I, like most men and women, have serious issues with sexual assault (and the lite version: sexual harassment). Unfortunately not everyone has evolved to the same level. I clearly remember the day I chased “Gabriel” out of my office because he would not leave a woman alone, even after being explicitly told he was making her uncomfortable.
But it’s not just man-on-woman assault that gets under my skin, although that is unfortunately the prevalent crime in today’s society.
Woman-on-woman is just as bad. Some lesbians are unable to conceptualise the fact that touching another woman inappropriately and against her will is also sexual assault, even though you are a woman yourself.
A good friend and popular local singer “Janene” told me a story the other day. She went to the bathroom after a show and when she opened the stall door to leave, she was accosted by another woman who professed her undying love for her and her singing voice. The admission of undying love was not the problem. Shoot your shot, maybe Janene felt the same. It was the fact that she pushed her up against the wall, grabbed Janene’s breasts and tried to shove her tongue down her throat during this uninvited confession.
“Janene, you do realise you were sexually assaulted?” It’s been many years since the incident, but the lights suddenly came on in Janene’s eyes. I don’t know how she actually dealt with this realisation afterwards, we aren’t close enough to share those kinds of details.
And there are plenty of other types, too many to name but no less relevant. Man-on-man (Gay men found me fascinating when I was 16 and I still had hair, but I was never subjected to anything inappropriate. The occasional love letter and comments about my “beautiful eyes” were as interesting as it got, and actually gave a significant boost to my fragile 16-year-old self confidence). Woman-on-man. It happens a lot more than gets spoken about in polite company.
And of course the famous pastor-on-child. I’ll stick to fictional characters for this one, but I know Bunchy from Ray Donovan resonated with a lot of survivors of childhood sexual abuse. Bunchy was a wreck, and he was full of unresolved issues, not just anger. Almost all of his issues could be traced back to the abuse he suffered at the hands of the local priest. Sick, disgusting humans who unfortunately do not exist only in fiction.
And just so you know where I’m coming from, I’m very liberal when it comes to other people’s sex lives, maybe it’s the Dutch blood. It basically boils down to the fact that I genuinely do not care what you choose to do for fun when the bedroom door is closed (and I cannot fathom why anyone does), as long as there is consent. It’s your ding-dong; not mine.
Gay, straight, black, white, threesomes, foursomes. Who cares? It’s free and it’s fun. Knock yourself out!
Well, it’s usually free. But I’m not even bothered by the prostitutes, as long as they are there out of their own free will. I have no idea why so many governments feel they should be able to regulate what someone does with their body just because there is suddenly money involved. Willing buyer, willing seller. It’s a free economy, why draw the line there?
We should definitely take a leaf out of the book of the Dutch Government (a cannabis leaf?) and legalise and regulate sex work. Take it out of the back alleys and move it into the light, so we can ensure that underage workers are not trapped there, and that everyone plying their trade is doing so out of their own free will. Pimps should not exist. Sex workers should be able to access help from the police and private security, just like anyone else in this country.
But before I stray too far off topic, I need to tell a story. This is not my story, but I was asked specifically to tell it, and I was unknowingly involved on the periphery from the start. Apparently I have “a way with words.” Miss Hearn, my English teacher from primary school, would be so proud if she were still around to hear that compliment paid to me recently.
I have a friend we’ll call Panda. Not hard to guess what her favourite animal is. A friend of a friend first, and later an employee. A very sharp IT professional.
Friendship aside, she was one of my favourite employees ever. Razor sharp, studious, educated, committed but also lots of fun. The exact kind of person you want as a colleague or employee. Never looking for enemies, doesn’t bring drama to work. And always up for a post-project celebration at the pub over the road. Now a good friend who stayed in IT while I chose to break free. We’re both from the same “rough” part of town. Brooklyn. Not Waterkloof.
She’s also the one who inspired me to start this blog, in the way only a friend can: “I know you don’t like Hipster shit, but you should really start a blog.”
Panda was raped. Not by a stranger. Not by a family member. Not by an acquaintance. By a close, trusted friend. Utter betrayal.
And not “I got drunk and fooled around with one of the boys in the group and regret it now. I’ll just tell everyone I was raped.” Sadly, stories like that happen way too often, and it discredits those who were actually violated and survived to tell their story. Like Panda.
She didn’t even tell anyone at first, not for years. And they weren’t fooling around. Door locked, pinned down, assaulted, strangled and penetrated without consent. I know that’s graphic, but that’s what happened.
She hid this story in shame. Not opening a police case, not going for a rape kit. The police’s handling of rape cases in South Africa is questionable at best, if not entirely bonkers. Rape kits are another problem, but it’s not something I’m really qualified to talk about in detail. Fortunately.
One Sunday afternoon I was visiting a friend at their restaurant on one of the local wine farms. The friend got up to attend to restaurant matters and I checked my phone for messages. There was a very long message from Panda. Unusual, our text messages are usually brief and to the point.
Word for word, here is the message I received. I’ve changed the rapist’s name to Jeffrey, in “honour” of the world’s current most famous rapist, Jeffrey Epstein. I’m sure I could have also used Andrew, Donald or Flavio, but Jeffrey seems more fitting:
“Dear friends and family.
This is the hardest message I’ve ever had to write, I will try and be brief.
If you receive this message, it is because I love you, and I hope after this, you will still love me.
There are stories flying around my friendship with Jeffrey and why it ended.
I would like to tell you, but I do not expect anything from you.
About 3 years ago – we went out drinking, as most of you know, my alcohol tolerance is generally very low and often resulted in severe illness when I drank.
That night we drank a lot.
When we got back to the hotel, I spent a good few hours in the bathroom being ill.
After that, I went to my room to sleep. Jeffrey came in, it’s not uncommon for us all to sometimes share a room. I was very out of it.
He started undressing me. I thought maybe he was trying to get me into my pjs, our many years of trusting friendship, this was not weird.
Next thing I woke up with him on top of me, strangling me.
I don’t know how long the assault lasted, I threw up a few times and woke up a few times crying for him to stop.
Eventually it ended.
I didn’t think it was anything bad – I messaged him after and said thanks for a good night and I’m not sure what happened but that I loved him and couldn’t wait to see him again. I also said if anything happened I was happy it was with him, not fully remembering the night
Once I got home, and looked at my body. The memories came back and I remembered. There were bleeding bite marks all over my body, severe strangulation marks around my neck and the rest of my body was torn to pieces, taking months to heal. Upon visiting a gynaecologist, she said the tearing and scratching was severe.
My biggest regret was that I did not go for a rape kit.
I left this behind, still loyal to him, thinking he just was too drunk to know what he was doing and I was too passed out to stop it.
A few weeks later we had a night out with some friends, all staying at the same place.
I decided to go to bed because he was already very drunk.
I went into my bedroom to get changed. He came into the room and locked the door – I saw the same look I had seen in his face before and started screaming. I had no clothing on and was trying to climb inside a cupboard to avoid this happening again.
Had it not been for (Decent Male Friend 1) and (Decent Male Friend 2), I fear the same would have happened, but this time I was sober enough to get away.
I spent the night locked in (DMF2) and (DMF3)’s room, fearing for what would come next .
The next morning I left and hid this story from everyone for 3 years.
You see, I had lost (Ex Boyfriend) in a brutal way. My move to cape town was to be with (Sister) and Jeffrey to heal.
It took an immense part of me away, a part that to this day still hurts and comes in waves.
I am in therapy but I wanted you all to understand what happened, how it happened and why I was isolated.
It took me almost 2 years to tell (Sister) out of complete shame, her support being enough to get me strong enough to be able to tell you all now.
All I ask is that this story does not go any further – I am telling you so that who I am now, might make more sense to you. I don’t expect any retaliation from anyone or any changes in friendship.
I just want you to understand.”
Personally, I believe the rapist should be named and shamed on here, but that is not my decision to make.
My follow up response the next morning:
“Hey Panda. Sorry, you caught me on a very busy afternoon. Again, so sorry that this happened but so impressed you are keeping your voice and speaking up! If it’s worth anything, I believe every word of your story, not just because you are my friend but because professionally you and I have been through this twice with (sexual harasser 1) and (sexual harasser 2), and not once did you ever act irrationally nor embellish any part of your story (and we could later prove exactly what happened). Stay strong and let me know if there is literally anything we can do for you and (Sister)!”
And sadly, things went quiet for the most part after that. I don’t believe in asking people to elaborate on their traumatic events, unless they offer the information first and are looking for someone to talk to.
This stuff happens. It happens to your sisters, it happens to your friends, it happens to your girlfriend. People like Jeffrey exist in plain sight, but are fortunately in the minority.
The “blow out” from Panda’s message was satisfying. Jeffrey was “ex-communicated” by all friends in the group and beyond, both male and female. A punishment not even nearing the level of the crime he committed, but it’s a small win.
And that’s what the rest of society needs to do. People like Jeffrey need to be outed, shamed, ignored, booed, belittled and preferably arrested and made to answer for their crimes, and it’s up to us to make sure the Jeffreys of the world are held accountable.
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I ran a Gemini spell check on this blog before posting, and AI thought I asked for statistics on Gender Based Violence in South Africa. The brief overview was terrifying:
Please don’t try write anything for anyone AI, ever.
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