TW: This is my “rape story” and why I am now changing the tide

Artwork by Fran Hogan

Words written by anonymous. Edited by Shayma Bakht

I was raped and to this day I still don’t know why I blame myself. It’s an all too common story, which too many people find themselves starring as the main character. In the Muslim and South Asian community, it’s a story we often do not share.

At the time, I didn’t even want to call it rape because I didn’t recognise it as that immediately. It was harrowing and I remember wanting to die. I still think about what he did. I called myself every name in the book: “stupid”, “silly”, an “idiot”. Only now do I understand this was my mind’s attempt to blame someone and hold myself accountable for something that was totally out of my control. 

Even though I now know what happened was not a result of my actions, my mind continues to work against me. I was so concerned with what everyone else would think; Allah, my family and my friends in particular.

I know Allah (s.w.t) sees and hears everything, but I was raised as a Muslim in a mostly traditional South Asian home and in this setting nothing is clear-cut. My upbringing and culture were, ultimately, part of the reason I never said anything to anyone. Sex and abuse are topics that your average brown parent avoids.

While I was stuck in an abusive cycle with my rapist, I knew what was happening to me was not right. I knew that he was coercing me. I was so vulnerable that even while working in a sexual violence charity - while helping other women - I stayed quiet. I would look trained professionals in the eye everyday and lie to them, telling them everything was fine. This a defence mechanism because I was afraid to speak about it.

My friends are all die-hard radical feminists that exist in different intersections of race and sexuality, and despite always showing me acceptance, I still couldn’t find the courage to open up about my world of pain. To this day, I cannot tell certain people what I endured because they understand so little about the discourse around victims of sexual violence.

I’m not suggesting that everyone needs to understand every intricacy around rape and its impact - because I still don’t myself. However, I was terrified to be at the centre of the painful debate of “believing or not believing victims”, which continues to pop up on social media and inflict damage upon young women.

The push-back against progressive conversations brought to light by the murder of Sarah Everard is proof of this. I could not be the next woman who was dissected by strangers.

I believe every person has been touched by rape in some shape or another - directly or indirectly. From high-flying Hollywood actresses to your childhood friends or sex workers across the globe. Despite the fact anyone can be a victim, we all share so much. We are often shunned and called “liars” or “whores” or the worst names you can think of.

In my “rape story”, the perpetrator was someone I knew and someone I trusted. This is very common. According to RapeCrisis.org, 90% of those who are raped knew their rapist prior to the offence. 

I was two months into a relationship with my first boyfriend, while living away from home for university. I was isolated from the closest people in my life when the abuse began. Again this is a common occurrence - a predator attacks people in their most vulnerable state.

I had no idea he would hurt me so badly. His abuse would be triggered from something as harmless as asking the doctor for an STI test - I remember him screaming in my face when he found out. Looking back, I realise this was the first red flag, but these manipulative and gaslighting tactics continued for two years. 

Another time, I remember having a panic attack in front of my abuser after a hospital appointment. I couldn’t physically or emotionally have sex, but he did not listen. My “stop”s and “No”s were drowned out, my body shut down, I didn’t fight back. I felt numb for days afterwards. My anxiety became progressively worse.

The intensity of my trauma blocked out this memory until 2020. Many people are confused by how memories can come flooding back to victims from nowhere. That is the power of sexual violence, it can cause your mind to form its own defensive wall. The smallest reminder can cause that wall to crumble, leaving behind shards of pain.

He would cheat on me, lie about it, then threaten to kill himself when we broke up. He would wrap me with grand statements like: ‘’I have nothing without you’’ and ‘’I have nothing to live for.”  Then, he would tell me that I was “going to hell” for every sin I’ve committed. 

I’m not a perfect Muslim, but I’ve also never drunk alcohol or tried any drugs. The standards put on women in our community are unattainable. When he accused me of being the bigger sinner in our relationship, it opened my eyes and lit a fire within me. I could only laugh. 

There’s much more to the story that I can’t bring myself to share. I don’t want to relive all of it by writing it down. The memories continue to burn in my head. I’m slowly coming to terms with what happened, but irrational questions flood back to me sometimes:

“Why didn’t you fight back?” 

“Why didn’t you tell anyone at the time?” 

“Why didn’t you leave?”

Earlier this year, FKA Twigs spoke to Gayle King about her abusive relationship with Shia LeBeouf and she made a poignant remark that resonated with me. In response to King’s question of “why didn’t she leave?”, she said no victim should have to answer that question anymore. I agree wholeheartedly. Only an abuser can explain why such a life-changing event played out the way it did - because only they are responsible.

Her truth, and the truth of other brave women who take to the public to speak out on rape, have helped me come to terms with my own experience. I have learned to rewire my perception of what happened. I now have some answers:

“Why didn’t you fight back?” 
My body shut down, which is a common response to trauma, and I could no longer fight.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
I was afraid the people closest to me would call me a liar or worse because the discourse around rape in my community is still so toxic.

“Why are you writing about it now?”
For me, this piece is a way to heal. It could possibly help others feel heard.

I’m changing the tide. This is my story, and I’m taking complete ownership of it. I’d be lying if I said that I do not live in fear anymore because a part of me still does. But by writing this, I am combating the fear head-on and working towards incinerating it from my life completely.