HEART

The Power of Believing: A Survivor’s Journey of Healing

April 19, 2017 by HEART Leave a Comment

*Trigger warning for sexual abuse

by Aya Khalil

Five. I was sexually abused at an age where I didn’t even have enough life experience to properly process and identify what was going on. Not by a random stranger. Not by a family member. But by someone whom the community trusted: someone who taught children how to read and memorize Quran, God’s holy book. Someone who abused his power and religious authority to hurt children. As an imam and a sheikh, he had a wealth of Islamic knowledge and an entire community turned to him for spiritual guidance. A Muslim. A teacher. A role model.

Image of Mother Wit Episode 4 cartoon — photo credit: Aubrey Harding, sparethekids.com

Twenty-eight. I’m a teacher, a journalist, a mother, and a wife. I had forgotten about the incident for twenty years, until I had a child myself. And then I remembered.

I have been teaching my almost three-year-old daughter the proper terms for private parts since she was two. I remind her that her body is hers and that nobody can force her to hug or kiss if she didn’t want to. Even if that meant offending a relative or going against cultural etiquette and expectations. “If you don’t want to hug someone, it’s okay,” I tell her. “You can say no. You are strong. Your body is yours. Never keep secrets from mom or dad. We trust you. We won’t get angry at you. We are here to keep you safe. We will always believe you.”

A well-intentioned relative or friend will repeatedly ask her “can I have a hug?” I smile, and say, politely, but firmly, “Aw, it’s okay, she’s not really in the mood.” That friend or relative will probably get offended. But that’s okay. I would rather have everyone get offended by my daughter not forcibly kissing or hugging someone than the horrifying experience I went through when I was five.

Five. It was at an Islamic school in New Jersey. I was in kindergarten. I had recently immigrated with my parents a couple of years back. We wore cute little white and grey uniforms with a white hijab. He sat at his desk in front of the class and recited Quran and we would all repeat. Then he would call a student, one-by-one, up to his desk. And it would happen right there, behind his desk, where the other students couldn’t see. He would continue reciting and have us repeat. But we knew what he was doing, yet nobody said anything to him or anyone else. We were just five.

Twenty-eight. I’ve been teaching preschool at an Islamic school. Sometimes I pause in the middle of a lesson when I call on a student to come up to write on the board, remembering what that was like when I was their age. I hope and pray none of my 23 students ever experience what I endured. I never ask my students for hugs, although other teachers often do. A high five will suffice. If a child does get too close to me, I take a step back. If a child wants to hug me, I let them, but no clinging. Just a quick hug and let go.

Five. I was always taught to tell my parents everything and not to lie. And so, when I told my parents what happened, they believed me. As should all parents when their child says they were abused. Yet, when my parents called another student’s parent, she denied it. My parents believed me and called the police.

I vividly remember police cars and shining, bright lights in the dark of the night. My parents drove to the Islamic School and he was arrested. They wanted me to see that and know that they took what I said seriously. Five-year-olds should not have to watch an Imam, a man of great respect in the community, being handcuffed and put away in the police car for abusing children. For abusing me. But I watched, confused, betrayed, and in disbelief. Why? This was a man who parents trusted him with their children. This was a man who the community looked up to for spiritual guidance and to uphold morality and goodness and our faith that we so treasured. This was a man who should have instilled the love of the Quran in children. Yet he used the most beautiful words – the words of God – as an accomplice to commit the most horrid of acts to those who did not yet have the agency to even understand it.

Twenty-eight. A couple of months ago we searched for a preschool for my daughter. Male teacher? Male coach? Male music teacher? Islamic school? Quran school? Why did it all make me feel uncomfortable? “One of the lead teachers will always be with the kids when they play soccer with the coach,” another teacher assured me.

I had already declined a top-notch school because the music teacher was a male. Trust no one, I thought. Should I just say no to preschool and enroll her in full-time elementary school in a couple of years?. Yet, I wondered how would I let my daughter interact and socialize without me being there. I just need to help prevent it. And that starts with me.

Five. My parents took my brother and me out of the Islamic school and enrolled us in a private school. We later moved out of New Jersey and attended both public schools and Islamic schools. They often brought Quran and Arabic teachers at home, and stayed with us during the lesson. My parents were also probably the only ones who wouldn’t let us sleep over at friends’ houses. In fact, they wouldn’t let us spend the night at the Mosque when they had Qiyam El Layl (Night prayers) for high school students Ramadan. I remember envying my friends who brought their sleeping bags and snacks to the Mosque during Ramadan and my dad would come pick me up at midnight. But now I understand why they did that. And it’s what I will do with my own kids.

Twenty-eight. A couple of years ago when I was in high school, Hajj season came during winter break. I had the honor of performing Hajj with my sister, mom, and older brother. I felt safe. Well, at least I thought I was safe. I was sexually harassed in front of the Kabah, while making tawaf.

Safe spaces. Holy places. Schools. Mosques. Mecca. Kabah. It doesn’t matter. No matter how safe and inviting these places might seem to be, one needs to be prepared and mindful of what’s happening around them. I’m writing this to remind everyone that sexual abuse is real in the Muslim community. I’m tired of making it a taboo topic and hiding it and pretending it will never happen. I’m tired of blaming the victim and shaming Muslim women. And I’m so tired of believing that imams or religious scholars are perfect and the community siding with imams who clearly sexually abused women yet people accuse the victim of being a liar because the imam is “well-respected in the community and old.” I am a Muslim woman and I was sexually abused at two places should be safe havens in our faith. I am writing this to tell you that Muslim women, regardless of what they’re wearing (hijab or no hijab), how old they are, where they from, how they look like, can be sexually abused, even in the holiest of places by the holiest of men.

I am so glad organizations like HEART recognize and speak about important topics like sexual abuse in Muslim communities. Read more about them and check out all of the resources they have available on how to prevent sexual abuse and how to heal. If you are a victim of sexual abuse, contact them.

Aya Khalil is a freelance journalist, educator and blogger. Contact her at www.ayakhalil.blogspot.com.

Originally published November 10, 2015

Red Light Reflections: The Reality of Sexual Coercion

April 12, 2017 by HEART Leave a Comment

by: Anonymous

I sat at the intersection waiting for the red light to turn green. I thought to myself that if it turns green by the time I count to three, then I’ll do it. I counted; one, two, three…. the light remained red and I began to tear up, how could I have gotten to a place where this seemed to be my only choice of salvage? Shame and disappointment streamed down my face, then the light turned green and I started to drive. I was physically behind the wheel but by no means was I mentally present. My intention to crash the car was not to die, not at all, that would be a sin and besides, I didn’t want to die; I just wanted to be removed from life for a few months so that I never had to explain what had happened, to anyone. As a nineteen year old Muslim girl, choices seemed slim and that appeared to be the only choice that didn’t place me a dishonorable position.

My family dynamics were strongly rooted in the Islamic faith. It dictated the way we thought and behaved on a daily basis. I had no knowledge or awareness about sexual health; I gathered information through context clues on television, books, and peer conversations at school. I remember feeling shameful for my curiosity, but at the same time was fascinated by the concept of connecting with someone through your body. From my peers, I gathered that sexuality was not a safe topic to discuss without being severely judged. I formed the core belief that speaking about sex was improper, immodest, and sinful; therefore, acting on anything of the sort prior to marriage was something I could not comprehend.

It was not until I was nineteen years old that I met someone who discussed sexuality openly. I was a freshman and he was a fifth year senior at our college. Gradually, we became good friends; he was one of my first male friends which disrupted my understanding of boundaries. Another core belief of mine was the assumption that all Indian/Pakistani boys were ‘good guys’ and would protect me from harm. Throughout our friendship, there was an apparent power differential; I was a naïve, sheltered freshman and he was someone who was exposed to enough of the world to understand emotional maturity and interpersonal dynamics; both of which I had no foundation in.

As time went on, this boy took on more of a mentor role than one of a friend. He single handedly became the biggest influence in my life. As time went on, he gradually managed to slip in blame, shame, criticism, and name-calling into our interactions. He weaved truths and non-truths together. He constantly told me I was ugly, annoying, weak, and had ‘unattractive dark-skin tone’; the list went on and on. I started to believe him and began to overcompensate the ‘ugly’ me by taking on the ‘pleaser’ role. I began to suppress my intuition and follow a path of behaviors that would lead me to feel wanted and needed by others, especially him.

He would share jokes related to sex and because I had now taken on the ‘pleaser’ role, I would laugh, often without even understanding the meaning. He would invite me into discussing these topics and then label me a nympho for participating; again, mixed messages. One day he asked me a personal question related to masturbation, soon thereafter, those personal questions began to escalate and I distinctly remember something inside of me did not feel at ease. His questions turned into actions with me, and as much as my intuition was screaming, the sounds were muffled by the desire to be wanted. I did what he wanted to and I pretended to enjoy my time. If at any point he felt resistance from me, he would mention how I was ‘uncool’ and not the ‘exploratory’ type he thought I was. He would constantly belittle me before and afterwards say that no one would want me unless I was more sexually experienced. He said he was doing me a favor by teaching me.

I began to think I was falling in love with him; I began to believe that this was a healthy form of attachment because I had no model or comparison of what a healthy one looked like. I began to believe I would stick it out until he also loved me too; because in my mind I could not be touched by more than one man, it had to be him who I marry.

While this was going on, I would spend my days in bed either sleeping the guilt away or laying there for hours replaying my ‘sins’ from the night before in my head. I felt violated but I didn’t understand why because I had given consent; I chose to interact with him; therefore, it did not make sense for me to feel grossly exposed. I would challenge my intuition that was screaming ‘fear’ by thoughts of self-blame, telling myself I had a responsibility in this too. It made logical sense to me at that time. It didn’t occur to me why I kept going ‘voluntarily’ to his place. It didn’t occur to me that all the reasons I was doing what I was doing were far more than I could comprehend at that time and had nothing to do with my perceived consent.

I stopped going to classes in college due to being in bed most of the day. I would spend my days in bed, and nights either on campus with friends or with him. He would never let me spend the night at his place, so I would have to find somewhere to crash at 2am until the next morning when it was a reasonable time for me to go home as I lived with my parents. One night he had smoked weed and acted more forcefully; my pleasing laughs that night were much more panicky; never did I say no or stop. Therefore, I consented… right?

During our entire friendship, no one knew we were close friends. We hid our friendship; or I should say more like he hid our friendship and I followed his lead. He knew I would never tell anyone, for my own self-preservation and for his. He was fully confident that I would protect him and he was right. He had set the parameters such that there would be no accountability.

I started to drown; I started to become more recluse and withdrawn from my friends and family. Every minute of the waking day, I would re-play episodes of what happened in my head, a way to punish myself over and over again. The punitive notion instilled in me as a child told me I deserved this pain. Then I received a letter in the mail, it was the end of the Fall semester and the letter read I had failed out of school due to my substantially low GPA. As a South Asian daughter of immigrants who highly value education, this incident threw me over the edge. The letter read that after the Spring semester is complete, I could re-apply into the university. My head spun around in circles. What would I do for a whole semester? What would my parents think? What would we tell people? What would be any solid reason to be absent from school for an entire semester? …Which leads me back to being at that that traffic light, wondering if I should crash my car, wondering that if I was in the hospital for a few months then that would be a rational reason to tell everyone why I took a leave of absence.

For the first time, things began to appear more clearly about my relationship with this boy, or should I say man. There were so many contradictions that I began to question. How could someone that I go to the Mosque to pray Taraweeh with also be the same person that I felt violated with… and on the same night? How could someone who is perceived to be always right, also be wrong? I made a promise to myself and had all intentions of ending the friendship. I visited him once after that while I used my sister, unbeknownst to her, as my protection as she waited in the car. As soon as he heard my sister was outside waiting, he backed away from me, something I never had the voice to demand he do. I gathered any belongings I had left at his place and told him I would see him later. I didn’t know what later meant but all I knew was for the time being I would be unable to see him. I spent the entire Winter break in my bed or on my prayer rug; I repented for hours and hours every night. I would hold Sujud and just cry; my tears were so familiar to me by then that it seemed unnatural to go a day without them.

I eventually told my parents that my GPA was too low to return; disappointing my parents was a grief all on its own. My parents never asked questions about the reason behind my low grades, they assumed my lack of motivation in school was due to their own poor parenting and began to spiral down their own dysfunctional patterns of self-blame.

Soon thereafter, I was able to speak with each professor about raising my grades and by a miracle, I was able to change my GPA and continue on with the Spring semester. Although each professor did offer to change my grade which I am thankful for, they could tell something hurtful had happened to me; however, none of them asked or offered emotional assistance. The shame and non-intrusiveness attitudes reaffirmed to me that I was alone in this whole mess that I had indeed created for myself.

The next semester, I focused on myself, my grades, and God. However, while I tried my best to rely on my inner strength and God to lead me, the man who was once my mentor was out of my life but not out of my head. The man would email me frequently for years. I secretly felt important that he could not forget me. Even though the unhealthy behaviors had stopped, the unhealthy emotions remained present.

Life went on; and I met another man in my mid 20s and the pattern continued just in a different form; he would constantly belittle me, shame me, call me names and tell me repeatedly I was unattractive, yet I continued to date him. Patterns don’t just end; interventions are needed for change to occur in life.

The beginning of my intervention was when I went through a vigorous graduate program which focused heavily on self-awareness and growth and I finally began to understand healthy relational dynamics. I had a-ha moments about the men in my life and the unhealthy patterns of our relationships. I nurtured a loving and non-punitive relationship with God, understanding there is a significant flaw in dichotomous thinking. During this heightened self-awareness, I also had a small inclination that perhaps what happened to me when I was a freshman/sophomore in college was a form of abuse; however, I was fearful to process these thoughts with others. What if no one believed me? I mustered up the courage to go to a counselor and I told this woman something I had not told anyone in my life; that I believed I was abused and that my consent was not valid. My worst fear was confirmed; she did not believe me and asked if I was over exaggerating the event in my mind in order to punish him. I was devastated. It confirmed that indeed I had consented and I was to blame. I would never tell another soul.

One day I was in a seminar for domestic violence and the term sexual coercion came up. A very brief definition of sexual coercion was mentioned: a tactic used by perpetrators to intimidate, trick or force someone to have sex with him/her without physical force. I began to learn more about power and control, emotional abuse, intimidation, isolation, minimizing denying and blaming, male privilege, and coercion. And yes, I finally understood, in my story, there was not consent. My inner self began to grow confident enough to disregard if anyone didn’t believe me because I believed me and that’s all that mattered.

I tried to discuss dynamics of power and control with close friends and extended family; however, most of them fired back, stating brushing my views off as “extreme feminism.” As a result, I suppressed my thoughts and refrained from sharing with close friends and family. I confided in myself and sadly, that was my reality.

Years went on and throughout more ups and downs and downs again, I started to learn what a healthy sexual relationship looked like and I started to be drawn to healthier people rather than toxic ones. I eventually met and married my husband in my mid 30s; the healthiest relationship I have had thus far. I told my husband what had happened in my life and without hesitation, he believed me; what a corrective emotional experience.

When I heard about HEART Women and Girls, I was in disbelief that there was an organization which addressed the same issues I feel passionate to educate the Muslim community about. The lack of sex education has hurt a staggering number of Muslim girls and women. In efforts to shield and protect our children, we are leaving them completely exposed for harm and abuse. It is for this reason that for the first time, I wanted to write down my experience. If you take anything away from this story, please know that there are people in the community who will believe you. There are people in the community to help you, and who are legally and ethically bound to so in a confidential way. You have a right to be educated and a right to be heard.

Once in a while when I find myself at that same traffic light, I take a deep breath in and remember that I am not just physically in the driver’s seat but I am also mentally and emotionally behind the wheel of my life. Now when the light turns green, I exhale a breath of gratitude and keep moving forward.

Supporting Survivors: What NOT to Say

April 5, 2017 by HEART Leave a Comment

by Fatima Noor

Survivors, like me, whether from rape or domestic abuse, silently throw rants of blame against ourselves. The gaze our eyes lay on our reflections is one filled with shame. Our hearts electrocute our bodies with self-disdain with every second that ticks away. The intimate insides of our bodies curse us with feelings of filth. Every cell of our beings screams with questions beginning with who, what, where, when, why and how. Memories raid our minds and sacrifice our little-to-nothing sleep. With seconds of an attack, we, as survivors, become our own worst critics.

In my previous blog entitled “Confessions Part 1: My Sisters (11)”, I wrote about my conversation with my sisters about my rape. Unfortunately, it failed to go as well as I anticipated. Understandably, they were shocked and some of their words added insult to injury. So, as a follow up, I thought I would discuss in detail about the do’s and don’ts when speaking with a survivor. I put together this list based on my own experience and with help from other organizations, like HEART Women and Girls, Know Your IX and RAINN.

Don’t demand or even expect to know the details of what happened, who he is or when it occurred. The incident was terrible and the last thing we want is to re-live it all over again. Instead, remind yourself that this is our story and allow us to navigate through it in the manner we believe is right for us.
On the contrary, if we want to share our story, whether in a public or private forum, don’t throw roadblocks, in the form of guilt-trips and threats, in our way. We may have a desire to help others or this may be a way for us to feel empowered. Rape is an act of control and perpetrators expect and hope that their victims will be hush-hush about it. Talking about the assault is a way for us to get the power back in our hands. So rather than “shushing” us up, help us take back the stolen reigns of our decision-making power so that we may pave the path of our recovery.
Don’t give us a difficult time or call us “selfish” when we practice self-care. Encourage us to take care of ourselves, especially when it relieves us from the hustle and bustle of our daily chores. Support us to partake in soothing activities such as painting, reading or crocheting. Help us run a few errands so that we may catch a few extra zzz’s. Urge us to try something new, such as learning to play an instrument. Come with us for some recreational activities, like a movie, coffee or bowling. Many of my friends inspired me to write about my trauma and its surrounding issues to help me cope; this blog is a result of the support I received!
Don’t doubt our sanity or challenge our authenticity with questions or statements like, “are you sure you were raped?” “he doesn’t seem like that kind of guy,” or “this doesn’t make sense.” By doing so, you provoke one of the greatest fears of not being trusted. Rather, believe us and in us and avoid ripping, breaking, damaging or hurting us even more.
Don’t demean us by questioning “why didn’t you learn from your past?” “what were you wearing?” and “why were you there?” all of which sting and put the blame on us. Rather, console us with warm, welcoming phrases like, “I am sorry” and “it’s not your fault,” which may help replace the intimidating voices of our assailants that threatened our peace of mind.
Don’t challenge us with questions of what and why we did or did not do something. We were shocked, hurt, confused and scared. We did the best we could considering the severity of the situation. As much as we wish, there is no manual guide that we could flip through in order to deal with the ordeal. Many of us have regrets and we beat ourselves up for the decisions that we did or did not make. If you come along in our life, help us to look forward using what we learned from the past without any blaming and shaming.
Don’t throw out haunting accusations of “why didn’t you see this coming?” or “this never would have happened if you had done x, y or z.” After all, we are only human and not fortune tellers. If we knew this was our destiny, we probably wouldn’t have been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Instead, hug us, hold our hands and stand by us as we bleed out the agony from within and all around us.
Don’t get frustrated at our ups and downs that we undergo. One day we will be able to laugh and go out with friends and the next day we could be feeling suicidal. One week, we may not shed a tear, while another week may be filled with sleepless crying nights. Instead, give us positive feedback like “you are doing great” or “it is natural to feel this way.” Be patient with us as we move four steps forward one day and eleven steps back another day.
If we choose not to talk to you in detail because you are our loved ones, don’t be offended, jealous, angry or cold. Rape is a crime that occurs in private and involves intimate details, making us uncomfortable talking about it, especially to the closest people in our lives. And most likely than not, we don’t want to hurt you. Knowing this, encourage us to seek help with professional therapists and friends or family with whom we are comfortable with. The purpose is for us to heal in the long run. I will be the first to admit that I opted to talk to my friends and therapists over my family members both during the domestic abuse and rape.
If we pull away from you, don’t ignore us or get upset with us. Chances are we naturally let our emotions get the better of us. Understand the extreme situation and follow up with us, text us, call us, smile at us, sit next to or with us or send us small tokens that show your appreciation with us. After telling one of my good friends about my trauma, she graciously delivered four dozen pinkish-peach blooming roses to my office. Then a few days later, we met up for dinner, where she allowed me to “vent.” These small gestures brightened up my week.
Don’t undermine the gravity of the trauma based on the details of the assault: number of times the assault occurred (once vs. ten times); relationship with the perpetrator (significant other vs. stranger); length the assailant and victim stayed together (immediate breakup or being together for months after the rape); when it occurred (last week vs. ten years ago); and whether there were use of weapons and/or threats. Rape is traumatic no matter what the surrounding atmosphere is. Being raped by a spouse may be just as disturbing as being assaulted by a stranger. In addition, just because the abuse occurred years ago, doesn’t mean that we have healed. Therefore, always be a supporting friend who will help replace what we lost with joy, laughter and smiles in our lives. The man who raped me never used violence or weapons and I stayed with him for two years after the assault. And dealing with him day after day for that timeframe caused me even more agony and trauma than what I had originally undergone.
Don’t belittle the incident by linking it to sex, love and intimacy with claims that “it was just sex,” “at least this wasn’t your first time,” “he was expressing his love,” or “take it as a compliment.” Rape is a violation of our body and is a crime of manipulation and power over someone. It doesn’t leave behind feelings of love; it leaves traces of not just physical damage, but mental and emotional as well.
At the same time, don’t say that we allowed our “nafs” (an Islamic term meaning our selfish desires) to consume us; this is again a form of blame. It was abuse, not any type of desire that fell upon us. Yes, we may have been interested in pursuing a relationship with the perpetrator initially, but there is no correlation between the attack(s) and our desire for a companion or love. When I had initially told someone about my situation, she said that I was desperate for a companion which is why I allowed the rape to occur and why I stayed with the rapist. That pierced my heart so terribly that I refused to confide in her ever again. Understand, rape is a crime and abuse and is never the fault of the victim/survivor.
Don’t make excuses for the perpetrator, i.e. “maybe he was having a bad day,” “that’s how man was created” or “he was attracted to you.” No, we don’t want to hear these excuses and no, they are not justifiable or valid. Rape is wrong regardless of the reasons.
Don’t approve the assault just because there was flirting, dating or sexting. Physical touch is not the same thing as words plastered on an email or whispered on a phone call. These shouldn’t even be factored into the equation.
Do not minimize sexual assault to only instances involving penetration. Sexual assault can occur even if the only kissed the victim or never even saw the victim naked. A violation is a violation despite the degree of it. Rather than focusing on the actual assault or assailant, keep your attention on us survivors and accompany us on our journey of recovery.
Don’t make decisions for us and don’t corner us into defending the decisions we have previously made. Questions like “why didn’t you tell anybody?” or “why haven’t you filed a report?” are subtle ways of advising us on what we should or should not do. As an alternative, allow us to be the driver of our healing, moving in the direction we choose. Of course, give us advice if we ask you, but never force us into things we don’t want to or stop us from taking certain courses of action that we want to. Some of us may choose to file a police report, while others may choose to become an activist and even others may want to put the past behind them to simply heal.
Don’t share our story with others, even if it is with another family member, without our permission. It was an honor for you (and not your right) that we revealed this personal aspect of our life to you. We confided in you because we respect and trust you so please reciprocate that respect and trust. It is our story, our life and our trauma; let us unveil it the way we want, when we want, to whom with want, in the manner we want and with the details we want.
Don’t avoid us, treat us differently, view us as damaged goods or make us feel like a burden. We need all the support and love we can get because there is no cast to heal our broken trust, bandage to hide the pain or glue to put back our shattered hearts. One of the comments I had heard during this ordeal was “you’ve done enough to your family” (ouch). That was one of the most gut-wrenching allegations that stabbed me in my heart. We appreciate souls who can be my constant sanctuary enveloping me in their pure goodness, trust and love.
Don’t spout out statements such as “God is punishing you” or “God wanted this to happen.” When life fails us, all we have is our faith in God. When you paint God as the one who caused this, although we know deep down He is the planner of all things, it doesn’t help. We want to see Him as our savior, not as one who harms us. As an alternative, pray with us and for us. Together, we can ask Him to cocoon our hearts, minds, bodies and souls to make our healing easy, quick, painless, special and beautiful.
Don’t ask us to be the better person and forgive the rapist. He doesn’t deserve any empathy or forgiveness especially when he doesn’t even seek forgiveness or acknowledge that he did anything wrong. Forgiveness may or may not happen considering something so precious was stolen from us. Leave it up to us to forgive or not as we go through our healing process. It has been two years since I was raped and 28 years since I was sexually molested and I still cannot forgive those men.
Don’t pester us to “get over it,” “put it behind” us or “stop thinking about it,” regardless of whether it has been one year or 20 years since the trauma. Realize that each soul is distinct, has different strengths and weaknesses and lives with unusual surroundings and varying degrees of a support system. Some of us know and trusted the attacker, while others didn’t. Some of us continue to live within the same vicinity as he does whereas others live across the country. Some of us have nearby friends and family to support us, while others do not. Some of us have access to counseling and others have nobody to talk to. In addition, the after effects of rape haunt us like a shadow for the rest of our lives, so most of us will never really get over it.
Don’t insensitively make claims that it could have been worse and tell us to be thankful with comments like “at least you’re not dead.” Yes, that is ultimately true. At that time, though, death would have been a better alternative than living through this grief. And at that moment, the gravitational pull of our pain is so strong that we cannot fathom there could be a worse situation than ours. As an alternative to this, help us count our blessings of health, a job, loved ones and anything that is positive to keep our chin up without harshly telling us to be grateful.
Never think our loss is not a loss, saying “it’s not like you lost anything.” Yes, we did lose something! And that thing is far more precious than money. Just because our dignity is not valued through dollar signs does not mean it is not a loss.
Don’t stereotype us as “that” type of woman. There is no one kind of woman who gets raped. Instead, degrade that horrendous act and help us see our strengths, like our character, personality, inner and outer beauty and intelligence.
Don’t attempt to understand the rape and/or abuse or the emotions tied to it. An outsider who is watching or listening to the abuse unfold will not and cannot understand what led to the assault or why, we stayed, if we did, with the perpetrator. Even we, the survivors cannot comprehend or digest anything when we are tangled up in the trauma. The confusion, shock and weakness consume us and make our life a jigsaw puzzle that awaits to be put together. Instead, be our lifeline to whom we talk to when and if we need it.
Don’t claim to know what we are going through. Your spat with your significant other, the work politics that you faced last week, your bad hair day or not having gotten the 2% raise that you were expecting are not valid comparisons to the ordeal that we have been through. Instead, acknowledge the gravity of our pain, don’t pretend to think you know our agony and actually tell us you have no idea what we are going through.The antidote to our pain is not to shame, blame, shun, scare, lecture or guilt-trip us, as we already do a spectacular job of this ourselves. Instead, support us, honor us, love us, console us, commend us, elevate us, encourage us, talk with us and make it about us: for once, let it be victim-centric. Be our moon that is always ever-ready and present to radiate in the darkest of moments with your illuminating light and intensifying beauty regardless of whether we acknowledge you or not.

This post was originally published on the author’s personal blog, Echoes of Her Voice.

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