I stumbled across across an article the other day that was titled "Silence is No Benefit to a Rape Victim". Having come to this realization myself over time, I was naturally intrigued. The author sums it up nicely with this story:
In 2002, I taught
J.M. Coetzee's novel Disgrace, a story of rape and denial in which a professor
harasses, stalks, and rapes one of his students, but refuses to admit it to
himself afterward.
In the classroom discussion that ensued, some of my students argued that because his victim in the novel doesn't say "no," and because she doesn't physically resist him, what happens between them doesn't really count as rape. As soon as I suggested that she might have been afraid to say "no," a small voice seconded me: "But just because she didn't say 'no' doesn't mean she wanted it to happen." The speaker, a student who had never before spoken in class, or even made eye contact with me, suddenly volunteered that when she was in high school, a teacher had locked her in a room and assaulted her.
For that young woman, one of the worst parts of her continuing ordeal was that she never got the chance to say anything on her own behalf at the trial. Likewise, she told the class, the worst thing about the story we were discussing was that the professor "gets to do all that talking in his own defense, but the girl he raped never gets to say anything again."
For that student, the opportunity to say something in a public space, and be affirmed for doing so, seemed therapeutic. She grew from a sullen student into a joyful learner, and even brought us cupcakes on her birthday—maybe as a way of saying thank you for listening to her the way nobody else had.
In the classroom discussion that ensued, some of my students argued that because his victim in the novel doesn't say "no," and because she doesn't physically resist him, what happens between them doesn't really count as rape. As soon as I suggested that she might have been afraid to say "no," a small voice seconded me: "But just because she didn't say 'no' doesn't mean she wanted it to happen." The speaker, a student who had never before spoken in class, or even made eye contact with me, suddenly volunteered that when she was in high school, a teacher had locked her in a room and assaulted her.
For that young woman, one of the worst parts of her continuing ordeal was that she never got the chance to say anything on her own behalf at the trial. Likewise, she told the class, the worst thing about the story we were discussing was that the professor "gets to do all that talking in his own defense, but the girl he raped never gets to say anything again."
For that student, the opportunity to say something in a public space, and be affirmed for doing so, seemed therapeutic. She grew from a sullen student into a joyful learner, and even brought us cupcakes on her birthday—maybe as a way of saying thank you for listening to her the way nobody else had.
I too feel that saying something in a public space is therapeutic. I deeply regret not screaming about it from the rooftops while it was happening. I hate that Zac will never be punished because the statute of limitations is expired. I hate that he goes through life without a record following him around letting everyone know what a dangerous sex offender he is. It is extremely difficult to talk about rape, extremely painful to dig up any traumatic experience, but when the experience is brought up on it's own and I have been triggered, it is fundamentally self-empowering for me to break the silence. Even if the reactions I receive are hurtful victim blaming, at least I stood up for myself and I don't have to regret keeping quiet again.
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