Hey beloveds, before you this post, please make sure you’ve read the previous post. You can find it on this URL: http://amandlaawethu.org/misbeloved/memoirs-of-a-rape-victim-weeping-melody/

Silence is a rape victims enemy. It forces us to endure ounces of shame while protecting the very person who should be tormented by their actions. Inner thunderstorms become our daily bread.

The literal translation of my title is: Not talking is to hate! Ironically, victims tend to remain silent about their trauma because, for most rape victims, silence becomes golden. This silence is driven by fear—fear of being judged, accused, or disowned. Society teaches us that we must have done something to encourage our rape. Yet no amount of rape culture can ever justify rape.

Silence only protects the rapist and denies victims the opportunity to get the physical and psychological support they need.

It may sound hypocritical for me to urge other rape victims to speak up, as I lacked the strength or courage to do so at first. But I’m speaking up now, and this blog is my medium. Since I started blogging, my courage has multiplied tenfold, and peace now flows like a river.

I won’t pretend this blog has been my sole source of healing. I’ve attended therapy—and continue to do so—found an unwavering support system of my mum (she has been my biggest pillar of support), my family and real friends, and educated myself as much as possible about rape, rape trauma syndrome, and depression. I strongly encourage other rape victims to seek therapy, build a support system, and learn about the realities of rape. Knowledge has been a profound source of power for me.

There has been significant contestation about my title, Memoirs of a Rape Victim. Many prefer the term “rape survivor”—therapists, friends, family, and others close to me. While I agree we demonstrate incredible strength every moment we choose to push forward, I intentionally use “victim” because we were victimized. The term “rape survivor” glosses over the immense process required to survive.

Summoning the strength to escape an attacker, find safety, ask for help, or endure a doctor’s probing during a rape exam—all while confronting rejection from friends or family who prioritize the rapist over your trauma—these are fragments of what it takes for a rape victim to survive. Survival is not automatic; WE CHOSE TO SURVIVE BECAUSE IT WAS OUR ONLY LIFELINE!

…

My survival instinct didn’t kick in until I was forced to rely on it. My first instinct was to seek comfort from one of my closest friends, long before I succumbed to my weeping melody.

Immediately after being violated, I was taken to the pharmacy near Pick and Pay in Rondebosch, Cape Town. I use the word taken because contesting the rapist’s demand to get the pill was too frightening.

The streets of Rondebosch were bustling. Everyone I saw seemed to be his friend. I couldn’t trust anyone. So, like an obedient servant, I walked into the pharmacy as he watched from his car. I whispered across the counter, asking for the morning-after pill, and my rapist stood right next to me.

When the pharmacist heard my request, I bowed my head in shame. My thoughts raced like wildfire, all revolving around the shame I felt. My only hope for assistance lay with men—the very gender I feared most in that moment. Rondebosch was crawling with men of all shapes and sizes, including the pharmacist. My fear grew. I was certain that if I asked for help, they would unite against me.

I didn’t understand why people call the brain the most powerful organ until that moment. Every possible scenario I imagined ended in disaster, paralyzing me into silence.

On my way out, I bumped into one of his friends. I couldn’t say anything but was convinced he could see the shame and disgust etched on my face. We exchanged pleasantries, and before I could summon the courage to ask for help, my rapist came up behind me and pushed me toward his car, exchanging a distant hello with his friend.

When I returned to my dorm, my subconscious sought a safe haven. My eyes landed on my bed sheet. The bright white stains of his semen on my royal purple sheets mocked me. They stared back with sovereign power, as if they were the king and I the slave.

I stared at that sheet for what felt like an eternity. My mind sketched a sinister picture of my future—a black hole behind Satan’s leer. Eventually, I dug a microscopic hole in that darkness and found the strength to cleanse myself. I grabbed my bottle of Dettol, a faint glimmer of hope, and escaped to the bathroom.

Afterward, I wandered through the quad in the rain, seeking solace, and ended up at my little sister’s doorstep. Each step reflected the dark skies above, the black clouds mirroring my insides.

Vuyo opened the door with a bright smile that quickly faded. I was laughing hysterically—my mind teetering on the edge of madness. Every laugh dissolved an ounce of my sanity.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Sex,” I said. “I just had sex. No, wait! I didn’t. Wait, yes, I did!”

The disbelief on her face spoke volumes. She ushered me in, and I told her what had happened. Each word cut like a blade on my tongue.

When I finished, Vuyo said, “You were raped. He took full advantage of you.”

She tried calling him, but his phone was off. The next day, we saw on Facebook that he was on his way back to Nairobi. His departure didn’t comfort me. It disempowered me further. Leaving was his final act of cowardice.

Hearing Vuyo say it—You were raped—forced the reality to sink in. Those words shattered me, yet they also marked the beginning of my journey toward survival.

 

P.S. Please feel free to leave your comments, but destructive negativity will not be tolerated. Remember: Compassion is humanity’s co-captain, steering us toward survival.

 

©misbeloved/mwk

 

[Maryanne Kamunya] and [misbeloved], [2014]. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to [Maryanne Kamunya] and [misbeloved] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.