by Thordis Elva
This was uncharted territory. For the nine years that had passed, I’d adopted a zero-tolerance policy for people who abused my trust, resorting to such militant measures as sending shit in a shoebox to a man who’d let me down. And confrontations of this kind weren’t recommended by specialists in the field of sexual violence and survivor support, either. Many of them spoke favorably about writing to the perpetrator in order to give voice to the hurt, only to then destroy the letter rather than send it. Yet I found myself typing the letter into my computer when I got home. A part of me was in shock that I’d even entertain the idea of sending it, thinking it highly unlikely that its recipient would be willing to take responsibility for the violence it described. As a result, I prepared myself for all kinds of outcomes: being told that I was misremembering things; being accused of lies; a downright denial of the whole ordeal. However nerve-racking and unappealing, all of these possibilities seemed more desirable to me than the alternative, which was to silence my newfound voice after it had made such a daring appearance. Given that I had nobody else’s footsteps to follow in, I decided to follow my heart.
Despite all my careful predictions, the only outcome I didn’t prepare for was the one that I then got: a reply with a typed confession full of hot regret that disarmed me with its candor.
Although I’ve come a long way in recent years, and talked publicly about my experience of rape, this part of my story is still secret, even to my loved ones. What my father didn’t know, when he stormed out of my house after having deemed my mission ridiculous, is that the scribblings from the café that day in 2005 spurred eight years of correspondence, covering page after page with brutal honesty. He doesn’t know about the exchange of searing questions and even thornier truths that sometimes had both sender and receiver doubled over the nearest trash bin. He doesn’t know that I put the blame where it belonged firmly and unapologetically; nor does he know how it was received — wholeheartedly and unwaveringly. He doesn’t know about the healing miracles that dotted our computer keyboards with tears at ungodly hours of the morning, or how our correspondence was terminated on two occasions when we’d gutted each other with the serrated past. Both times, some life experience shed a new light on the incident, rekindling the exchange. And somewhere along the way, I let go of my anger. It launched me through the turbulent troposphere and up to the stratosphere of my mind, where there are no winds to disturb the peace. The clear skies within unclouded my vision.
However healing it was, our correspondence didn’t bring about closure for me. Perhaps because the email format didn’t feel personal enough, perhaps because it’s easy to be brave when hiding behind a computer screen ten thousand miles away. Too easy, in fact, to resonate with my heart. ‘As a result, I’m going to South Africa to seek final payment for the costliest night of my life,’ I whisper to myself as the steel-gray city of Oslo emerges out the plane window. Enough of haunting memories. Enough of self-blame. I want to face the man who snatched away my innocence in 1996 and absolve myself from the guilt I wrongfully carried for him for all too many gut-wrenching years.
I want it to end.
My mission might be crystal clear, but the same cannot be said for my expectations of this journey, which have peaked and plummeted like a cardiogram lately. On good days, I’ve found the thought of it encouraging, inspiring even. I imagine finding peace with my demons when faced with my perpetrator, whom I sometimes picture strolling around the streets of Cape Town with me, or squatting down on a beach and gazing at the Atlantic through pensive eyes.
On bad days, I’ve panicked at the very thought of this journey. When it comes to the prevalence of sexual violence, statistics point to it being more common in South Africa than in many other countries where comparative data exists. The same can be said about child rape, with victims as young as infants. Unfairly or not, Cape Town is sometimes dubbed Rape Town. I know this because when it comes to sexual violence, I accidentally became an expert despite having had very different plans for my career. The course was set in April 2007, when a 19-year-old girl asked a stranger for directions to the bathroom in a hotel in Reykjavík, Iceland. The stranger followed her inside, shoved her into one of the stalls and, locking the door behind them, proceeded to rape her. Terrified, she experienced a form of rape-induced paralysis that rendered her unable to fight her attacker until the pain became excruciating, jolting her into defensive mode.
The Reykjavík District Court reached the conclusion that the sexual activity had, without a doubt, taken place without the girl’s consent. Nevertheless, the court acquitted her attacker, pinning the blame on the girl instead for not having fought her attacker with enough vigor. Icelandic law states that ‘he who uses violence, the threat of violence, or other means of unlawful duress to force another person to have sexual intercourse is guilty of rape’. Because the perpetrator had not needed to resort to such measures, he had not committed rape, in the eyes of the law.
At the time, I was simultaneously working as a magazine columnist and a playwright. The pay was a joke in both areas, but I was inspired, ambitious, and in love with the arts. My secret correspondence with the man who’d raped me had lasted two years by then, and had lifted some of the shame I’d wrongfully shouldered, but I was still haunted by my past. Unsurprisingly, I identified strongly with the girl in the hotel rape case. Outraged by the acquittal, I felt compelled to write an open letter to the papers condemning the verdict. It’s outrageous to claim that there’s a ‘correct reaction’ to being raped and that it includes ‘fighting back with vigor’. Fighting back can even prove to be deadly, if it prompts the perpetrator to apply more force or violence. Some survivors freeze, others dissociate in order to survive the attack. There is no such thing as a standard reaction to rape, I argued. To make sure my arguments were bulletproof, I studied the law, read hundreds of rape cases, and interviewed lawyers, doctors, and survivors.
As I had far too much to say to fit into any newspaper, the letter never came into being. Instead, I ended up with a 270-page book. Overnight, it elevated me from being a chain-smoking bohemian to a respected specialist on sexual violence, surprising nobody more than myself. Meanwhile, in private, I was in an ongoing dialogue with the man who brutally introduced me to the subject.
During the writing of my book, I realized that silence is one of the major obstacles in the battle against sexual violence. Although unsure, and light-years away from my comfort zone, I decided to include my story about being raped at the age of sixteen. I left my perpetrator’s name out, not to protect him, but because ironically it was safer for me. A survivor who stays silent about the perpetrator’s identity can still be scrutinized and defamed, but she will be spared the public condemnation and fury of those who would otherwise side with the perpetrator. Women are attacked, even killed, for less.
My perpetrator was protected by distance, living on the other side of the planet. I protected myself with his anonymity.
On occasion, worried women I knew pulled me aside to ask me about his identity. I saw the suspicion in their eyes and realized that they were afraid someone close to them was a rapist — my rapist. Their fear is not unfounded, as statistics from the UN and various human-rights organizations suggest that at least one in three women is raped or beaten by a man close to her at some point in her life.
Fear is a hard thing to unlearn. No matter how much I’d raised myself to be strong and courageous, the thought of going to Cape Town prompted a knee-jerk reaction, not just in the violence expert I’d become but also in the girl I once was. I, like millions of other women, was taught to scream and go for the eyes or groin if I were attacked. I was taught how to make my keys stick out of my fist so I could inflict more harm to my attacker. I was taught to avoid badly lit areas and to learn where the rape-crisis phones were located on my campus. I was taught never to leave my drink unattended, never to accept a ride from a stranger, never to go on a date without letting someone know who I was mee
ting, and never to look strange men in the eyes if on my own in a public place. Don’t get too drunk, don’t dress provocatively, don’t flirt too openly, and, above all, don’t show fear when being catcalled or followed.
In short, I, like millions of other girls, was taught from an early age how dangerous it is simply to be a girl.
At the end of the day, none of this guidance helped me. Most rapes don’t take place in the circumstances we’re taught to avoid. Most of them take place in the privacy of our homes, and are carried out by people we’re supposed to trust — relatives, spouses, friends.
If I let fear be the deciding factor in whether or not I go to Cape Town, that would be defeat, I reasoned with myself. The ‘rape capital of the world’ would surely be the ultimate testing ground when it came to conquering a fear related to sexual violence. And where better to exercise forgiveness than in a country that built an entire institution around truth and reconciliation? Where the nation’s leader, Nelson Mandela, forgave his tormentors after twenty-seven years of captivity and made peace with them in order to build a better society?
No matter how I looked at it, I couldn’t think of a place better suited to prove to myself that violence can’t destroy my life or control my choices. Not then, not now, not ever.
Oslo airport greets me with preposterously expensive sandwiches and coffee. At least the Wi-Fi is free. I glance at the clock and wonder what Vidir and Haflidi are up to. By now, they should be preparing lunch, enjoying their Easter break at home. Vidir proposed to me recently, after almost five wonderful years together during which neither of us felt the need to tie the knot. Together, we successfully navigated the minefield of putting together a stepfamily, with me striving to earn the trust and friendship of his daughters: Hafdis, now fourteen years old, and Julia, who is nine. They live with their mother but spend holidays and weekends with us. After we came to the decision that marriage would be a practical move for both the kids and our joint finances, Vidir still managed to propose in a way that was hopelessly romantic and unforgettable. Despite finding the idea of this trip of mine uncomfortable for many very understandable reasons, he wants nothing more than to be supportive. When we started dating, I was in the middle of writing my first book, and he had to endure my rants about sexual violence for days on end. Nobody has a better understanding of how much this trip means to me.
Due to work, stress, and a general lack of time in the days leading up to this trip, we haven’t discussed it as much as we would’ve wanted to. Then again, something tells me that we’d still not feel prepared, even if we had talked ourselves blue in the face.
‘Check your email,’ I tell him when he picks up the phone. ‘I just sent you something.’
Aware of the worries that have infused his every sigh lately, I’m hoping he’ll feel more at ease if he can envision my whereabouts in South Africa. I listen to him start up his computer and open the email I sent him with the address of my hotel. Together, we tramp up and down the streets of Cape Town on Google Earth. I’m eager to show him how good the security is in the area where I’m staying, despite having described it to him at length when I booked my accommodation. ‘Look,’ I say encouragingly. ‘Security cameras on every other corner and barbed wire on top of foot-thick walls surrounding the hotels.’
The line is silent. ‘Imagine what horrors it must take for people to resort to such measures,’ Vidir says in a quiet voice.
His words make me flinch, but I put on a brave face. To my relief, Vidir plays along. I’m grateful to him for not rubbing my nose in the recent news about Anene Booysen, the 17-year-old girl who died after being gang-raped and disemboweled in a village near Cape Town. May she rest in peace.
‘Don’t take any risks, my love,’ he gently urges. The irony seems to hit him immediately, because he clarifies: ‘I mean, don’t take any unnecessary chances. Stick to registered taxis. Just … just come home safely.’
I close my eyes and concentrate all the love I have for Vidir and Haflidi into two simple words: ‘I promise.’
After hours of sitting in the Oslo airport, I straighten my stiff limbs and decide it’s time for a drink. In a thoughtless haze, I wander out of the Duty Free with a six-pack of beer in a bag. Though I’m only planning to enjoy one, I’m secretly pleased that the whole thing cost me less than a single drink would’ve cost in a Reykjavík bar. As I exit the store, things get tricky. Where can I kick back and enjoy a quiet drink? I quickly conclude that the waiting area, full of families and breastfeeding mothers, is not the place. Walking around in circles, I’m losing hope by the minute. Why oh why didn’t I just find myself an airport bar, like a civilized person would do?
Ten minutes later, I’ve locked myself in the ladies’ room with my laptop on my knees and a can of beer in my hand. This has got to be one of the most incompetent moments of my life. In order to type on the keyboard, I have to rest the beer on the edge of an automated sink that is activated by the motion, startling me every time. I can’t help but smirk, point my mental lens at myself, and file this ridiculous scenario away in the memory bank. Cheeeeeeese.
Still in the realm of complimentary Wi-Fi, I read over a list of safety recommendations in a traveler’s forum for South Africa. Don’t flash your valuables in public. Avoid deserted places after dark. Don’t leave your drink unattended. No problem there, as I’ve abided by these rules my entire adult life. The irony is overwhelming, and I slump against the wall when I realize that this decades-long training will serve me well in a country known for high levels of sexual violence, to which I’m traveling so that I can meet up with a man who raped me.
I put the beer on the edge of the sink and almost jump out of my skin as the water begins to flow loudly yet again. After regulating my heartbeat, I open the folder on my laptop where I’ve saved the emails we’ve exchanged for the past eight years. What do I know about his life, anyway? Having no desire to become his pen-pal, I always set a rigid frame for our exchanges, keeping them strictly analytical and focusing exclusively on that fateful night in the hope that dissecting our past would help us better understand our present. As a result, I have few details of his day-to-day life and have given him close to no information about mine. I recall him writing about having a degree in some kind of social work. I know he’s a nature buff — the kind who loves to challenge himself by climbing mountains or taking long, difficult hikes into the wilderness. I wonder what his state of mind will be? To soothe my nerves, I find myself seeking answers in one of his emails:
I still don’t like myself. I like my life, I don’t like my body. I love what I do, I hate what I’ve done. I reward myself for hard work, and then beat myself up with alcohol and cigarettes. If people ask me ‘So, how are you’, my stock standard straight-out-of-the-box response is usually ‘If I had two tails they’d both be wagging’. I know I am the luckiest person I know. I live in the richest city on the planet, I have a pristine beach at the end of my road, I’m healthy, not ugly by western standards, young, single, supportive family, I’ve got a beautiful circle of friends who support me in all I do and think the world of me. Last week I swam with dolphins and seals … the list of riches goes on. Some days I can be listening to music and skating to work and I tingle all over with happiness. Other days, I sit on my verandah, drink coffee, and take to myself with a heavy bag full of regrets and criticism.
I work as a Youth Worker at a drug rehab for young people. I’ve analyzed at length my reasons for choosing such a career, and have concluded there is no hidden guilt or hope of redemption in working with young people in need of help. I don’t know how to put into words what I have witnessed. Some of the disclosures these young people have come to me with are … beyond comprehension. Self-harm, mental health issues, suicide ideation, out of this world drug abuse. What shook, no leveled, me most, Thordis, was a young woman burning her t-shirt in front of me. She had been raped in this garment. She asked me for the lighter. I watched her and then wen
t straight to my office and … fell apart.
You asked me how I coped with what I did to you. I think I’ve done my best to detach myself. Unsuccessfully. Evidenced, I think, by my periods of drinking and constant movement from place to place. Also in my relationships, I’ve never let a partnership evolve into something committed or stable. The longest I have lived with a girlfriend is two months.
Dark secrets don’t go so well with loving, trusting relationships, I think as I meet my own eye in the bathroom mirror. I should know.
I don’t think I have let go of anything. I’ve managed to forget at times and commend myself briefly for who I am, but I remember I’ve still got my personally designed label on my back. I’m sure I identify myself as ‘marked’. As somebody who once did something horrific to somebody they later found out they loved.
Loved.
I close my eyes and am swept back to a cold winter day in Reykjavík sixteen years prior, just a few days before the night that changed everything. My hand in his hand. My heart racing inside my chest. My insecure teenage self, smiling and asking: ‘Why me? Why did you decide to hit on me?’