The following may be triggering to those affected by assault. 

 

The rape is not the point of this story. 

You will read that word, what it means, all its weight and history and implications and you will miss the point. Don’t do that. Focus instead on the before and after, as I’ve done my best to do over the past month, and perhaps this will not go down as another assault lost to the wind.

The stranger who stole my dress in the nighttime is not the star of this story. He is nameless, though his face manifests itself everywhere and women find themselves having to burn bloody underwear to forget. I watched the sunny, yellow cotton turn a violent red; a broken honey pot turned artifact of war. I was returned to the doorstep of my host family unceremoniously by someone who didn’t even know he’d just won a battle.

Flight. Fight. Freeze. Perhaps my stillness conveyed something sexy. My screams conveyed that I did not want to die. They rang clearly, uninhibited by alcohol and fueled by fear. That broke the sexy spell of an unmoving body, and suddenly his dick was inside of a someone, not a something. 

The feeling was not once but always. It is when I get grabbed on the train and drugged at the party. It’s my ex boyfriend throwing me around and my friends hiding embarrassing things under concealer. I think our quiet has convinced the world that we are a bunch of some bodies not somebodys. The difference is harrowing.

It took me ten minutes to start screaming. I have yet to stop. The doctors handed me a rape kit and some Xanax and told me to calm down. The world handed me Black skin and a vagina and told me to cover up.

I hand you this story and I am telling you to scream. 

I keep thinking, I can’t believe I didn’t die. They do that out here in South Africa — and everywhere. It was dark that night because there were no stars in the sky. I think of that minute detail often.

I believed, in a sweaty, scathing stupor, that I must ask — are you going to kill me?

Both he and the world looked at me with eyes that said, of course, he’s already done exactly that.

I shook with anger and fear and a thirst for blood and felt with complete certainty that both he and the world were sorely mistaken. 

The HIV prophylactics the paramedics gave me made me loopy. The anti-anxiety meds made me stop shaking. Their questions make me angry. Why didn’t YOU fight back? 

I had to call my mom.

My brother is going to read this. He’s twelve. 

Mom told dad because she had to. I’m telling you because I can. Do not question for a moment, it was violent. You needn’t hypothesize how horrible it must be. I am here to tell you.

I had to call my boyfriend.

I moved across the world and found what I worried may exist everywhere. Now I know, for certain, it does. The rape is not the point. The bruising and lacerations and potential exposure to HIV is not the point. The shaky fingers are not the point. They are all repercussions of a fact which I will beat to death until the same is done to me: the world for women and children is violently unsafe. 

I am a journalist by trade, by passion, by the things I’m good at. I like stories, so let me tell another. 

Once upon a time, on a night like any other, Uyinene Mrwetyana was being raped and murdered in a post office. 

And another. An average of 110 women were experiencing something similar in this country. I got to wake up the next morning. That makes me a special statistic.

I know hopelessness as the feeling of relief when your rapist doesn’t kill you. What pitiless joy I felt at being alive. How clear my defenselessness became in the wake of my entry into adulthood. Black girls don’t grow up, we are robbed and told that we’re being gifted reality. 

You are so beautiful, the world says. Let me tear you in half. 

I literally dare you. 

Let’s not talk about the frivolous stuff. Let’s talk about the small spaces, like the car. And strange men, like the driver. Let’s talk about tough talks, like with my mother. Or rough looks, from my host sister. We can discuss and reiterate and rearticulate and go through all the proper revisions and the fact remains the same. The test results do not change. My heart does not lighten. 

I write to you with the intention of telling the truth, especially when it hurts. I am a journalist, that is what we do. I take this story and I gift it to you all, a nasty present that proves the injustice of the world we’ve been thrust into. If there is no autonomy offered to my body then my brain will take it from here. 

I write to you because I believe in the fundamental change occurring publicly. I want the world to know that even its most protected — the sweet children they place in ivory towers and convince to change the world — even we are unsafe. I want the world to know that my suffering will be very loud. It will be shared and dissected and used for scientific research. I didn’t consent but I’ll give my body up to science, if it helps. 

I write to you because it’ll happen again. And again and again and again, and I’ll be damned if I’m not screaming through the whole thing.

Remember, the rape is not the point. 

It is a repercussion. Not for my actions, but for what we’ve decided to tolerate. The aftermath has lasted exponentially longer than the attack. It has been painful in a way which makes one want to die. It is the most regular I’ve felt in a long time. That’s the point. In all my grace and grandeur — in all my brilliance and beauty and perceived importance, I was assaulted. 

There is no safety net. That is the point. 

I wished someone had told me sooner before I realized it is displayed everywhere before me. The ugly truth exists twofold: I can neither pretend this didn’t happen, nor bring myself from putting it to paper. It must be documented. It will not be a secret between me, my rapist, and a God who failed to protect me. It will be another story, another byline, another injury sustained in the name of being alive. 

My new therapist says I must give myself time. He says not to intellectualize my experience. You’re traumatized, he says.

Yes, I reply. I’ve been traumatized. 

You’re in pain, he says.

Yes, I reply. I am in excruciating pain.

Heal how you see fit, he says.

So, I take a deep breath and scream.

 

 

Photos (in order of appearance) by Jamaica Ponder, STAA Collective, and Kathy Fernandez. 

If you or a loved one has been sexually assaulted, you can call the RAINN hotline for free, 24-hour advice at 1-800-656-4673.