Submission from a female reader, aged mid-thirties, from the UK.

This story - about minimising sexual violence in one's life, ignoring its impact, and coping - sounded so familiar to me. It seems that so many people who experience sexual violence assume that their story isn't bad enough to be worth telling, that they didn't suffer enough to be worthy of others' understanding. 

Sometimes it's only when looking back, years later, that we can see the truth.

The author's words are exactly as I received them.

...

Once upon a silent time

Once upon a time – isn’t that how childhood stories go? I was 6 and my babysitter’s teenage son put his penis in my face. It may sound odd, but apart from telling my vastly over-worked mum I did not want to go back to that babysitter and did not like her son, I did not think to tell anyone for decades. I think I have told three people in my life, including my husband. It struck me that in my telling of my story I was quick to state it really was not a big thing, (no penetration etc.), that others suffered more than me, and it was not such a big deal in comparison.

I was wrong. It was part of an unseen web that has criss-crossed my life. My mother, who is beautiful, wise and giving, had not had the best of fortune in the men department. Father figures in my life included an abuser, a lovely man with schizophrenia who was paranoid and aggressive when he did not take his medicine, and a gentle, troubled man who later took his own life. My mother, with the untimely death of her own father, had not seen what to expect from a healthy relationship. It’s not about gender, but about experience. No one is ever responsible for being abused, but it can be hard to tell if your positive experiences have been limited. It is possible though.

My road was rocky for a while. I have been sexually misused by a partner and was later raped by someone who I had called family for years.  I realise in retrospect that I did not name it rape at the time because he told me it wasn’t. Then I saw the little girl in me, with the babysitter’s son’s penis in my face and all those years of putting it to the back of my mind, filed under ‘could have been worse’. The worst silence is the one we hold inside ourselves so not even we can hear our own stories.

The ‘friend’ hurt me during a hard time in my relationship where sexual intimacy had been long lacking. When he had asked me if I was happy I had said “Not yet, but I am working on it.” I had trusted this person who I had known since my late teens and shared many life experiences with. We were affectionate friends who had not seen one another in a while due to him living abroad. I don’t really know why I still trusted him because one 1^st of May, when I was 18 and he in his twenties, he had held a knife to my throat while off his head on a cocktail of drugs.  Somehow, my frightened child’s voice had hushed that memory and brought a million others to the fore, refiling that unsafe moment in my past (along with the penis in my 6 year old face) under ‘could have been worse.’

 A group reunion, many miles from home had bought many of us together in a familial way, reminiscent of the old days. There were hugs and teasing between us all. These were later reframed for me as flirting when I was told I had wanted it. He blamed me for not cumming because I was frigid. For several days I was so shocked, pained and confused I did not know whether to believe him. When I had said “no, I don’t want this” and he told me I did, should I have pushed him harder away? I was in shock, both during and after as to how or why this was happening. When you love someone as family you can’t quite believe it. That love and shock stopped me punching, scratching, screaming though I was inside. For a long while it delayed me understanding that it had happened.

A week after I got home I found myself taking an overdose, not  consciously trying to kill myself, but just to remove the pain at all costs. It shook me that I could do that. I had been through quite a lot in my life, but tend to be positive.  It was not only that pain but the issues in my life that had lead me to the fragile position which he had abused. He left me with a damaging but not lasting infection. For years he intermittently tried to make contact. His story was it “just had not worked out”. His explanation reminded me of that teenage boy saying to a 6 year old me, “You want to suck it”. 

‘Once upon a time’ is a phrase used for stories that transcend time and change our perceptions of the world and ourselves. Once upon a time something made me feel that abuse was to be expected.  I am now turning my own story into a story with me as my own hero. Beyond surviving, I choose to love and flourish. There is the magic in my story that I found by learning to hear my own voice. 

 ...

All submissions to the blog can be found here. If you would like to share your story anonymously on this blog, email me: thesearenotmysecrets@gmail.com -  I'd really appreciate it if you could include your age, gender, and nationality.

Regret and Resentment - on Sarah Vine and rape denial

Last week, Sarah Vine* wrote a column for the Daily Mail, which was theoretically about consent. In actual fact, it was a perfect example of rape denial; calling on the old Knickerless Slag trope, Vine created a twisted narrative, in which there is no rape, only lying women.

By talking about women making a "disastrous sexual choice", Vine is ignoring the fact that when a perpetrator rapes a victim, the victim has no choice. The perpetrator takes away the victim's choice, the victim's agency, the victim's personhood. The perpetrator turns the victim into an object to be acted upon.

Again, by referring to women making "stupid mistakes with men" Vine is putting the onus on the victim. But this is some next level victim blaming poison: Vine's argument rests on the premise that instead of rapists choosing to rape, women are choosing to have sex, and then "crying rape". 

This message is so dangerous. It tells victims, "You weren't raped, you're just a whore." It tells rapists, "Don't worry; she wanted it." It tells society, "Rape isn't a problem. Carry on ignoring it."**

Vine seems to be speaking from personal experience, when she describes waking up the morning after what she calls, "non-violent sexual encounters in dodgy circumstances". (The fixation on physical injury being a key indicator of rape! Fancy seeing you here!) Apparently, in her day, such women would have a shower and "a bit of a cry", before boxing the whole thing up, and knuckling down to a lifetime of blaming themselves. 

To me, there's a real whiff of something here: regret and resentment.

Let me explain.

My paternal grandmother, Nonna, is a 93 year old Italian wonderwoman, and I love her very much. After the second world war, Nonna came to the UK, speaking no English whatsoever.*** She met a handsome Pole (with fluent Italian, but no English), they got married, and my dad was born. Nonna has spent almost 70 years in the UK, and still speaks an utterly bonkers Itanglish, full of "badgins" (badgers), "puppets" (puppies), and instructions to "thrumanaway" (throw it away). 

Now, ten years ago, I was working in a primary school with a huge Somali intake; so many of the parents spoke no English. The parallel with my own family background really affected me; I decided to train to teach English to speakers of other languages (ESOL). I told Nonna of my plan, expecting her to be delighted. Her reaction surprised me: "Pah!"

Nonna's opinion was that ESOL was wasted on these "bladdy foreign", and the idea of government funding being used for such a purpose positively enraged her. Nonna herself had just muddled along, why couldn't these people do that? "When I come here, we get nothing!" And if nothing was good enough for Nonna, then it's good enough for everyone else.

Nonna regrets never properly learning English, and she resents others receiving help that she never had. Hence her anger.

So, back to our friend Sarah Vine.

I'm sure you've already joined the dots, but just in case: I believe, with absolute certainty, that Sarah Vine has been a victim of sexual violence. I believe that Sarah Vine woke up one morning, feeling confused, and ashamed, and disgusted. I believe that Sarah Vine could not bring herself to utter the word "rape", even in her own head. I believe that Sarah Vine coped with this the best way she knew how, by retelling the story for herself, recasting herself as the agent, a woman who chose sex, a person who got what she - at the time - wanted.

I believe that Sarah Vine has regretted this decision for years, maybe decades. But, after all this time, she doesn't know how to go back. I believe that Sarah Vine resents the sea change that we are starting to see in attitudes to sexual violence, towards victims of these crimes. Why couldn't it have been this way when she was raped? Why didn't she have the chance to recover, to heal?

Sarah Vine, I am so sorry that somebody took away your personhood. I am sorry that you are still angry. But please, rather than arming yourself with some kind of sexual violence Stockholm syndrome, and denying that any women are ever raped, instead admit to yourself that you  were raped. 

It's not easy, it's not quick, but it is worth it. 

And, Sarah Vine, these are not your secrets.

*Whose husband, incidentally, is former Secretary of State for Education, The Rt Hon Toad of Toad Hall. 
**If you haven't watched it already, Dr Nina Burrowes video "How are sex offenders able to get away with it?" is well worth eight and a half minutes of your time!

***In fact, because she came from a large, poor, tenant-farming family, Nonna never really learned to read in Italian. To this day, she cannot read her own post.

Submission from a female reader, aged 24, from the UK.

I found this submission really challenging to read. It seems like the woman who wrote it is still struggling to come to terms with her experience. 

Rape is rape; there are no extenuating circumstances, there are no excuses. All stories of experiencing sexual violence are different, but they all share one thing: they are never our fault.

 

Please read this story, and leave a comment for the author. 

 

The author's words are exactly as I received them.

 

...

 

In the early hours of the morning on New Years day last year I was raped by a man who I had met three times before. 

 

The day before, I had come out of a 4 year relationship. I had driven to the other end of the country to try and save my relationship. We lived together for 3 years, but were struggling to survive a few months of long distance. When we finally called it a day, I found myself miles from home, and all alone on new years eve. I climbed back in my car and drove another hundred miles to a friends house, crying the whole way and praying for a lorry or a bus to knock my tiny car off the road and kill me.

 

It didn't. I made the journey.

 

My friend was holding a party. I had met some of the people there a couple of times before and they all helped me to drink my problems into oblivion. Particularly Him. He kept my glass full of drink and let me smoke his cigarettes. 

 

Everyone else went to bed. I had the spare room and he joked that he would have to sleep on the sofa, unless I wanted him to stay with me. I smiled and said no. Very clearly, no.

 

A few minutes later as I sat in bed and cried, I saw his shadow hovering outside the bedroom door. He knocked and asked if I wanted a drink of water. I went to the kitchen and he made the joke again Yet again I replied no.

 

The next time he didn't knock. He just came in. He climbed into the bed and wrapped his arms around me. Told me it would be okay, and that I would get over my ex. I would be better without him. Someone like me would find someone else in no time. He told me to close my eyes and pretend I was my ex. 

 

He raped me. He raped me, and the thing I feel most guilty about was that he manhandled me first and brought me to a dreadful sobbing orgasm. I had stopped saying no by this point as I had realised it wasn't going to stop him and so I just closed my eyes and waited for it to be over. I hate that part. Hate that I gave up and cared so little about myself that I just stopped fighting.

 

I never told the friends whose house I was at. I didn't want to ruin her friendship with Him. I didn't come forward because I was so ashamed. Plus I didn't want to ruin the guys life did I? I rang my ex and told him and he didn't believe me. Called me a slut. Said that he would never touch me again. 

 

I decided my ex must be right. Nobody in the world knew me better than him, or so I thought. I found a thousand ways to blame myself for what had happened. To absolve my rapist and make it my fault and not his.

 

A year later, and I am finally starting to come to terms with what happened. I can't believe how easy it was to punish myself. How everything I read in the press allowed me to resent myself for  being drunk, for wearing a dress and make up and for talking to him that night. For not screaming. I see a cognitive behavioural therapist who tells me that I can still report, but I still am scared of ruining his life. I genuinely don't believe he thinks of himself as being a rapist.  I still haven't cried about what he did. I haven't stopped moving long enough to cry. I just carried on with my life and pushed it down. I know it's there which is why I speak to someone and why I am sharing this but I don't know how to let this out and hurt properly. 

 

He apologised to me the next day. "Sorry about last night. Wasn't the smartest decision I have ever made." The whole group of people from the party went to the pub for food and he offered to pay for my meal to say sorry. 

 

I will keep his secret. I will even keep it from him.

...

Leave the author a comment; tell her what you think. 

 

All submissions to the blog can be found here. If you would like to share your story anonymously on this blog, email me: thesearenotmysecrets@gmail.com -  I'd really appreciate it if you could include your age, gender, and nationality.

"Date Rape" - a Working Title.

My friends know that I have a dark sense of humour; I am constantly repressing a stream of nonsense which could very seriously offend the uninitiated. For instance, when I hear the term "date rape", my brain - my pitch black brain - chimes in with: "Well, at least she got a free dinner!"

I'm sorry if that offends you. What offends me is the term "date rape", and the associations we unthinkingly hold, which inform our thoughts, words, and actions.

Putting "date rape" (used interchangeably with the, in my mind, equally redundant "acquaintance rape") aside for a moment, what then is this other rape, this... real rape? I have asked people for their thoughts: they talk about hooded men in the dark, jumping out of bushes, or in alleyways, armed and violent; they talk about a struggle. Sometimes called "stranger rape", this is seen as indubitably a crime, committed against an innocent victim who could not have prevented it. Victims of "stranger rape" are expected to go to the police, their stories are largely believed, and they receive society's sympathy.

This is not the case for victims of "date rape".

Judging by some of 2014's news, to many people, "date rape" is not real rape, not real rapists, not real victims. Society's message to the "date raped" is: "Why did you let that happen?!"

Possibly the most poisonous, victim-blaming trope here is that of The Drunk Slag Who Takes Her Knickers Off, Jumps Into Bed, And Then Screams Rape. In November, this was executed exquisitely by Nick Conrad, BBC Radio Norfolk's real life Alan Partridge, who actually suggested that, to avoid rape, women should "keep your knickers on and not get into bed" - OH, IF ONLY WE'D KNOWN IT WAS SO SIMPLE! This convenient piece of fiction allows society at large to not engage with the concept of "date rape", lays the fault with the victim, and excuses the rapists as Normal, Red-Blooded Males.

An article by Kevin Shoesmith, for local paper the Hull Daily Mail in July (tellingly, this story did not make the national news), gave a horrifying example of the judiciary's failure to properly recognise the realities of rape. Lee Setford, who raped an unconscious woman, was told by Judge Michael Mettyear: "I do not regard you as a classic rapist. I do not think you are a general danger to strangers. You are not the type who goes searching for a woman to rape... This was a case where you just lost control of normal restraint." Despite being legislatively bound to sentence Setford to five years in prison, Mettyear made his sympathies very clear: "She was a pretty girl who you fancied. You simply could not resist. You had sex* with her." Judge Michael Mettyear, it seems, believes in the Bogeyman Rapist, lurking in alleys.

An Overview of Sexual Offending in England and Wales collates government statistics on rape, and other crimes of sexual violence: 

"Around 90 per cent of victims... knew the perpetrator"

 - in other words, 90% of rape is "date rape".

So, why do we persist in using this false dichotomy?

Calling these rapes "date rape" suggests that this is something that happens at the end of a date, whereas, in reality, the term is used to describe any rape in which the perpetrator is known to the victim. According to this classification, then, I was "date raped", as was the courageous 18 year old reader who shared their story with this blog. Both of us were raped. By rapists. Neither of us could have stopped it. It was not our fault. I see no further classification as being required.

To me, this language of "date rape" is tied up with the idea of** male/female relationships as being inherently transactional: the man's material possessions traded for the woman's body, with neither party wanting to yield. If, then, we couch rape in "date" terminology, surely it is only fair? The Man sat through a tedious evening of spending money and listening to Her talk, now it is time for The Woman to let Him get on with the real business of the evening. And how dare She object? Doesn't She realise that's all He turned up for?

I don't think many people today would actively argue the case for male entitlement over the female body, but it is precisely that argument we are supporting if we do not take "date rape" seriously.

July was a busy month for rape apologists, as Richard Dawkins tried to play a logic game with Twitter, using rape as the ball: "Date rape is bad. Stranger rape at knifepoint is worse. If you think that's an endorsement of date rape, go away and learn how to think."***

Now, I understand the game. I understand that Dawkins considers himself to be the most objective and logical of all humans, and perhaps feels that he is doing a service to Twitter's hard-of-thinking hordes. I just disagree with him.

Dawkins seems almost to have a mental continuum in mind, with rape which leaves one dead at one end, and rape which is merely a slight inconvenience (as you were hoping to get to the bank before it shut) at the other. 

"Date rape" - that is, being raped by a person one knows - can be every bit as terrifying and painful as when the perpetrator is unknown. In fact, approximately 45% of women raped by a current or former partner suffer additional injuries, whereas for women raped by a stranger the figure is 24% (Maria Eriksson, Defining Rape, 2011). However, I find the fixation on injuries bizarre, personally: to me, rape itself - physically breaching the boundary of a person's body - is the most violent act there is.

If the perpetrator is a friend, colleague, partner, or relative, there are additional layers of confusion and betrayal. Why are they doing this? Have they been planning this all along? Did I do something to cause this?

A stranger with a knife (although, known rapists use weapons to ensure compliance, too) will run away after they have raped you. You will not have to work with them, live with them, see them socially, leave your children in their care. For a victim of "date rape", the person who raped them is likely to remain in their lives, unless the rapist is successfully prosecuted. I personally know many strong, intelligent women who were raped by somebody they knew; none of them has sought prosecution.

Without Consent, an HM Crown Prosecution Service Inspectorate report on rape, states that an estimated 75-95% of rapes are never reported to the police: "Studies show that the decision not to report is often based on a combination of factors and that many of these are connected to the notion of ‘real rape’ – that is, committed by a stranger, in a public place or in the context of a break-in, and involving force and injury." Not talking about one's experience of sexual violence means depriving oneself of the opportunity to recover, potentially living with a lifetime of mental and physical health repercussions. This is so often the fate of the "date rape" victim.

Rape is rape. Every person's experience will be different, and will be difficult in different ways. For Richard Dawkins to proclaim one kind of rape as "worse" than another is not only a gross oversimplification, it is devoid of logic. In the words of the wonderful Ash Beckham: "There is no harder, there is just hard."

...

So, how about for 2015 (along with getting enough sleep and remembering which is bin day), we all resolve to stop talking about "date rape", and instead start talking about rape. Let's talk openly and frankly with those we trust, and challenge the rape apologists when they wheel out the Knickerless Slag nonsense. Let's let those we love share their stories if they wish, and listen without judgement. And let's remember: these are not our secrets.

...

* I've taught my son (now 13) that rape is to sex as a punch in the face is to a handshake. If only Mother Mettyear had done the same.

** Hetronormativity ahoy! The statistics show that the overwhelming majority of rapes are committed by men against women, hence the wording here. This is not meant to erase anyone's experiences.

*** He then went on to talk about "mild paedophilia", which is off topic, and frankly more than I have the energy to unpack at present. Perhaps another day!

TMI

Don't you hate those weird, over-sharey people? You know the ones: you're minding your own business, at the bus stop or the supermarket, and you exchange words or a smile with a stranger. Suddenly, without warning, you're getting their life story. And it is grim. Always. No stranger has ever, uninvited, regaled me with tales of their blissfully happy marriage, or idyllic childhood. And it is awkward. What do you say? What do you do with this information? It is too much. Too much information.

And now, here I am. Sharing the worst things that have happened to me, with people I have never met. Worse, even: with people I have only just met. I began university (as a mature student) six weeks ago, and when I publicly launched this blog, with much Facebook fanfare, it will have popped up in my fellow students' newsfeeds. Some of them even got invites! 

My best friend (Leila, to you), tried to reassure me: "Everyone knows that you're not a rape-obsessed lunatic." Aha. Not everyone.

So, if I know that this behaviour is not normal... why am I doing it? 

Well, as strange as it may sound, this blog is not about me. Or, rather, it is not for me. If I want to talk about (as I refer to it) "grisly stuff", I have wonderfully understanding friends, an endlessly patient and gentle partner, and a mum with whom I can now talk easily, about even the most upsetting topics. I am very lucky. And, thanks to an extremely valuable course of cognitive analytic therapy (no Blob Trees, I promise), I am genuinely pretty much resolved about the whole thing: well, functional, and rarely unhinged. Who could ask for more?

For whom, then, am I writing this horrible blog? Two groups of people. And I'm sure you will fit into one of them...

1) People who have experienced sexual violence.

    One of my brothers understood my reasoning as being "so other people know they're not alone". Yes. Of course. But much more than that. 

    If you are carrying around the secret of a rape, or child sexual abuse, the person who did that to you may have told you "don't tell anyone", even "nobody will believe you". They told you that to protect themselves. 

    I want to tell you: forget that. Talking about what happened is the first step to undoing the damage that was done to you. It will be hard at first, but the right kind of help will make your life immeasurably better. Before I had my therapy, I was so unwell that I could not leave the house, I was so anxious and depressed. A year later, I had a job I loved, I had passed my driving test, and I was making plans for the future. I just had to start talking. I just had to stop keeping the secrets.

2) People who have not experienced sexual violence.

    Sorry, everyone else. The way that society treats victims of sexual violence is appalling. Victims are stigmatised, ignored, disbelieved, and blamed. The fans of footballer and unrepentant convicted rapist Chedwyn Evans have hounded and harassed the woman he raped, subjecting her to "psychologial GBH", as one police detective put it. You probably think that that isn't how you behave, or would behave. Hopefully you're right.

    One in every five women has been raped. The true figure is probably higher. This number does not include men, or people who have experienced child sexual abuse, or other types of sexual violence. You will know people who have experienced sexual violence. You will know lots of them. Have they felt able to tell you, or have they felt too ashamed? We need to change. We need to stop protecting perpetrators, and start protecting victims.

...

On this blog, I have shared my own personal story of experiencing sexual violence. I will be talking about sexual violence in the news. I will be linking to other blogs about sexual violence. I will be signposting websites and services that may be useful to those who have experienced sexual violence. But, most of all, I will be repeatedly reminding you: these are not my secrets. And they're not yours, either.

And if that makes you uncomfortable... I think you need to do some thinking.

May 1996

In May 1996 I was 11 years old. I was a tall child - 5'3", the same as today - and puberty had already given me full hips and C-cup breasts, which made me feel awkward and fat. I dressed in jeans and t-shirts, and I loved reading science fiction and listening to indie music. I was starting to look like a woman, but I was still a tree-climbing, football-kicking tomboy. 

Along with around 50 classmates, I went on a five day school trip to Beaulieu, in the New Forest national park, staying in a residential centre on a working farm. The staff accompanying us on the trip included Mr Holmes (a pseudonym) who had been my class teacher (meaning he taught me for most subjects) the previous year.

Shortly after we arrived, we were given a brief tour of the farm by a middle aged man we understood to be The Farmer. Trailing along behind the school party was a young man, maybe 19 years old, who also worked on the farm. I'm going to call him Mark. None of my close friends had come to Beaulieu, and I tended be more comfortable with boys; it made perfect sense to chat to Mark. It didn't occur to me for a second that the dynamic would (even could) be any different to that between me and my friends or brothers. 

On the second day, we were taken to get a proper look at some of the animals, and again, Mark tagged along. I spent the whole time talking and laughing with Mark. Because it was muddy, we had been wearing our wellies, and borrowed boiler suits, so when we got back to the centre, we entered by a back door, onto a hallway with shoe racks and coat hooks. I was still chattering away, and clambering out of my boiler suit when everyone else was turning the corner of the L-shaped corridor, filtering past the doors to the girls' bedrooms, and passing through the double doors into the centre's communal area, where we ate our meals. 

It was then, with the rest of the group gone, that Mark suddenly and roughly shoved his hand into my scoop-neck t-shirt, and groped my breast. I had no idea how this had happened, how to react, or what had caused it. I had no context for this. Mark stared at me hard, as if trying to judge my reaction. Tears filled my eyes, and a cry rose in my throat. I turned and ran, round the corner, past the bedrooms, and through the double doors. As I flew into the communal area, panting, tears running down my face, my eyes met those of Mr Holmes. He looked at me, a crying child, and turned to another teacher, "Looks like someone got turned down."

Looks like someone got turned down. Looks like someone got turned down. Looks like someone got turned down. Looks like someone got turned down.

I didn't even really understand what those words meant. But I knew how they made me feel: guilty, ashamed, caught out, dirty.

Instead of any of the words that I could have said, words that could have explained, words that could have told the truth, words that could have put things right, I said nothing. 

I said nothing. I said nothing. I said nothing. I said nothing. 

These moments still spin around in my mind. As though by replaying them, maybe they'll turn out differently. But of course they can't. 

I was so full of emotion, I couldn't speak. Perhaps most of all, I was shocked. I had fallen down a rabbit hole into another world, and I didn't understand anything that was happening there. The way that he looked at me, Mr Holmes' face said "I know you. I know things about you that you don't know." I was confused and scared, and I spent the rest of the day in silence. Mark kept away.

The rest of the trip is fairly blurry in my memory. But I do remember one occasion when Mark somehow isolated me from the rest of the group, and forced me to repeatedly touch an electric fence. I remember being so scared. But I didn't challenge him, and again I didn't tell anyone.

The best thing about the trip was receiving a short letter from my mum, which she'd "dashed off" while breastfeeding my baby brother. This little snippet of familiarity and safety kept me going until I got home.

I didn't tell my mum about what happened in Beaulieu for ten years.

The confused, shameful feelings about what happened, and a certainty that it had been my fault, grew in me over time. It felt so important to keep that secret.

...

Three months after this sexual assault, I was raped. Read about it here.

All posts about my experiences are collated here.

Shame, Blame, and Silence

Sexual violence has been in the news in the UK a lot this week. As distressing as it can be to hear about such awful crimes, I am always glad when society is forced to examine the attitudes and practices that maintain the unhealthy status quo. Ignoring sexual violence does not make it go away. I hope that, as we are challenged to confront the reality of sexual violence, those who are keeping secrets of crimes committed against them will be better able to break their silence.

Tuesday saw the release of the independent report into child sexual abuse in Rotherham, and the council's failure to protect the estimated 1400 children exploited over a 16 year period.

The majority of the perpetrators in the Rotherham case were men of Pakistani heritage, and the majority of the victims were white British girls. These facts have led some (particularly in the right wing press) to query whether fear of being seen as racist was what prevented action being taken against the perpetrators of these crimes. I think this type of accusation is an oversimplification, which ignores how complicated attitudes are toward sexual violence.

On Radio Four's PM programme this week, an anonymous educational engagement officer from Sheffield shared his experience of working with looked after children, with the brief of improving their school attendance. This man's frustration was clear; his work to get the best outcomes for these vulnerable children has been repeatedly blocked, by management with skewed priorities.

(This is the link to the programme: listen from about 33:30. It will only be online until Wednesday 3rd September. I may attempt to transcribe it...)

I would recommend listening to it if you can, but here are two horrifying points made:

"The majority of girls that I was dealing with were known to be sexually exploited, and one or two trafficked - openly." The majority.

"It was accepted as normal behaviour for a girl in looked after local authority care to be vulnerable to and involved in sexual exploitation." Normal. 

Yesterday, the Guardian website published the story of Ruzwana Bashir, a British-Pakistani woman from Skipton, who was abused by a neighbour from the age of ten. Having left for university at 18, it took Bashir ten years before she felt able to return to Skipton, and tell the truth about what happened. It was then that she met a further challenge: the shame and blame.

"When I first told my mother about the abuse I’d suffered, she was absolutely devastated. The root of her anger was clear: I was heaping unbound shame on to my family by trying to bring the perpetrator to justice... She begged me not to go to the police station. "

I find real inspiration in Bashir's story. She refused to bow to the shame, blame, and silence which would otherwise have kept her from seeking justice. Because of this, the perpetrator was imprisoned for eight years, and two other victims have broken their silence.

With support, we can all break the silence. These are not our secrets.

About

Why is this blog called "These Are Not My Secrets"?

 
I was a victim of sexual violence. At the time, I told almost no one. The shame and confusion I felt meant that I kept the secret for years. It affected my mental health, my physical health, and my ability to form positive relationships. It is only very recently that I realised: I did nothing wrong. These Are Not My Secrets.

The culture of silence around sexual violence prevents victims from seeking help, and allows perpetrators to commit more of these crimes. I believe that talking openly about sexual violence would be beneficial, both to victims themselves, and to society as a whole.

The full story of my experiences of sexual violence is long, circuitous, and will – eventually – be posted on this blog. Everything I've posted so far is on the My Story page, here. Today, I am happier and more functional than I have ever been, but I am still keenly aware of the impact that sexual violence, and the associated shame and guilt, has had on my health and wellbeing.
 

What is sexual violence?

 
This definition is from the website of UK charity Rape Crisis:

“Sexual violence is any unwanted sexual act or activity. There are many different kinds of sexual violence, including but not restricted to: rape, sexual assault, child sexual abuse, sexual harassment, rape within marriage/relationships, forced marriage, so-called honour-based violence, female genital mutilation, trafficking, sexual exploitation, and ritual abuse. Sexual violence can be perpetrated by a complete stranger, or by someone known and even trusted, such as a friend, colleague, family member, partner or ex-partner. Sexual violence can happen to anyone. No-one ever deserves or asks for it to happen.”
 
The Rape Crisis website is full of valuable information, statistics, and advice.

Don't people talk about sexual violence enough already?

 
Sadly, crimes of sexual violence are committed all over the world, every day. A tiny proportion of these crimes are reported in the news – those deemed particularly newsworthy, perhaps because the victim died, or the perpetrator is a “celebrity”. In our own lives, though, the topic of sexual violence is taboo.

But this stuff is private!

 
I can understand feeling that way. It took ten years for me to tell my mother I was raped. I felt so ashamed; it felt more important than anything to keep it a secret. But why? It was Not My Secret: I did nothing wrong. A crime was committed against me. If your house had been burgled, or you were knocked off your bike by a careless driver, would you feel ashamed? Would you keep that a secret? No. Why should victims of sexual violence keep the secrets of those who commit these crimes?

Why should people talk about sexual violence more?

 
When I was raped, shortly before my 12th birthday, I had no idea what had just happened. Nobody had ever told me what rape was. (I barely knew what sex was!) Had I known, I would have told my parents. My parents would have phoned the police, and the rapist might have been convicted. I would have received the appropriate care for the trauma I had experienced, and maybe I would not be looking back on 18 years of mental and physical health repercussions. I truly doubt that my story is unique, and I believe that if sexual violence were discussed openly, perpetrators would be less able to commit these crimes, and victims would be better able to recover from them.

Additionally, there seems to be enormous confusion in the public consciousness around these topics. Richard Dawkins recently described "stranger rape" as worse than "date rape". I believe this comment comes from a basic misunderstanding of the experience of a victim of sexual violence, and I intend to blog on this very soon. Edit: "Date Rape" - a Working Title available here!

Victim blaming is also prevalent. An old NHS/Home Office poster, which recently came to light, suggested to women that they should "know their limits" and not get drunk, because that might lead to being raped. Putting the onus for preventing rape onto the victims themselves is tantamount to saying "You were raped? That's your own fault." Sexual violence is never the fault of the victim.

What can I do?

 
Stop keeping these secrets! If you have experienced sexual violence, talk about it. Maybe start with a close friend, or call Rape Crisis or The Samaritans (more potentially useful organisations listed here). 

Please "like" the blog's Facebook page, here, and follow the blog on Twitter, here, to get updates of new posts. Shares and retweets also mean the These Are Not My Secrets message gets spread to your friends and followers - I hope you agree that would be a good thing! 

If you would like to share your story anonymously on this blog, email me: thesearenotmysecrets@gmail.com - I'd really appreciate it if you could include your age, gender, and nationality. I'm 30, female, and from the UK. 

And I really appreciate comments. It's lovely to know people are reading, and you can comment completely anonymously.
 

Remember: you did nothing wrong, so you should not feel any guilt or shame.

These are not your secrets.