National Child Abuse Hotline CALL 1-800-4-A-CHILD (1-800-422-4453) then push 1 to talk to a hotline counselor.
Your first step to recovery is to stop the abuser! There is no justified reason to abuse anyone!
How did I get over it? After the rapes stopped. I wanted to be the free and safe girl I once was. I refused to be the victim. I know I was young and I could not translate my thought or feelings the way I do now. I remember vividly, verbalizing aloud to my self that he stopped, and I should stop worrying because he will never do it again. I did not know what “it” was. I understood that it was terrible. Perhaps I was young enough not to know fear. As a teenager, I avoided the conversations over virginity or sex. I was not sure how my peers would translate a rape if I would say I lost my virginity at the age of 6. When I was 18 years old, I decided to once and for all end the pretending of my beautiful childhood. The fact is that there is one part that was not beautiful. On the contrary, it was ugly and painful. First, I told my mother. I believed she should know first. After that, if anyone asked about my sex life, I had no problem saying I was raped. It never came as a voluntary subject to talk about, but I had no problem talking about it.
At the age of 24, I confronted my abuser. This time I was almost at his eye level. I made sure he looked at me when I asked, “How could you? Now, you have a little girl, imagine someone is raping her!” He cried for a long time, he apologized and showed remorse. I believed him. “I forgive you,” I said. He cried again. I said that I forgive him and I meant it. I hold no grudge, I am sorry it happened. I believe no little girl should go through it, or any person. But I let it go.
The reason for not writing his name is my belief that there is no need to destroy another family life, or a man’s name. What’s done is done. I forgave and let go.
Did it ever impact my consensual sexual relationships? I do not think it did. I am saying that because I have no way to know how I would behave if I would not have been raped. In my nature, I am shy as far as intimacy is involved. It takes me time to expose myself naked. My partners had to be patient. But I have no fear of intimacy, never did
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Among my friends and family, it is well known. They all say it the same way: “If you do not want to hear the truth, do not ask Nava.” I was eighteen when I told my Mother what had happened twelve years earlier. I felt so bad for her. She could not believe her ears and could never understand how this terrible thing could have happened in a house so loving, supportive, and open. Why had I not said anything? I did not know what to say to her, knowing she did everything possible to raise us in a positive environment. My husband and I constantly say to our children, “You are better off telling us what you have done wrong, even though it is bad or you think itʼs bad, than to have us find out for ourselves.” This way they know we are not the enemy. We are here to protect, guide, and help them.
I was a victim of rape. Did that experience leave a scar on me? Absolutely. But… I triumphed over my fears. I had not been bothered by my past for years. It did not disappear, it was just put to sleep for a while—until our daughter Shani was born, that is. I did not let her leave my sight unless I knew exactly where she was. I did not hold her at home or stop her from going out to play. She was in a daycare while I worked. I could see her through the window when they played in the backyard. The fact that I knew where she was helped me. I donʼt think anyone around us ever could tell that I was watching. It is possible that all mothers watch their daughters the same way I do. I donʼt know any other way. Shani and Yarden, our son, never heard about this dark past of mine. Now that they are teenagers, we let them walk in the mall without us. We are still present in the mall, just not physically with them. The first time we said, “Fine, you go. We will meet in two hours,” Yarden responded with, “Yes! Finally!” My second sentence was, “Do not take your eyes off your sister.”
These events, even a horrific rape, shaped me as I moved forward in my life. I believe that I was born with some of my character, which definitely helped me to be so independent at a young age. It was part of me. Growing up in a lower class neighborhood in Israel made me stronger. We were all the same. We did not know differently. Our toys were the outdoors. The house was for eating and sleeping, nothing else. Our house was so small we could not all play in there if we wanted. There were only two small bedrooms, a tiny kitchen, and a combination living/dining room with a yellow dining table with matching chairs. At some point, my father extended the entry to make another master bedroom, which was just big enough for two dressers and a double bed. The kidʼs rooms each had four storage drawers with mattresses inside that rolled out. Mom would have to make every bed each night. All the neighborhood kids played together— old and young. Our soccer ball was patched and stitched so many times that it was no longer round. I was so happy when my sister grew out of her skates and gave them to me. Mattel made them. They had two straps; one in the front to tie over the toes and one to tie around the ankle. The straps were red leather and so stretched they looked like they were going to tear. The four wheels on each were worn down to nothing. The ball bearings were filled with sand. When I tried to skate in them, I barely moved. But I was happy and proud because they were mine. We walked to the abandoned bunkers in the mountains to play, and we loved it. By the time we got back home, we were hungry and tired. Our parents had no problem getting us to sleep. My parents got divorced when I was seven years old. One of their biggest problems was that they did not agree on how to raise the children. In the house, Dad was tough. I had a completely different relationship with him than my brothers and sisters did. Their memories are not even close to my “rose-colored” life. Somehow, I knew how to get to his heart. Dad was like a coconut stuffed with creamy chocolate. He was a hard nut to crack. But if you could, he was soft and sweet on the inside. Not many people had the privilege of reaching the gooey inside of my father. My niece was second and Yarden, our son, was the third—and of course, my mother, whom my father adored. Food was a big issue constantly under discussion in our house. Dad often berated my older siblings. Finally, mom could not take it anymore. In one explosive argument, Dad said, “Thereʼs the gate! Thereʼs a door! You can leave!” He regretted those words until the day he died. I came home from school and found the broken glass on my parentsʼ bedroom door. Mom was upset, and Iris, my sister, was crying. I was so confused. I could not remember my mom ever crying before that day. Mom asked me to get Ofer, my younger brother, from kindergarten. She packed some clothes, all of our school supplies, and left Dad alone. My father was not violent. He never hit us. That day, however, he was so angry he hit the glass door and smashed it. After staying with friends for a few weeks, we moved to a little apartment next to Dad. At the end of the school year, when I was nine years old and in third grade, we moved to a different area of Eilat. At first, it seemed like it was so far from my Dad that I hated mom for moving us. Mom was good. She let Dad visit us any time he wanted. We could go to visit him any time, and stayed with him on weekends. She did this mostly for me. I was close to my father and struggled with the separation, the divorce, and the move. Again, I triumphed over my tears.
My first bicycle was so beautiful. I loved it. I received it from dad as a present for my ninth birthday. It was bright red. My dad bought it for me when he was visiting Haifa and brought it to Eilat on the bus. Since the bike had a previous owner it needed some cosmetic touch-ups. It had a frame, two wheels, mudguards, a foot break, and not much more. At first it was too large, but I grew taller at a young age, which worked perfectly for me. Unfortunately, the prediction by adults that I would grow tall, was wrong. I started early. I was one of the tallest in my grade, by fifth grade. Then, my growth slowed significantly. In sixth grade I reached 1.64 meters (5’4”) and never grew again. That bicycle was my favorite mode of transportation for years to come. When I saw the bicycle for the first time in my bedroom at Dadʼs house, my heart was pounding, and my smile grew wi
de as I jumped up and down while clapping my hands. I must have looked at it like someone would look at a lottery ticket winner. I could not belief I was going to have my own bike. Do you know what that meant? No more buses! I could ride to dad’s house anytime I wanted. And I did, riding the bike between the homes of my parents for years.
At twelve years old, I was at sea or riding horses in the desert every spare moment. We had no cell phones. Our parents were definitely not chauffeuring us around town. Getting back from school happened by foot or by bus if we were lucky. When I arrived home after school, I would make a sandwich and leave a note on the table that read:
Mom,
I am fine; school was good.
Down at the beach, maybe at Texas, which was a local, interactive attraction that had a barn with horses. Don't worry, will be back before dark. Love,
Nava
At first, I added a date to my note. After a while, I stopped. I could use the same note. Only another mother can recognize my Motherʼs frustration and fear with that “donʼt worry” note of mine. Can you imagine if I were to come home to find a note like that on the kitchen table? Our kids would not be happy campers when they returned, and they had better be home before dark.
I was a good girl, very trustworthy and honest, never got into trouble, and I did not do drugs. However, my grades dropped, and school became a burden. I used to love school. Now I wanted to be somewhere else. The Red Sea was calling me—the water, the sea breeze whistling my name, and the sun waiting to cover me with a soft, warm blanket while riding a horse.
It did not take long for me to see that I was headed in the wrong direction and needed help to get back on track. I told my parents that I was leaving home and moving to a Kibbutz. “No, you are not!” they said. I gave them all the right reasons to send me away. My grades were dropping, I daydreamed in class about the sea and boys. But nothing helped. They said “no.” I made up my mind that the only thing for me to do, in order to have a good future, was to leave the place I loved most: Home.
At the end of eighth grade, I went to the city’s education office. I told Mickey, at that time the head office of the education department and mom’s co-worker, that “I want to leave home, and dad and mom won't let me.” After explaining to Mickey all the reasons why I should leave, he called mom and said “Nava is in my office right now, I suggest that you will come over.” Mom smiled as she walked into the office. She knew why I was there. I told mom and Mickey that I love Eilat, perhaps a little too much. At the end of the day, mom called dad, and they together decided to not agree with me, but understood that there is not much they can do. It is a possibility that it was the first time that mom and dad ever agreed upon something.
A Kibbutz in Hebrew means gathering or clustering. It is a collective community in Israel that was traditionally based on agriculture. Today, farming has been partly supplanted by other economic branches, including industrial plants as well as high-tech enterprises. The Kibbutz began as utopian communities, a combination of socialism and Zionism, where everyone shared everything they had in an equal way. In recent decades, some kibbutzim (Plural) have been privatized, and changes have been made in the communal lifestyle.
The kibbutzim were known to have better academic programs. The children were involved in work and farming. When starting high-school, the children would study five long days a week and work a day.
Some parents would send their children to a program in a kibbutz to be in a better environment, improved education and discipline.
I always loved nature, farming, and horses, but most of all was my love for the sea. It was a difficult decision for me to leave Eilat and the Red Sea and move to a kibbutz. At least I would still be surrounded by nature, with better education and less distraction.
CHAPTER THREE
KIBBUTZ
In September 1985, I found myself in Kibbutz Ma’ale Hachamisha, close to Jerusalem. It was precisely the opposite of what I had known until then. Eilat was surrounded by magnificent desert mountains and had the most beautiful sea. In Eilat, I went everywhere by foot. The Kibbutz was a green mountain far from the sea. I found a home away from home. I was “adopted” by kind and patient adults who raised and guided me in the Kibbutz. I felt assured and also like a very fortunate young lady. The Ron family was first, and then the Nitzan family. Avi and Erit did everything possible, with much success, to make me feel secure around them. I was loved and guided by them. In difficult times, Badanaʼs hot chocolate was a great comfort. When I could not reach my mother at home in Eilat for our debates, Sarah was my refuge. Later, when I became a new mother, Shoshi and Arlene were there for me any time, day or night. It took me longer than I had anticipated, but my grades looked better with help from Meir Wilensky.
Lydia, mom’s friend, had no children. She loved and cared for me beginning when I was 11. Lydia had an apartment in Eilat but also had an apartment in Tel Aviv. When I moved to the Kibbutz, she would visit me, or asked me to visit her. She was wealthy. We would go to fancy restaurants in Tel Aviv. With her, I learned table etiquette. “Lift your elbows off the table,” she said at my first “lesson.” With time I learned all the necessary manners, from table settings to how to properly use a napkin, glasses, and silverware. I learned what I should do before entertaining a big party I become an adult. Sometimes I would roll my eyes, like a typical teenager. Those lessons were beneficial and appreciated when I now entertain. Lydia was kind to me. Though mom and Lydia had a fallout, I stayed in touch. We would talk about my latest reading book. Lydia is also the person who introduced me to classical music. When Lydia turned 40, she had a baby boy. I would often come from the Kibbutz to do babysitting. She would complain that he refused to have a bath. By the time she returned he was cleaned and fed. She was not a person who gave compliments. But she did when she saw her son doing so well with me.
If you were to see Noa, my roommate in the youth house, you would think the team who came to a conclusion for us to share a room had no clue what they were doing. Noa was exactly the opposite of me. There was not one thing in our hobbies, friends, looks, tastes, and personalities that we shared. Yet it worked great, both then and today. Noa is still one of my dearest friends. My life as a teen was unique. I learned to adjust my passions to my life, schedule, and surroundings. I was a reader and was called every name in the book, from bookworm to nerd. I was proud of all those names. I loved to read and no name-calling could take it away from me. I also loved classical music, which did not always go along with my friendsʼ musical tastes in the youth house. Listening to Tchaikovsky helped me to calm down when I felt rattled. Most teens made fun of that too, but I still listened. I did great among my friends when Queen was playing at full volume from my cassette player even though it would occasionally skip. Yes, I also loved rock music. I enjoyed being with my peers. Yet I would give myself a time out, especially on the days they were looking for adventure. To me, they were just looking for trouble. I had enough on my plate. I never felt that I needed to get into trouble to get attention from our keepers. At the time, I could not figure out why. I sure can now. For instance, one day I did not feel well. I stayed in my room and did not go to school. My keeper, Ron T, arrived at our room after he saw that I was absent at breakfast. Noa told him that I was not well. “I will ask Rosa to check on you,” he said. Rosa was our housekeeper, mother, friend, and often a comforting ear. “You will stay in your room and I will see you at lunch. I hope you feel better.” And he left me. After lunch, I felt much better. I told Roni, but he insisted that I stay in my room and rest. Roni checked in on me in the afternoon. I was not in my room. So what if he said to stay? I was feeling good and went to help in the chicken coop to immunize the chickens and transport them. We were studying five long days and working one day a week. Saturday was a day off unless it was our turn to work. We had a cycle of every few weeks to work on Saturday. My working place was the coop. I knew they were working extra hours to finish transporting the chickens. All I
wanted to do was to help. No harm done, or so I thought. Roni K. was part of the supervising team of adults and spotted me on the tractor with the chickens. Itzik, the man in charge of the chickens and also a supervisor, was driving it. I was sitting next to a volunteer that I liked. My problem was that my team knew it. He was in his late 20ʼs and I was a teen. We were driving to the other group to exchange the chickens. Roni K said, “Get off the tractor, young lady. Have a shower. I will see you soon.” He did not look or sound happy. “The tractor is going down. I will get off then.” “Off now!” You see what I mean? I wanted to do a good thing, and I now had a big problem. I did not need to sneak alcohol or cigarettes into the room to see all of my keepers with frowning faces. Our youth group, much like any other group, had the dominant leaders, the subservient followers, and the loners. A few of us, myself included, were everyoneʼs friend. That is, until one of the alpha girls decided to bully another girl. I asked the girl who was being bullied to let me help her, but she declined my offer. Eventually, something happened and I could no longer stay on the sidelines and watch. Late one night, the bully cracked eggs on my first year roommate in the kibbutz. I woke up to hear her screaming and was shocked when I saw her. She had stinky, dried eggs all over her hair, pillow and blanket. I asked her if she knew who did it. She replied that she had one suspect in mind. We called our guardians. I tried to calm her down and comfort her as much as I could. While she had a shower and our guardians had an emergency meeting, I changed her sheets. The guardians decided to blame one of the boys and said, “If it is not him, the person who did it should come forward.” They left it up to us hoping the guilty party would come forward. When I overheard the female bully bragging about what she did to her loyal followers, I snuck out of my bedroom window and went to Sarah to tell her the truth. The boy they claimed did it was not involved at all—for a change. Sarah said, “I am taking your words to the guardians meeting today.” I went back to our room and told the group that I will speak the truth even if they think I am a tattletale. This is reprehensible behavior and I will not sit back and tolerate it while someone is abusing one of us. That day I became one of the most hated people on the kibbutz. I was very sad about this because people knew what I did was right and they did nothing about it, just like they did nothing about the bully. That evening, I opened the door to go to the meeting and most of the group was waiting there for me. When I stepped out of my room, they all spit on me. I walked back in to change my saliva-soaked clothes, then walked right back out and said, “I dare you to do that again.” Thankfully, no one did. In our meeting, the guardians said, “If no one comes forward all of you will be punished and the boy who we think did it will stay to work this weekend.” I was furious, and had no plans to leave on a later bus to Eilat. It is a long journey by bus. To start it at noon means I would not be home until the early evening. Besides, I refused to be punished for something that I did not do. I stood up and said to the bully girl, “ I have no plans on being punished because of you. You are only a hero in the dark. Why wonʼt you take responsibility for your actions?” With those few comments, I was able to end bullying for good on the kibbutz. After that ordeal, I was not the most popular girl. But I think I earned the most respect, which in my opinion is much better.
Triumph Over Tears Page 2