brave. I wanted to be the women who could rise like a phoenix from the ashes, overcome the shame of victim blaming, be an ambassador.
Two days later we sit on a damp bench on the Uni campus. She asks me to tell her my experiences. I state frankly that I’ve been raped three times, attempted rape twice and sexual assault five or six times, not counting sexual harassment. She asks that I describe an incident, I resist, she asks again, and I awkwardly recount through the first time I was raped. She looks doubtful that it even counts, she clearly doesn’t even know the law on rape.
She looks at me, so patronising, and says ‘So, it’s very difficult for me to hear that you never reported any of these incidences.’ It’s not a question. She’s not asking for anything, she’s not asking for why I didn’t report, she’s telling me what she thinks of me. What she’s saying is that I should have reported them. What she’s saying is how can I cry out as a survivor when I’ve done nothing to help myself. What she’s saying is how can I expect justice when I don’t even inform the police. She hasn’t bothered to research the experiences of women who report. She hasn’t read about women who are asked by the police what they were wearing or told that these things happen, advised not to get drunk, advised to drop their cases even when evidence is there, or face humiliation in court. She hasn’t bothered to find out that 24% of reported rapes are immediately dropped without investigation by the police; that only 6% reported even reach a conviction, only half of convictions jail time. She hasn’t had a look at the reams of incidences of victim blaming - victims of convicted rapists being illegally named on the internet, subjected to such humiliation, blame and abuse that they have to change names and move home.
I left the conversation feeling empty and humiliated, with my self-esteem somewhere near the height of the Mariana trench. I opened up about the realities of my rape and I was blamed for not reporting it. I sat in a cafe with a new notebook and listed each and every incident, to try and regain some semblance of control, of action, over what my mind and body has been subjected to.
She never emails me the final interview, even though she says she will - her final product probably backing for accused anonymity, and I imagine says that victims have to report if they're going to talk about justice for survivors.
Five months down the line I’m walking down the road. I’ve been triggered and I’m thinking about an attack, thinking about one of them, imagining like a waking nightmare bumping into him and him blaming me for it, telling me it wasn’t rape, it doesn’t count, i picture myself over-emotional in public, making a fool of myself, the girl who cried rape. The thought hits me. I stop dead, looking down at the ground, my heart is thumping inside my chest.
I could report one. I could report an incident. I could go and tell the police. I could go and tell them and they would say there’s not enough evidence it was too long ago he didn’t have reasonable belief that I wasn’t consenting and I couldn’t prove who it was and it doesn’t count I’d better drop the case. And then it will have happened to me. I will have done what I was supposed to do as a survivor, what a good girl does when boys are boys and she gets raped. And I’ll be able to say to that smug fucking girl that I experienced the humiliation and the triggering and the blame myself from the law enforcement and the justice system and I’ll finally have a justification for standing up for the women who went through the same thing - I’ll have proof. My experiences will be valid. I will count.
I want to take control of what has happened to me. I don’t want to be too scared to go, too scared to be dismissed. But it turns over in my head, which one would I report? If I report them all they’ll surely think I’m lying? What if I end up in the papers, one of those girls being taken to court for making it up? I’m too scared to face the almost definite chance that they’ll never even give me the time of an investigation. I am definitely too scared to come up close and personal with the big bad world that doesn’t give a shit that I was raped.
And this is what we’re asking women to do when we blame them for not reporting violence against them - we make them responsible for changing the justice system, instead of making the justice system responsible for them. Just as with victim blaming it’s tempting to think as a woman that women can do something to change their situation, because then if we do the right things and behave the right way we can avoid that situation ourselves, and we don’t have to be afraid.
I know so many women who have been raped, and some men too. I know all these women just through knowing women - not through safe spaces, not through survivors' meetings, not through working at a rape crisis centre - just through knowing women.
I know of one person who has reported an assault, out of all of these incidences. One out of fourty, maybe fifty.
Probably a majority of the women I’m close too have told me about *at least* one incident, often several. The same goes for my sister, for her friends, for my friends. All women who are willing to talk about rape know a fuck of a lot of women who’ve been raped. We talk about it in our living rooms, in drunk confessions, in whispers in public spaces, inboxes and text messages. It’s not in view of the rest of the world - the world has it’s own view of rape.
The government estimations say that 1 in 6 will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime. But that doesn’t ring true from what I know.
Studies also show that around 66% of women who are raped don’t even identify it as what it is because it doesn’t fit the ’stranger in a dark alley’ stereotype that Rupert Murdoch’s lap dogs love. So how could they answer ‘yes’ to ‘have you been raped?' in a survey, no less report it?
It’s so frustrating that there are no statistics to show the realities of rape. If I had to aim at a ball-park figure I’d say at least 50% of women will be raped at some point in their lives, even ignoring sexual assault and sexual harassment.
The other day my friend talked about all the atrocities that we know of committed against races, ethnicities, sexualities, disabilities - all the things that have been brought to light. She said everyone must think there’s never been any mass atrocity against women, but violence against women is that atrocity. It’s like what you read in a history book - something awful is happening, and nobody is talking about it, and when they do they are silenced.
Survivors of sexual violence and domestic violence are systematically silenced. There’s victim blaming, rape myths, ignorance around rape, the list goes on.
There are so many survivors living everywhere across the country and across the world, hidden, and there is no real awareness that they are there.
A campaign under the #whyididn’treport hashtag trended back in April to build a collection of stories of the realities of reporting sexual violence, to blow apart the responsibility put on women to change the police force and the justice system, and it’s re-emerging now alongside #whyistayed.
I want to put my story up there under #whyididn’treport, to get some closure on the shame I’ve been put through. I want to re-start #whyididn’treport to shine a light on the invisible survivors of violence, the responsibility put on women to report, as penance of a survivor.
I’ve posted about four tweets so far, and I’ve got about as many followers, so we’ll see how it goes - and if you want to join in, please do.
Follow it all here, along with the full stream back to April