by Thordis Elva
It’s just past nine o’clock when I ask the receptionist in the Ritz lobby to call a taxi to take us to Rape Crisis. Tom is standing next to me, freshly showered and a lot less formal than me, wearing gray trousers and a red t-shirt. Nigel puts the phone down just as we step inside his shop. ‘Good morning, dear friends,’ he says in his usual warmhearted manner. ‘What can I do you for?’
‘We just wanted to thank you for tipping us off with the Upside Down Tree yesterday, and to give you a little token of our appreciation,’ Tom says, handing him the box of chocolates.
For a moment, Nigel stares confused at the box. Then his well-groomed face lights up in a radiant smile.
‘Was it good?’ he asks, looking at me.
‘It was unforgettable. I’m so glad you mistook me for someone else. It ensured a magical time,’ I answer, aware of the disconnect between my calm voice and my pounding heart.
The smile on Nigel’s lips is genuine as he cocks his head and asks me: ‘You sure that wasn’t you? I’ve got a good memory when it comes to people. Never forget a face.’
His words cause every hair on my body to stand on end, but Tom breaks into a good-natured laugh. ‘I hope you enjoy them,’ he says, pointing to the chocolates.
A little while later, Tom and I are sitting in a taxi on our way to the City Bowl, as it’s called. The naming is no coincidence, as the center of Cape Town is shaped like a bowl, surrounded by Devil’s Peak, Table Mountain, Lion’s Head, and the butt of the lion, commonly called Signal Hill. The City Bowl is very unlike Sea Point, the yuppie hotel neighborhood I chose in my search for the safest part of the city. Here, we see mundane things like elementary schools, hospitals, and buses. It’s good to finally feel grounded by graffiti and locals on their way to work, as opposed to whitewashed tourism. Having grown up in a middle-class family, I feel decidedly out of place in privileged neighborhoods with their private pools and uniformed personnel.
‘Remember how I told you that they leave words of wisdom on my pillow every day at the guesthouse? I’ve got to show you what was waiting for me when I got back yesterday,’ Tom says enthusiastically, handing me a small note.
‘When you eat the beautiful fruit of great trees, remember to thank the wind,’ I read out loud. ‘No way!’
‘Huge smiles when I saw that one. Couldn’t wait to tell you.’
After finding our destination, Tom and I are buzzed in through a gate into a small courtyard in front of a terraced house. I stare at the doorknob of a brightly painted door, unsure of whether I should let myself in or wait for someone else to invite me inside. Standing behind me, Tom seems smaller than usual, somehow.
Seconds later, the door opens and we’re eye to eye with a young woman.
‘Good morning. We’re here to see Shiralee,’ I say in a nervous voice.
‘Come in,’ she says, and steps aside to let us in. ‘I’ll let her know.’
The lobby is bright, with a large window to the right. On the wall behind the receptionist’s desk is a watercolor painting of a naked woman, reclining on a bed. The eroticism is obvious. Odd choice of art for a survivors’ center, I can’t help thinking. Though survivors react to rape in different ways, things of a sexual nature almost always take on a different meaning than they had before the violence occurred. For some survivors the slightest reminder of sex, such as this painting, can evoke a strong and difficult reaction.
I instinctively catch my breath when I meet Tom’s eyes, wide and fraught with meaning. ‘What?’ I whisper.
Shaking his head, he points in amazement to a book sitting on a shelf on the left side of the desk. I cock my head and read the title: Power of One, by Bryce Courtenay.
‘Incredible,’ he mutters. ‘What a coincidence.’
‘We’re way past coincidences,’ I whisper back.
Shiralee turns out to be a softly spoken woman in her fifties. She’s wearing a black shirt, long, fluttering pants, and flip-flops.
‘Can I offer you some coffee?’ she asks, and Tom and I accept in unison. We brief her about our professional backgrounds while she pours us a cup each. Out of the corner of my eye, I note that Tom’s movements are unusually cautious, like he’s walking on eggshells again. Listening with interest to our introductions, Shiralee shows us to an interview room. Steaming cups in hand, Shiralee and I automatically take a seat in two armchairs, while Tom settles into a fake-leather loveseat opposite us.
‘Our vision is to support and empower rape survivors through the criminal justice system to reduce secondary trauma within the system, ultimately enabling more survivors to report rape,’ Shiralee answers when I ask her about the vision of Rape Crisis. ‘We have very few paid staff, but we have a large group of volunteers who get three months’ mandatory training about the justice system, reactions to trauma, and support measures for survivors of sexual violence. We place great emphasis on the training program, to enable the volunteer to support the survivor through a very difficult process.’
‘Are there any men amongst your volunteers?’ Tom asks cautiously.
For a moment, Shiralee’s lips are pressed into a thin line. ‘All the male volunteers we’ve trained so far have disappeared quickly. It’s a great loss, because we really need to get through to men, especially within the police. Police officers need to learn that it is unacceptable to tell a prostitute that she can’t be raped or to tell a drunk woman to go home and sleep it off before pressing charges. It takes a lot of courage to walk into a police station and charge someone with rape,’ she says empathetically. ‘You don’t tell someone who has mustered that kind of courage to go home and come back later.’
I agree wholeheartedly and tell her that in Iceland, seventy per cent of all rape charges are dismissed on average, a statistic that has been deemed unacceptable by the UN and many human-rights organizations. ‘There are two people at the attorney’s office who go through the evidence and decide whether the case goes to court or not. According to Icelandic law, the case has to be likely to result in a conviction or it’s dismissed.’
‘It’s the same here,’ Shiralee says. We shake our heads, equally outraged that judicial power has been transferred, it seems, from the judges to bureaucrats who now have the power to determine whether or not survivors get to see the inside of a court room. I’ve developed quite a fondness for this new, likeminded friend of mine.
‘Can I ask, is it staffed twenty-four hours here?’ Tom asks, reminding me of his presence.
‘No, not any more. We used to be open 24/7, but now we close at 4.30. After that, we have a telephone hotline.’ She explains the procedure for a typical phone call and how the first question is whether or not the survivor needs an ambulance. If not, he or she is urged to go to the hospital to get a rape kit done. ‘We explain in detail why it’s important that they get a medical and forensic examination. The fact is that to some survivors, it feels like another invasion altogether, to have their private parts examined by a stranger right afterwards,’ Shiralee says. ‘One of our survivors had been brought up in a very conservative way and had never spoken of sex before. She couldn’t bring herself to tell the doctor that her attacker had raped her orally, not vaginally. The doctor assumed it was vaginal rape and only took samples from there, where nothing was found, of course.’ She shakes her head.
‘In the University Hospital of Reykjavík, we have an emergency clinic for survivors of rape and sexual assault where they do forensic examinations and offer medical assistance like you’re describing. Unfortunately, they’ve suffered painful budget cutbacks and now they can no longer afford to do a screening for HIV or Hepatitis C,’ I tell her.
Shiralee’s jaw literally drops. ‘But that’s what survivors are most worried about!’
‘I know! It’s hard to comprehend how it’s gotten to this.’
‘Here, the next step after the examination is to prepare the survivor for the justice proceedings whic
h typically take four to five years.’
Now it’s my turn to gape in surprise. ‘Why so long?’
‘In most cases, capturing the offender takes a very long time. The sex-crime division of the police is understaffed and underfunded, dealing with an overwhelming number of accumulated cases.’
‘I’ve read about South Africa being the rape capital of the world,’ I say in a cautious voice, unsure of how Shiralee will react to the dubious title.
‘Oh we are. Without a doubt,’ she replies, so straightforward that it sends shivers down my spine.
‘Why?’
‘There’s no simple answer to that question. This country is still healing the wounds caused by decades of apartheid. Apartheid is the most extreme form of patriarchy.’ Shiralee puts her cup down. ‘Sure, things have changed in the legislation. People say we’ve got this great constitution, but it doesn’t speak to the law. There’s still tremendous poverty. If you look at where people live, the lines are still there, dividing the neighborhoods. More black people have started moving into affluent neighborhoods, but that’s it. Nothing else has changed, really. That’s the problem of this country. It’s full of people who feel utterly powerless after hundreds of years of oppression. Some people are desperate enough to snatch power in whatever way they can. That’s what rape is about, it’s about power and control. Skin color has nothing to do with it and perpetrators are black and white, just like the survivors.’
‘What about infant rape?’ I ask her. ‘What drives people to do such a thing?’
‘That’s also about control, even if it’s just over a little baby,’ Shiralee answers. ‘And then there’s the widespread belief that having sex with a virgin cures HIV. Three-week-old babies have been raped around these parts. By adult men.’
Tom lets out a quiet moan that reflects my feelings perfectly: outrage and grief.
‘We also have a big problem when it comes to underage offenders. Children imitate what they see around them. They see rape all around them. Then they simply copy that behavior.’
‘In Iceland, we recently started a support measure where specialists offer treatment to children who show inappropriate sexual behavior. Including kids who molest other kids.’
‘We could use something like that here,’ she says, pensive.
‘Your volunteers, are they survivors themselves?’ Tom asks.
‘Some are, but we screen them very carefully to make sure they’re doing this job to help other survivors, not simply to heal their own wounds.’
Tom meets her eye. ‘What about perpetrators, do you know of any services for them?’ His voice sounds a little strained.
Shiralee wrinkles her forehead. ‘Yes, I think so. But that’s out of my territory so I frankly don’t know much about it.’
‘Where I come from, government institutions often fail to collaborate on the issue of combatting violence, which means that effort and money is sometimes unwisely invested and without proper oversight,’ I tell Shiralee. ‘Luckily, three ministries joined their efforts recently with the aim of preventing sexual violence and I was fortunate enough to work with them. This is the fruit of our collaboration and it’s being taught in schools across the country.’
Curious, she accepts from me a DVD I pull out of my bag.
‘It’s a short film about the importance of getting consent for all sexual activity, to ensure that sex is a positive and mutual experience for those who have it,’ I add. ‘It’s in Icelandic, but your copy has English subtitles.’
Shiralee thanks me and gives us a copy of Rape Crisis’s Annual Report in return. On the first page, the Chairperson of Rape Crisis confirms that South Africa has some of the highest reported rape statistics in the world and a province that is home to a city dubbed the Cape of Rape.
South African society, its culture and its institutions have been profoundly affected by the institutionalized dehumanization imposed by the apartheid system as well as the levels of force used, on the one hand to entrench these policies and, on the other hand, to resist them. In this way, the system traumatized an entire nation. Every person in South Africa has been affected by the violence, structural and physical, of apartheid in one form or another. At its worst, this continues to play out in a profound disrespect for human life and the integrity of individual human beings and an attitude of impunity where the consequences of violence are concerned, which in turn causes more violence.
Because hate begets hate, I remind myself. Nelson Mandela’s words cross my mind: ‘Courageous people do not fear forgiving, for the sake of peace.’
We’re standing next to a locked glass cabinet stuffed with different publications when Tom says: ‘That belongs in there,’ with strained cheeriness. He’s pointing to a book whose spine reads in large letters: MAN.
‘Yes, that’s a good book,’ Shiralee replies politely.
‘Locked up, I mean,’ Tom adds. The ensuing silence is thicker than tar, until he adds: ‘Excuse me. I might wait outside for a taxi and grab some fresh air. Thank you so much for the time, Shiralee.’ I watch him disappear, wondering just how challenging it was for him to breathe the air between these walls, battling the feeling that Man should be locked up. I decide not to go after him as I know there’s nothing I can do. This is something he has to face on his own.
‘What is the prevalence of men being raped here in South Africa?’ I ask Shiralee as the door closes behind Tom.
‘One in every five South African men is raped at some point in his lifetime.’
For a moment, I’m dumbstruck. ‘One in five? I’ve never heard of such widespread sexual violence against men. They’re raped by other men, then?’
‘Yes, almost without exception,’ Shiralee answers. ‘And some are attacked more than once.’
‘Yes, I’ve read studies that show that the odds of being raped again increase substantially once you’ve been victimized,’ I respond.
‘It makes sense,’ Shiralee says. ‘After being raped, the survivor’s defense mechanisms are damaged, even destroyed in some cases.’
‘And if perpetrators are hunting for easy prey, it’d make sense that they’d seek out people who’ve already been broken,’ I add. My mind goes to those who were violent towards me, after Tom. Did they spot my cracks?
Shiralee’s handshake is firm and warm as I thank her for the chat, which has exceeded two hours at this point. I’m lacking words to outline the importance of her work so I make do with thanking her for having been so generous with her time.
Tom is nowhere to be seen until I let myself out of the fence surrounding the house. He’s sitting by an iron fence a little further down the street. I take a seat next to him and let out a deep breath.
He hesitates before gesturing with his head at Rape Crisis: ‘How was that, for you?’
‘Educational and informative, just like I’d hoped. How was it for you?’
‘I’ll give you an answer to that when we’re sitting down somewhere with peace and quiet,’ he answers in a hoarse voice.
‘Was it that hard?’
‘Yes, it was.’
We decide to walk to the nearest bus stop and climb aboard a bus with ‘Cape Town City’ on it. It is crowded with women with elaborate braids and solemn faces, sitting in silence. Next to me, Tom is also quiet and deflated, somehow.
‘I’m almost done with my life story,’ I tell him. ‘Want to hear the rest?’
‘For sure,’ he says with a faint smile. ‘We’re not giving up now.’
I fast-forward through a tumultuous relationship I had in my twenties and the tough separation that resulted. I tell him about the humiliating period that ensued when I had to move in with my parents again, penniless and heartbroken, but also the freedom that came with having nothing left to lose. I quietly illustrate how hard it was to move back into the scene of the crime, my old teenage room. I was curled up on the floor
in a sobbing heap when my mother grabbed my shoulders tightly and whispered: ‘We need to find a way to bless this room, honey.’ Then she waved her hands, humming softly like she did to soothe me when I was little and woke up from a bad dream. With her eyes closed and her arm sticking out in the air, the quiet chant flickered between the walls and filtered into me, somewhere between my ribs. Her sorcery was efficient, because two years later I’d written a 270-page book about sexual violence within those very walls. ‘For the second time in my life, an event that took place in that same room transformed my existence, with the radical effect the book had on my career.’
‘Sounds like you found your voice there.’
‘And myself, somewhere amongst the ruins. That’s when I met Vidir. We had an amazing summer, full of love and sleepless nights. He was a patient listener to my rants about sexual violence during the writing process. After the publishing of my book, letters came pouring in from people who had experienced rape or abuse but were too ashamed, or too entrapped in silence, to face it. Their stories were jaw-dropping, and their resilience and strength remain my biggest inspiration.’ My eyes fall upon a girl two seats over, with her hands in her lap and a serious expression on her face. I turn to Tom and add: ‘I’ve come to believe that the toughest creature on earth is the teenage girl.’
‘I remember when I read your email about your book and how it included the story of what I did to you, the computer screen started swaying from side to side,’ he tells me. ‘It was hard to focus, but I finished the email and quickly closed the window, paid at the internet café and left, feeling nauseous, uncoordinated, and heavy with self-loathing and disbelief. Shock, as you say. But shortly thereafter, I came to a turning point. I had realized that I did commit the crime, I am the person in your book, and you have every right to tell of that night however you see fit. And I must read it and re-live it and own it and be sorry for it and deal with whatever results from you talking about it. In coming to this point, there was a new feeling.’ The expression on his face softens. ‘It was one of … relief. Relief that you had been able to express and talk of the hell I put you through. Relief that someone as strong as you can reveal themselves and their trials and offer other victims solace … while helping people to understand how disgustingly brutal and soulless a crime rape is. Relief that it was out there, somewhere … and that I was powerless in trying to bury it all. Relief that I had not been named as your perpetrator. And yet also relief that maybe I wouldn’t remain anonymous. As you said, being scared for years is not healthy.’
