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Small massacres
By Patrick Chamoiseau
A child in Martinique reaches into the dark corners of imagination with the miraculous force of fire
(03/09/99)

The walls around the garden
By Fiona Morgan
An interview with Tara Bahrampour, author of "To See and See Again: A Life in Iran and America"
(03/08/99)

Shy
By Caroline Knapp
After years of thinking my shyness only affected me, I realize the social impact of hiding in my living room with the shades drawn
(03/05/99)

Didgeridoo
By Anne Lamott
A new member of the big, comfy underpants set ponders why women are ostracized for "letting themselves go"
(03/04/99)

We believe you, Juanita (we think)
Susan Faludi, Susan Brownmiller, Katie Roiphe, Gloria Allred and others respond to Juanita Broaddrick's explosive charges
(03/03/99)

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Mamafesto
By Camille Peri
Why it's time
for Mothers Who Think

WHY I DIDN'T REPORT MY RAPE -- AND I BELIEVE JUANITA BROADDRICK | PAGE 1, 2
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The decision not to report a rape is easier to make than you'd think. In the seconds, minutes and hours you have to collect yourself after the rapist has left the room, the alley or wherever you happen to be, you ask yourself a couple of questions: Did what I think just happened really happen? And then: If it came down to it, would I be able to convince a judge and jury that this happened? You see yourself dressed up like a Puritan and crying the hell out of your waterproof mascara on the witness stand, relating the gory details to a crowd of strangers, with a leering familiar face among them. Friends and acquaintances would whisper and bring casseroles.

The man who did this to me was a professional acquaintance. If I took my story to the police there would be career implications I was not willing to face. There were no cuts, scrapes or bruises to prove any kind of struggle, because I knew from previous experience that fighting would only make things worse. It would be my word that I repeatedly pleaded with him to stop against his version, which undoubtedly would imply mutual consent. And in a he said-she said, there's always room for reasonable doubt.

The reasons women don't report rape and other acts of violence are no secret. They're summarized in a 1995 Justice Department Special Report on Violence Against Women, which notes that among the factors are "the private nature of the event, the perceived stigma associated with one's victimization, and the belief that no purpose will be served in reporting it."

This is all true, but what statistics can never explain is why, in my post-rape hysteria, I found myself laughing nonsensically. Or why my mind kept returning to a scene out of Camus' "L'Etranger" as told to Jerry Springer: the protagonist on trial for a crime he can't explain, before a jury of howling cretins. I ordered pizza and craved ice cream. I wanted sex, though I could barely admit that one, even to myself.

Later, in between bouts of hysteria, several things became clear to me. If I reported it, intimate details of my life would be revealed to complete strangers. If I failed to convince a jury that I wasn't lying, or hadn't simply "asked for it" (assuming my case even got that far), I'd be forced to live in shame, and possibly fear, for a very long time. (In fact, the man continued to harass me by phone for months -- everything from could he have another chance to don't tell a soul to stuttered apologies, though he couldn't bring himself to say exactly what he'd done -- until I called a mutual friend and asked him to ask his friend to stop harassing me. It stopped, thank God.)

According to a report issued by the Senate Judiciary Committee in May 1993, "Over half of all rape prosecutions are either dismissed before trial or result in an acquittal. Almost one quarter of convicted rapists never go to prison; another quarter receive sentences in local jails where the average sentence is 11 months."

Of course, after being raped, no woman sits around ticking off statistics in her mind. She doesn't need to, because she's heard them so many times before that she realizes within seconds that although what happened was indeed very real, proving it is another matter entirely. Regardless of whether a police report eventually lands a rapist in jail, the victim of the crime is forced to confront -- on top of the emotional wallop of being raped -- a legal ordeal that could take months, even years, to resolve.

The other option is far easier: Jump in the shower and scrub away the evidence. Make sure you're not pregnant. Wait six months to take an HIV test. Call your best friend and cry and break glasses and curse until dawn. You feel guilty, sure. He may do it again, and you'll be partly to blame. But God help you if you're going to let him ruin your whole life. This way, you at least get to move on privately -- and quickly.

This is why I believe Juanita Broaddrick. Because for all of these reasons, I understand why a woman could keep silent after being raped.
SALON | March 10, 1999

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