Whoever You Are, You’re Not Alone.

9pm. Café Mishka’s on 2nd street, Davis, CA . 1995.

One week in to the fall quarter of my senior year and I’m already stressed. I want to finish the Poli-sci incomplete which hangs over my head, stealing peace of mind and calm. This requires writing a 15-page paper on feminism, abortion and single-issue voters. I’ve made some progress, but much remains to be done and since Shields Library is either social central or a morgue, I can’t get it done there. So I have come to the newest and brightest spot in the tiny constellation of “third-places” which dot Davis ‘ downtown area. Mishka’s is just quiet enough, especially on a Friday night, and it also has excellent food. I order a sandwich, the name of which escapes me over a decade later. It has pesto and roasted red peppers, a detail I will never forget, because of what happens later on that night.

I’m halfway through my dinner and it’s 8:30pm. My cell phone rings and I answer, filled with trepidation. My father’s voice barks profanely over the line, “Where the HELL are you? What kind of life do you think you have? One where you can go as you please, party, take drugs? What have I told you about this world, kunju? It is a dangerous place and if you are not careful, you will end up abducted, raped and murdered somewhere and I will have to identify your body and then I will kill myself and then your sister will be without sibling or father. All because you want to PARTY.”

Sigh.

“Daddy, I’m actually-“

“What? You’re actually WHAT? You’re about to lie to me, I know you better than you know yourself. Save your BS for someone else, edi.”

“I’m not lying, I’m studying. I have a huge paper due-

“Due on SATURDAY? Perhaps on Sunday? Bullshit!”

“No, Daddy, I’m trying to pace myself and-“

“You’re trying to PARTY!”

“I am NOT. Look, you’re REALLY starting to piss me off. For once I’m doing the right thing and this is the thanks I get? Why do I bother? I’m sitting here, surrounded by books and papers, desperately trying to remember my thesis statement and why I even chose it, and YOU think I’m out dry-humping someone.”

“You are lying!”

“I am not!”

“Edi mundi, I can HEAR the party. There is music behind you. How stupid you think your Daddy isÂ…no library plays music.”

“I’m not AT the library.”

“So you ADMIT your lies???”

“No, I’m at a Café-“

“Oho—a café! You are not a French intellectual! Good girls, serious girls study in the damned library, not in the CAFÉ.”

“I’m going to go.”

“go back to your party, you mean.”

“No, this is crap. I’m being good while a million other kids are being bad and you only assume the worst about me.”

“Either you come home RIGHT NOW or you don’t come home at all.”

“I’m in the middle of writing this, I’ll be home in an hour.”

“You could be pregnant in an hour!”

“Is that all you think about? I’ll be done when I finish this page.”

“Don’t bother. The door will be locked. Now you can party all night long.”

I slam my phone down, attracting the attention of the four other people who are lame enough to be on 2nd on a Friday night, instead of the bars which dot nearby G street. They return to their respective books and assignments within seconds. I try and take a deep breath. “Finish your sandwich, if you can’t write, eat”, I tell myself.

I do and I decide to try and crank out as much of my paper as I can. This café closes in two hours but the all-night reading room is available after that. Surely everyone will calm the fuck down by morning.

Pushing my plate away, I desperately tried to focus but it was no use. My heart was racing, I could feel my pulse in my right temple, underneath the palm of my hand. I couldn’t get over the injustice of the situation. I’d never been the studious type, you were more likely to catch me sunning myself on the quad, fantastic fiction nearby than poring over assigned readings. This “new leaf” I had gingerly turned over was a huge change for me, one that I wanted to sustain.

But I couldn’t. Not right then at least.

I thought back to how proud of myself I was, just before my father called and upset my delicate equilibrium and resolve. I mentally rewound even further to how disciplined I had been, five minutes after sitting down, when I resisted the impulse to answer my phone, which had started buzzing while displaying the phone number of quite possibly the cutest Indian boy at school.

Reminiscing replaced the revving in my chest with butterflies in my tummy and I was grateful for it, as I gave in to the wonder of it all, that me, Delta Gamma, College Republican, Greek Orthodox, sole-brown-intern-at-the-Congressman’s-and-then-Governor’s office ME was suddenly desi. I had attended my first ISA meeting and to my consummate astonishment, I had emerged unscathed. I didn’t have brown friends (see: list above) even though I had had the same Sikh boyfriend for my first three years of college. Beyond his immediate circle of friends and cousins, I didn’t even know the names of any of the other South Asians on campus.

I gave in to temptation and called the butterfly provider back. He was enthusiastic but preoccupied, since he was helping his friends set up for a party. “You should come,” he insisted. “It will be fun and IÂ…wouldn’t mind seeing you. I meanÂ…if you’re free.”

Could I do it all? The urge to go to the party nearly overwhelmed me. I had lived at home for all four years of college, had been required to be home by dinner each night and had never procured a fake I.D. simply because I never even came close to needing one. Though my sorority helped me feel a little bit more like a normal college student, I hadn’t attended a single party, with the notable exception of the delta gamma spring formal, and the only reason I got away with THAT is because my date was the ultimate Malayalee dream boy, flying cross-country from Harvard Med to take me to the ball.

Even my stricter-than-a-Muslim Daddy couldn’t turn down THAT opportunity to potentially get me settled. As much fun as playing Cinderella had been, much to the horrified chagrin of my father, I couldn’t do a long distance thing, not at age 20. Enter tall, cute LOCAL brown boy with dimplesÂ…oh, the power of dimples. I snapped my notebook shut, shoved library books in my bag, gathered index cards and pens and left. A few hours of fun to take my mind off things and then I’d head to the library and pick up where I left off. Perfect.

It was 9:30 and I looked for parking in South Davis, where the rich kids lived. :p Of course I was paralleling an S-class but in my defense, it was ten years old, haters. I flipped down the sun visor, so grateful that tiny lights automatically turned on when you opened the mirror. I didn’t feel like touching up my lipstick and I was pleased that I really didn’t have to. I made my way towards unit whatever-it-was while giving silent thanks for always being the overdressed-one, since it meant I could go straight to this without worrying about the appropriateness of my clothes. The butterflies within had mutated in to pterodactyls, wreaking havoc on my insides. What was I doing? I had never been to a brown party. Who the hell would I talk to or even hang out with? This was stupid. I turned around and started to walk back to my car.

“No,” I told myself, stopping. “This is why everyone thinks you’re a stuck-up oreo of a bitch. You’re braver than this. They won’t bite. They’re just Indian kids.”

Inhaling deeply, I steeled myself for what I thought would be an innocent though stressful adventure. When they opened the door after my knock, everyone was shocked to see me but I tried not to freeze. “Dimples” rushed up to me, delight on his face replacing pterodactyls with butterflies, which are a much better fit for my stomach, really.

“HEY. I’m so glad you came. I’m almost done setting stuff upÂ…do you want to wait for me?” He read the look on my face which that question had inspired correctly. “Do youÂ…even know anyone here?” I shook my head negatively.

He introduced me to a few people on the couch and promised he’d be back soon. They were tentative at first, but inherent brown proclivities soon murdered hesitation and then they were asking me about whom I knew and where I was from and what I majored in and if I knew what graduate school I would be attending. Sigh.

“Dimples” swooped in, mercifully distracting all involved in the interrogation. “Here,” he said, handing me a wine cooler. “You’re not relaxed enough. This should help.” He left with a wink as I looked at the red bottle in front of me. “Wait—“ I called after him. “I donÂ’t drinkÂ…I…” He was gone and everyone was looking at me like I had a goiter. My face was probably the same color as the liquid I was looking at, which was far too cold in my right hand.

I had never had one before and to be polite, I pretended to take a sip, letting it all wash right back in to the bottle. It was fizzy awfulness, but it served its purpose; everyone relaxed and went back to their drinking, now that they were certain that I wasnÂ’t some prude who would remind them of how disobedient they were. I had drank alcohol before, at home, with my father at dinner. Wine with meals and liquers afterwards, with the occasional Drambuie or Champagne on special occasions. But I had never had anything like this. I had no desire to start now, not with the keys to my car lodged uncomfortably in my front jeans pocket. I set the alco-pop down.

I didn’t have time to write a review of bad alcohol mentally because the door opened and hordes of people descended on the apartment. The lights went out and the sound was immediately ratcheted up. “Dimples” rushed to my side. “FINALLY, I get to hang out with youÂ…I was so scared you’d leave. This isn’t exactly your scene.”

“I’m fineÂ…it’s good to do new stuff. New year, new friends.” I was stammering gibberish from the nearness of him. When he asked if I wanted to dance, I blushed and nodded. Off we went. I enjoyed about ten minutes of it before he got yanked away to settle some predictable drama. My phone rang and I walked outside to get away from noise.

“HELLO?”

“Hi daddy.”

“I was calling to say I was wrong for assuming the worst about you, but it turns out my suspicions were correct. You ARE at a party. Oh, why did I get cursed with such a worthless daughter? Why? That’s it. I’ve had it with you. You have no father. I am dead to you, hear me? Dead! My daughter was a good girl, not a party girl.”

“Daddy, stop-“

“Enjoy your PARTY, edi!”

Click.

I was consumed with rage and sadness. No matter how hard I tried, it was never good enough. Moments later I was called over to the other side of the patio, where several people were engaged in some kind of drinking contest. I politely declined, since I already felt guilty for touching the wine cooler. “Dimples” showed up and asked if I wanted another.

“NoÂ…I better not. I have to drive.”

“Oh that’s right…you live at home, don’t you?”

“Yeah. But it might be too late for me to head there tonight…”

He laughed easily. “You’re not going to. You think I’m going to invite you to a party at my house and then let you do something dangerous? I like you. You’ll be fine. A bunch of people are crashing here afterwards.”

My eyebrows shot up and I started to object, but he cut me off.

“They’re all GIRLS. It’s okay. Chill. You look like you’ve had a rough week. You need to relax.”

I couldn’t believe what possibilities lay before me. Wherever I looked, people slammed shots and sipped beer which had been tapped from the two kegs to my right. The makeshift dancefloor (read: space between three couches) was packed and everyone else was having so much fun. “I’m a bad girl anyway, right?” I muttered to myself. “Might as well have some fun.”

Three+ years of non-stop school (I did summer sessions each year) and dozens of turned-down-invites to parties suddenly came to mind as my anger grew. My father treated me like I was some harlot and THIS was my first party ever! I was a Senior in College! I wasn’t normal! THIS was normal. I considered my future, bleak with law school and fighting off attempts at arranged marriage. When someone handed me a red solo cup full of beer and motioned for me to join the sloppy contest taking place, I smiled slightly and turned towards my opponents. Time to make up for lost college.

Thirty minutes later, I was tipsy. Very tipsy. Or so “Dimples” discovered when he found me on the patio. When he led me inside to dance, he informed me that I was VERY intoxicated. “That’s it—you’re cut off. No puking for you, ‘kay?” He sat me down on a couch and returned with a large plastic tumbler (souvenir from an Aggies game) filled with cold water. Cold felt good. I wandered outside, to get some cold air to go with cold liquid. Then I heard screaming. The police had arrived and were busting anyone underage. Oh, shit. I was weeks from my 21st birthday. I edged towards the bushes which outlined their outdoor area, quietly making for the parking lot. I just needed to sit down and breathe, not get arrested.

I found a curb but it was too late, the sudden movement and fear gripping my stomach had already worked against me—I was retching violently and after what I saw, I knew it would be years before I could eat roasted red peppers EVER again. A policeman sauntered up to me and asked if I was done. Terror consumed me. This was it. Oh Shit. Oh fuck. Oh no. My. Father. Will. Murder. Me. When. He. Finds. Out. I. Got. Busted. “How old are you, miss?”

“She’s 21.”

Wha? Who? I groggily looked over at the source of the voice, thinking that “Dimples” didn’t sound like that. Good call on my part, because it was someone else. He was vaguely familiar, he had introduced himself at the ISA meeting and then tried to say “Hi” yesterday while I was on my way to my English class. I had exchanged two sentences with him before rushing off.

“Sure she is.”

“No, really. SheÂ’s my cousin. I was just at her birthday.”

“And I suppose she’s also got the stomach flu and THAT is why she’s puking?”

“Actually, yes.”

The police officer’s walkie-talkie broke the conversation and he rushed off to fry bigger fish.

“You owe me one,” the stranger said, reaching out his hand.

“UmÂ…thanks.”

I got up unsteadily but then sat back down.

“You’re not doing so well. Come on, I’ll take you home.”

“No thank you. I donÂ’t live around here.”

“Then where are you going to go?”

“I’m already staying somewhere. Here. I’m staying here.”

“Uh, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but ‘here’ is not really an option right now.”

“I’m fine, really. Thanks.”

“Suit yourself.”

What was I going to do? In a sense, the guy was right, b/c people were getting written up right and left and everyone else was leaving. All I wanted to do was put my head down somewhere and sleep. Pesto + Coffee + Natty Light + Drama = pain. The car. I could curl up in the mammoth backseat of the car, with its tinted windows and I’d be safe. I started to get up and must have looked like I was too unsteady for that, because the next thing I knew, a different kid was by my side. He looked familiar. Then I realizedÂ…he was a family friend of one of my oldest friends, I had seen him over the years, albeit tangentially.

“You okay?”

Good grief these Indian kids were so nice. Suddenly everyone was my friend and helper.

“I’mÂ…I’m fine. I’m just going to walk to my car—I’m not going to drive, I just want to lie down somewhere that won’t get me arrested.”

He looked at me sympathetically. “Would you like me to drive you to it? I’m parked right here.” He pointed at a car less than six feet away which I immediately recognized as his MomÂ’s. I looked back at the apartment, hoping to see “Dimples” on his way to meÂ…but there was only MORE chaos. Seconds later, I saw “Dimples” gesturing wildly in front of an officer. Grrrreat.

“Okay.”

I got in the back seat and even though he reversed gently, my head was spinning. “I’m sorry…I don’t feel well. Can you stop? Please stop.” Immediately he gingerly re-parked the car.

“Okay. No problem. My mom would KILL me if someone threw up in here. Hey, I have to go find the friend I came with anyway…will you be all right if I just left you here for a second?”

“Sure. I won’t go anywhere.”

I put my head down on the seat and took a deep breath. It felt nice to do so. I took another. After what seemed like hours, he came back, with the friend who had intervened on my behalf with the police officer.

“Well, well, welllll. If it isnÂ’t my sick, long-lost cousin”, he said as he buckled his seat belt.

I sighed. “My car is parked out front, at the corner…”

“What are you going to do, crash in it??”

“Only until I’m well enough to drive. I just want to go home.”

“That’s stupid. Oh…not the going home part, the crashing in a car part. You know, you’re welcome to stay at my place.”

“I don’t even know you, but thanks anyway, I’ll be fine.”

“It’s not safe to sleep in cars.”

“A) This is Davis. B) This is SOUTH Davis. C) I’d love to see someone TRY and get in that car.”

“ItÂ’s really not a big dealÂ…IÂ’ll take the couch. You can have my room. Seriously, don’t be dumb.”

“It’s really nice of you but I’d rather not.”

“Because…”

“Because as nice as you are, I donÂ’t even know you. IÂ’ve never just stayed at…at some guyÂ’s place.”

“Ah. What if it were some GIRL’S place. Then would you feel comfortable?”

“Maybe…”

“That girl you saw me with at the party? Lives across the hall. She’ll totally let you crash.”

I had no idea whom he was talking about, but at that point, I just wanted to sleep. I was destroyed, physically, emotionally, roasted-red-pepperally. I told myself that I didn’t know this girl and that I’d be better off in my car. Then I remembered that story about someone choking on their vomit and dying. Ugh.

“Okay.”

We headed towards campus, parked and walked under a starry ceiling as crickets chirped. Seconds later, we had stopped. My fake cousin knocked on the door and a girl answered. She looked sleepy in her Cal t-shirt and boxer shorts.

“Hey. Can she crash with you? She’s scared of boys.”

“Dude, I would be too. YouÂ’re a freak. What’s your name?”

“Anna…” Lordy, this was no time to be shy. All I could think of was, “You taste like puke, probably smell like a wreck and you are about to impose on this girl. Get over yourself, already.”

“Come on in, Anna. You can totally stay. My roommateÂ’s gone, you can take her bed.”

She opened the door wide and I tentatively stepped in. I turned around to thank the two strange guys who had brought me closer to sleep, a sleep I was looking forward to the way small children dream of Christmas.

“Thanks—“

“Save it. We all want to go to bed. YouÂ’ll be fine. Drink water, take an aspirin and get some sleep.” He gazed over my head, not hard to do because he was a full head taller. “Yo– thanks for letting her stay here. I owe you one.” He turned back to me. “You. Sick girl. Go to bed.”

Sounded good to me. I followed the girl to a dark room which was decorated with the posters you could purchase around the MU at the beginning of every quarter, brought to you by the roving poster people. Ah, yes. Van Gogh’s starry night. Appropriate. I gratefully sank on to a twin-sized bed. My hostess brought me a Tylenol and a blue solo cup filled with tap water. What was with all these damned solo cups? I drank, medicated, drank and then wearily swung my feet up.

“Do you need anything else?”

“No. Thank you so much for letting me stay here.”

She smiled before turning around to leave.

All I wanted was some rest. It had been far too long of a night and I wasn’t looking forward to a Saturday of getting screamed at by my Father while my Mother shook her head and my sister glared at me. Enough. That pain could wait. Right now, I would sleep.

.

When I woke up, there was a hand over my mouth, to prevent me from screaming.

Was this really happening? Wasn’t this guy just helping me not get arrested? Why? As tears rushed down my face, expressing what my muffled voice could not, my hands frantically clawed and pushed. I thought to myself, “Oh my God. Daddy you were right…”

.

.

.

April 3, 2006

Dear Anna:

Sepia Mutiny reports the stories which are in the news – not necessarily all that happened, but all that is reported.

I would urge you to go beyond this, because of something that recently happened. A young woman I know and love dearly was raped, an Indian American woman. How many support groups are there out there for women who endure such horrendous experiences? How many South Asian American women have dealt with such trauma? How many have had to bury their pain within them? Could you write a story asking this question, if only to see what sort of reader responses we get? If only to provide a little support to women who might be silently dealing with this?

It is not a good thing that South Asians are generally in the news here for all the good and amazing things they do and accomplish and earn, it is not an indication that all is bright and cheery for South Asians in the US. On the contrary, I believe that it means that much is not being spoken about, that much is hidden, that ours is a culture in which we brutally punish each other and our loved ones for the sake of painting pretty pictures for society to appreciate, and while we suffocate.

As the only female in this forum, I’m choosing to write to you. Thanks.

.

I’ll never paint pretty pictures unless they portray the truth.

I’m not sure if you even pay attention to this site, but if you’re out there reading this, you are not alone. It was not your fault. Please, talk to someone about what you have endured. I am praying for you to not just survive, but thrive. I know that all you can think about right now is this heinous nightmare, but I promise you, it won’t always dominate your thoughts or haunt your dreams.

If you want to talk to me, I am yours. You don’t need to be suffocated by silence or shame.

suitablegirl@gmail.com

.

I wrote that story the day I got this tip in the mail.

It’s taken me a few more days to publish it because I was scared, worried and filled with doubt. The act of recording my past triggered memories I had long ago left behind. So, wracked with anxiety, I decided that I would come up with another way to write the requested post, without leaving myself so vulnerable. Then, earlier today I realized that my fear of being judged or having this incident used against me was exactly what compelled our anonymous “tipster” to write to me on their friend’s behalf. “I can’t be quiet,” I thought.

But I am not brave. Not even close. I’ll prove it: I’m almost ashamed that a few minutes ago, my heart started to race as I thought, “It’s over now. No one’ll marry you after THIS.”

But that is what I thought. And that is the truth. And that truth is why I have to bare myself, bear terrifying risks and out myself, so that this woman who is just like me, just like my sister, can see me. So she can see that she’s not alone. That it happens to brown girls, too. That it’s not a survivor’s responsibility to feel shame, that such a heavy obligation should belong to the people who were craven and power-hungry enough to commit violence against us.

You are not alone. And neither am I.

I believe in the power of the community we are building here. I believe that I will not be harmed by telling my truth and that this example of acceptance which I have so much faith in will empower you to believe that there are people who would embrace you, wipe the tears from your face and lend you their shoulders to lean on, rather than suffocate you by using fear to silence you, like an unexpected, unwanted hand smothering you in the middle of the night.

286 thoughts on “Whoever You Are, You’re Not Alone.

  1. Mutineers, you’ve done yourselves proud.

    This is the finest of moments, born from tragedy. I can’t remember ever seeing this level of agreement or compassion on this site before.

    This rallying around those amongst us who have suffered needlessly is exactly the kind of power a group like this can wield. And the willingness to speak out, when it’s followed by the supportive words of a community, can be a world-changing force.

    As I said before, maximum respect to Anna, and maximum respect to the mutineers.

  2. Anna,

    I have always admired you and now even more. You are beautiful, witty, charming, eloquent – so very talented. You are a rare soul and I would be proud to have a friend, sister, or sister in law like you. Thank you for sharing and bringing attention to this crime.

    I had a desi friend who was an RA who knew this happen to several desi women in her dorm, usually by desi guys. This does happen a lot. How does it stop? Where does the discussion happen, not for survivors, but for potential perpetrators?

  3. You know you didn’t like it, you said no repeatedly, but maybe gave in to pressure, or couldn’t get out from under him.

    @96 dharmaqueen, The cultural stereotype present in Indian society (and I dont know how far it is true in US) – is that “often when a woman says no, she means yes” (cuz she is supposed to be shy, etc?); this certainly has a part to play in these kinds of situations – also men can barely think in these sexually charged situations and I feel there is some amount of grey area if the woman does not say a clear unequivocal NO when she is the least bit unsure or uncomfortable.

  4. I have been unable to comment on this for quite a while since I didn’t quite know how to react.

    Anna, I have always liked what you write. But now I must admire your resilience and courage as well. Take heart and know that there are so many around the world that have never seen you, and will probably never meet you, who respect you for your decision to share your traumatic experience with this young lady.

  5. I guess I was a little miffed at the idea of assault, sexual or otherwise, being considered merely physical. Your house getting broken into is merely physical or outward. Your body getting broken into is a completely different matter!

    I wouldn’t know, of course, so I don’t mean to belittle as vicious an experience as rape — but I would not like to belittle other experiences, either. I found an interesting comment on the emotional and psychological effects of “purely physical” crimes in this article (about a program to have prisoners face up to those they have affected and the consequences of their actions):

    Burglars will say they’ve committed no violence, the insurance covers the costs, so where is the victim? “You tell them when a home is broken into it can lead to marriages breaking up, people can become afraid to leave their home, they think they’re being targeted and being watched,”
  6. Whoa.. that was intense. I am sitting here, numb. It takes a lot of guts to tell a story like that. Holy frickin’ cow. Not going to dish out any words of wisdom, you’ve already gotten a boat load of that. Not going to ask you whatever happend to that turd, he will pay sooner or later, what goes around comes around.Hope he rots in hell. More power to you, lady!!

  7. Clueless (#104):

    also men can barely think in these sexually charged situations

    No no no no no. Absolutely not. No way. We are perfectly capable of thinking in “sexually charged situations” and perfectly capable of discerning whether or not our partner is comfortable or not.

  8. Clueless, the stereotype of a woman meaning yes when she says no does exist in the West. But it has been targeted repeatedly with large campaigns (ie No means No was all over my university campus in the mid nineties). I do not buy the ‘men can barely think’ in these situations argument – any woman who has been with a decent man who stops when she says no is proof that decent men do and can act rationally even in ‘sexually charged’ circumstances. Besides which, the scenario we were talking about involved a boyfriend. A boyfriend with half a brain should be able to distinguish a no from a yes.

  9. Clueless, in answer to your question I’ll try not to be too long winded… 50% of that whole denial is a self-image thing when your ability to stand up for yourself is constantly suppressed, you are unlikely to realize when youÂ’re being violated. At that time, I was used to my requests being ignored and just figured, “That really sucked. Why wouldnÂ’t he listen to me? Why did he do that?”

    My sense of justice or the thought, “what just happened to me was a crime!” didn’t come until much, much later. The word “rape” never even occurred to me until I read that article. I think too, the psychology of victimhood like a couple of commenters have addressed may have played into it. I’m nobody’s victim. There’s a part of us that thinks if we don’t face something, it will be less real.

    I know for me too, the violation of trust hurt me probably as much if not more than what happened to my body. ThereÂ’s was also something in my mind that said because I wasnÂ’t beaten, what was happening wasnÂ’t really rape. He didnÂ’t hit me at all. (Not that he had to, he was a body builder and IÂ’m 5Â’5”/125lbs.) And then thereÂ’s also the thought, “WhoÂ’s to say IÂ’m not just a damn liar?” or as my mother said when I told her, “What? Did you change your mind halfway through?” [I really wanted to stab her in her eye.]

    In response to your other post, for everyone’s benefit: “Stop” – means NO “You’re hurting me” – means NO If someone is trying to push you off of them – that means NO Someone sobbing – means NO Just a little translation work in case anyone was confused. If all else fails, here’s a novel idea—ask questions!

  10. clueless, if as you claim “men can barely think in these sexually charged situations”, you think a man will stop at a “clear unequivocal NO” from a woman??

  11. @#104 and #110 while i understand what clueless means, i agree with dq. at least in the boyfriend scenario, you will always know when it is “no”.

  12. Anna, God bless you.
    May it never happen again, to anyone. And thank you for writing this, which must have been enormously painful. It will help someone.

  13. Partof my statement – “men can barely think in these sexually charged situations” is an overgeneralization and i would like to take it back. While i believe it can be true for immature boys (say ages 18-23, but i dont mean it in any way as an excuse), it should not be the case for all men. In fact it is kinda insulting to all those dudes who put in real love and dont just indulge in a sexual act with their partners.

    secondly, thanks THype @111, dharmaqueen @110 for making the situation clearer. Yes, the boyfriend should know – its part of his ‘job’.

  14. Anna, God bless you. I don’t want any woman to go through this traumatic experience, but if they do, i hope they have your courage in dealing with it.

  15. t.HYPE,

    Thank you also for sharing your experiences. It’s not easy to put yourself out there especially on a public forum such as this.

    I completely 100% agree with this statement of yours:

    If all else fails, here’s a novel idea—ask questions!

    Amen. Men not being able to read women is not a novel concept. “I thought she wanted it,” “She never said no,”

    Illinois and Iowa (the 2 states where I’m certified as a rape crisis counselor) BOTH unequivocally state by law that LACK OF NO DOES NOT MEAN YES. Are you unsure? Do you care enough about this person to want to make sure you’re not violating them? ASK. The defense that “I just went with it” makes me angry.

    And if you need help talking to your partner in a way that doesn’t kill the mood refer to this website.

  16. You got some guts lady – I cant even imagine what you went through after that, but it takes courage to write and share about it. I couldn’t even imagine it coming…, more power to you!

  17. relax peeople, did she say it happened to her??……….

    Does it really matter? What matters is that some creep attempted or did violate her rights. And no, I am not willing to relax and neither should you.

  18. I wish I had something to write that’s as moving, eloquent, and articlate as the post. But, I don’t. I just felt the need to acknowledge it. Thank you.

  19. Anna,

    Much respect to you for sharing your experience not only with the person who sent you that tip, but with the entire world to see. It takes a special kind of courage reveal that kind of experience and pain. I had a friend who went through something similar many years ago, and it still affects her today. Though many of us can never truly know the depths to which this experience has affects someone, it is something all of us need to learn from, regardless of race and gender.

    As indian men, we not only have to learn from this, but take ownership of this issue as well. Our women need our support, and not our disdain, shame, or disrespect.

  20. i can’t imagine how much courage it took to open yourself up like this… im glad you seem to have come through it okay and i really believe this can only bring good things, knowledge and awareness are needed and you’ve promoted both

    this whole thing, post and comments, was really tough to read

  21. Sweet Jesus…Anna…words fail me, and are just not enough.

    Shine on, bright star.

  22. Anna,

    Your beautifully written story brought tears to my eyes. You are an amazing woman and an inspiration for all and if a guy doesn’t want to marry you because of your misfortune then he is a narrowminded a$$ and not worthy of you at all.

  23. All I can say is that I am a bit stunned after reading this blog post. I was expecting a funny ending with the usual nostalgia for those magic days of undergrad education. But this turned out to be something else ….

  24. anna, lots of respect for being able to be open about what happened to you. digging up what happened so long ago couldn’t have been easy at all, but i’m sure you have helped many with your bravery.

  25. also late.

    Anna, I’ve always thought you were fabulous but you’ve exhausted all possible epithets. Thank you for your courage – and brilliance. God bless you.

  26. Anna, you go girl! This is how the world was supposed to be. Bright young women who can talk about it, when something this heinous happens to them. But in this broken world, I have to say – this is brave and we are proud of you.

  27. I’m a lurker that has never felt compelled to post until today. I admire your willingness to share this painful event with us. You have my respect and awe

  28. anna,

    i’m also a mostly-lurker here at sm. this was definitely the most amazing and heartbreaking post i’ve read. thank you for sharing such a powerful and terrifying experience. i’ve heard many stories from my south asian sisters about such things happening to them, and each thought they were alone for far too long. i truly admire your bravery – it is what makes you so much more than suitable.

    much love,

    kj

  29. Anna,

    As many others have already pointed out, your story is quite poignant and gut-wrenching. As I finished it, I felt a variety of emotions: fury at the cowardice of the perpetrators, outrage at the way society worsens the crime through stigmatisation, and grief and pity for your suffering.

    Finally, I feel hope. I hope that in telling your story, you have been able to grow. I hope that your words and compassion will help other women have the courage to speak up and understand that what happened to them is not their own fault. I hope that society will acknowledge rape as a serious crime, not as a taboo.

    In the end, I sincerely hope that one day you will find a man who will love and respect you for your courage and value. I hope that one day you will have a family, and that your children will grow to acknowledge and fight such injustices.

    My feeble words will never be able to undo the past. I will never be able to fully understand your experience. I only hope that my thoughts will join a chorus of prayer that will help you find your own happiness in this life.

    Sincerely,

    A reader.

  30. This was a disturbing post, and kudos to you for making u way through it and back to life. I’m sure the road has been rocky but with your strength will emerge triumphant. Pardon my crudeness, but those that were responsible should be singing soprano and picking up the soap for the 112th time of the day.

  31. I was absolutely gutted after I finished the story, actually re-read it a couple of times to make sure I understood it. You are a very brave girl and I hope you have given inspiration to other victims of this crime to come to terms with the tragedy. My respect for you has gone up thru the roof!!!! And also please accept a cyber bear hug from me……….a jaado wali japphi as Munnabhai would say.

  32. Anna, this was the most saddening story I’ve read on SM. Like many others here, I’m horrified at the possibility the other girl was an accomplice.

  33. Anna, (another mostly-lurker here): bless you, and thank you for having the courage to write this. speaking out and making people realise how devastatingly widespread rape and abuse are is the only way to stop them. the 145 comments above are a testament to the power created by breaking the silence. (also: you are an immensely talented writer.)

  34. While I commend ANNA for writing this story, since revealing such things can have lasting implications within our communities – I am disappointed by the degree of alarm to this issue in the comments. Sexual Assault, rape and domestic violence are issues that the south Asian community is plague with, just as all other communities.

    While it is encouraging that this post is here – one has to dig through the comments to find Taz’s resource list. Is the idea of the post to elicit a reaction and continue to sensationalize the issue, or to actually end violence? If the latter – then resources beyond an email need to be highlighted in the original post.

  35. Is the idea of the post to elicit a reaction and continue to sensationalize the issue, or to actually end violence? If the latter – then resources beyond an email need to be highlighted in the original post.

    “Whatever (she does), it’s never enough (never enough).”

    R. Smith

    Are we reading the same piece? The “idea of the post” was hardly hers. Do you think she actually wanted to write this? This was quite obviously a visceral, un-thought out deluge of pain and memory that poured out of her.

    I don’t think that the “idea” of this post was to end violence. No ONE person can end the tragedy of sexual assault– but they can help a community take the first step to that necessary goal by taking some of the shame away, by starting a discussion like this. The “idea” of this post was to tell someone that she wasn’t the only one who had survived such an awful crime. I’m astonished to read that anyone could think that admitting this ordeal (now for all the world to see and worsen) was some kind of attempt to sensationalize this issue.

    Call me presumptuous, but I doubt that she was at her best when she posted this, else she probably would’ve realized that merely admitting in public what happened to her wouldn’t be adequate.

  36. Anna,I am on SM for the first time.Brave post, and sweets, I can understand how you must have felt when the thought that no one will now marry you hit you, but I hope you now understand, that a life as precious as yours is better off without men who choose to base their decisions on an incident like this.

    Hoping this post helps each of those unknown women who never have the grit to speak out.

    Congrats for rising above your fear.