The Dream
Small room with a lock, cozy and safe, perfect for releasing your sins and shame, your painful and unnerving memories; an inventory formed of a lifetime of experiences stashed away in your head. Or somewhere inside.
You will free yourself with gentleness; recollect and breathe them all in; the guilt, remorse, disgrace, mortification and all these hardcore sentiments of which you had hoped they’d remain safely locked up inside.
Now take a big gulp of air and revive those scary moments, some of long ago, some not so far away, the ones you hadn´t realized yet are the scars which have never healed. And inhale deeper until there is no more space left in your lungs. Go for the tiny particle hovering in front of you where it all starts. Open it, carefully, no fear. Breathe out.
Here goes:
THE DREAM
The dogs escaped from the house. Only it wasn’t our cozy home but a basement which gave out into the street, and all was grey. I saw the front door was open; the three dogs were just outside the house in the dark and empty street. Motionless.
I called out to my husband to get the biggest dog inside as she wasn’t reacting to my calling her and she was the one who would go for any other dog not known to her and chew it into mince.
It was the middle of the night and when my husband disappeared into obscurity I felt reluctant to go back inside on my own.
There was a party somewhere. Two women in colourful clothes turned the corner, rowdy and noisy as they drifted past, and then darkness.
Somehow I was back in the basement. Greyness still all around. A friend and her husband were with me, but soon the friend left. The husband; in a suit, stylish grey-white hair. Square jaws and tall.
I was lying on the floor now, fully clothed. He was standing above me, also fully clothed. And dry humping me like a dog. Physically this would prove impossible, except that it was. Pure red hot terror in my throat. Heavy sense of evil all around. No more grey, just blackness everywhere. Except for his face, his grey hair, his suit.
The door was closed with one of those locks where you have to turn a little button till it clicks shut. I couldn’t see the door, but I knew.
Playing it casual while my mouth was dry as fuck, I could clearly sense there was no escape yet, I had to humour him or die.
I was on a massage table in the middle of the room, which had a hole in the upper part for your face so you can breathe while lying on your stomach. Suddenly the basement had gone very quite and diminished in proportions to a small dark room. He was now half lying, half sitting on the top part of the table with his trousers around his ankles. I don’t remember being naked but I must have been because I was sitting on his lower half trying to put his penis inside while trying to talk to him, trying not to be sick or gag or pass out, concentrate, don’t show your fear, I’m sure he can smell it though, I can, it’s everywhere. It doesn’t fit, won’t go in. Bad bad taste in my mouth, can’t swallow. Then I see the soles of his feet. They are pitch black. His cock is in my hand now. I don’t know what to do, it is a triangle, red and black like a pitchfork or a devil’s tail. He is giving me instructions now from the top part of the table. His face. Grey hair, square jaws. But somehow much much scarier than Satan himself. The face of death and destruction and mercilessly inflicted suffering.
The table is separated into two parts now, he is still on the top section, me at the bottom but at the other end of the room, with his penis in my hand. Red and black and triangular. But so real. Not swollen, not working.
My mind can see the door now. I am dying. The room is filled with terror and evil and screams not uttered.
Then I take a chance and leap off the table, turn the lock and run outside.
Nightmarish run to nowhere, feet dragging, triangle still in my hand, run, run, dead-end alley, noooo...
The silent screams are deafening, turn around, try to find your house, some light, out of this darkness, is he coming after you, can you hear him, where did your house go, please help someone help.
BANG. I wake up.
I woke up and felt the terror racing through me, felt the imprints of pure evil on my body. It was still everywhere, this overpowering feeling of sleaziness, no air, the ugliness and black despair overtaking all of my senses. The mute screams echoing in my head. Raped by the Devil. Black feet. You pray and pray and he goes away. Not this time. This time he overstayed. I could not pray. But I escaped. But did I?
It took a while to calm down. I needed light and air in my lungs, water for my dry mouth, but above all someone close to drive the panic out.
For a moment he was there again, in the compassionate face of my beautiful sweet husband who had been woken up by my sobbing. The penetrating eyes, alien mouth, white face. Surely this could not continue while awake, I turned away from him, could not watch, I wanted to yell and bawl and hide. Dry dry mouth, nowhere to turn. No touching please, naked flesh. Don’t hold me, stay away but Just Be. Here with me.
Lucid dream? Never this bad. And always Him. What happened?
RAPE
Today was the day of Julie’s funeral, the beautiful 23-year old Belgian girl who was murdered trying to defend herself against a rapist. She, of course, had no chance.
This week was all about sexual harassment, rape, violence against women, domestic violence, child abuse...
I have been thinking about my stories. They are part of my “memoirs”. And they are part of my life. Part of nearly every woman’s life.
This dream, an unconscious recalling of what’s mine to deal with? I honestly don’t know. They happened a long time ago. And I thought they were part of my adventures and oh, how often have I laughed them away? If I hadn’t been hitchhiking on my own, if I hadn’t been so naïve as to accept a man’s friendship as normal without sexual ties, if, and more if’s. Blaming myself. Feeling guilty. Telling everyone; “it would have been a lot worse when I would have been 16 instead of 22” etc... But they shouldn’t be part of my adventures, or anybody’s life.
For all the other victims, and some of those who can not tell their stories anymore, here are my experiences and a few of close family and friends.
Let there be awareness and solutions. And let us chose wisely who we let into our lives. Although the Devil has many faces.
MY STORIES
1.- I didn’t want to have sex. He came up to my room after humiliating me as always, telling me I was not good enough for him, or his family. He slapped me. Not this time though. He came to my room to tell me we were finished. And something else. He raped me in my trusted room, in the house of my parents. I couldn’t breathe, gulped for air, but did not want to anger him. Afterward, he slapped me in the face to get my breath back and told me to go for a coffee with him and calm down. I did. I was 18.
2.- Truckdriver. I ran away from the guy I was traveling with. This guy had just beaten me black and blue in a small hotel room in Langon, a tiny village in France because I did not want to share a bed with him. I managed to escape, hitchhiked in the middle of the night to get away from the village because he traveled with a Bowie-knife, and I could see him reaching for it the minute I escaped through the back door. I ran and hid under a bench in front of the railway station which was closed at that time of night. Then when I thought I was safe I started thumbing under a bridge and was picked up by a “sympathetic” truck driver. I was crying and talking incoherent so he stopped at a petrol station to get me a glass of water. My teeth were chattering against the glass. Next stop was at a Routier, a parking lot for truck drivers to rest and spend the night, usually containing a cheap restaurant, which was closed at this time of night. I thought I was safe with him, partly because he physically reminded me of a man I had been in love with forever. Not. Safe. While he started to prepare himself for the night, I looked behind me at the bunkbed. Following my gaze, he said there was only bedding for one person, so I would have to share a bunk with him. I jumped out of his truck, but he shouted after me that “the others won’t be so nice and take what was theirs without asking nicely first”. (as if he had asked...) The parking (somewhere around Bordeaux) was filled with trucks, not a normal car in sight. “And”, he reminded me sarcastically, “could he have his socks back??” (I had left everything behind when I ran from the traveling partner, so he had given me his socks. It was October.
I looked around in despair and saw that he was right, so climbed back in. He told me I could have the top bunk and that I was going to freeze to death but that this was absolutely not of his concern. Glad about the agreement I tried to close my eyes and lie as still as possible when he turned off the light. After a while I wanted to turn on my side and get a bit more comfortable, but with this slight movement the light came on, he climbed on top of me, told me he was going to do me a favour by not coming “dans le ventre” but “sur le ventre” and I knew I had no choice. All I could see was a Bowie knife with an incision carved out in the metal to let the blood flow away, as was explained to me by the owner one evening when I found this knife in his rucksack while looking for a pen. “You see when you just use any ordinary knife the blood won´t be able to escape so you might not die. But don´t worry,” he smiled, “I only carry this on my travels to peel potatoes with and stuff”.
I woke up while we were on the road again. I kept still and after a while, he stopped at another truckers parking lot, turned to give me his toilet bag and said I would have a chance to wash and clean myself here; there were separate showers, and then we would have something to eat. I was in a daze, grateful to be alive and for some daylight, and also for the guy not looking or acting like a complete psychopath. Grateful. Really. He came into the showers and said he wanted to wash my back. I started screaming and yelling so he left. I washed. And washed some more. But fast, just in case he came back. Then I went into the restaurant to give him his toiletries back. I spotted him between a bunch of other truckers who all sat down at a long table. He pulled a chair out for me and told me to sit. I sat. They all glared at me, some amused. Then he said something with a thick accent I couldn’t understand and they all laughed at me, his trophy. I politely told him I needed the toilet. Once outside I ran and ran. To the tiny village where I found a bank to change my traveler's cheques (which I always carried underneath my clothes and never ever undid) and then found the railway station where I jumped on the first train to Paris, not lingering to buy a ticket. Lucky escape. Later I heard that BowieMan sat in wait for me at that train station, hoping and thinking I would turn up there at some time. We missed each other over a split second. Once back home my younger brother slept in my apartment in Antwerp every night for a week because I was terrified that BowieMan would show up. The trucker was caught by the police; he was from Lille, and the French police called me after a friend of mine looked up the exact village and hotel where I escaped from in a library book (no Google J), so a few months later my traveling gear that I had left behind was sent back to me. What happened to the French man I have no idea, but the officer on the phone was very nice to me, saying that he had a daughter my age and that he could not imagine something similar happening to her. I don’t think I pressed charges, as I thought and even got told a few times that it was my own fault for hitchhiking in the dead of the night (as if...) and for deciding to travel the world with some stranger who put an advert in a regional newspaper. I was 22.
3.- Tenerife. Drunk. Driving home in the still-dark early morning hours. I am married and have a 12-year old daughter who is terrified of me leaving the house whenever I want to go out. I am then in my full-blown stage of alcoholism. I am on my way home driving my tiny yellow Cinquecento and picked up a skinhead who was hitchhiking. Next thing I remember is being dragged through rubble and rocks to the wasteland behind the gym where I was a member. This guy is big. Rips my clothes, I am lying between all the rubbish and dirt, then he disappears. I crawl to the road, shaking, crying, shocked, teared up clothes and in bits. But still drunk enough to not find my car. So I hike. Guy who picked me up said he would bring me home but stopped at the side of the road and tried to climb on top of me. I am in hysterics now and my screams must be deafening, so he restarts the engine and drives me to my front door. Daughter is awake and sees her mum with thorn clothes, dirty, defeated and sobbing and doing a good version of poor me. We will not find my car for 2 days and when we finally do, parked at the side of a closed up restaurant, one of the wheels is all mangled up and a mirror has entirely broken off. To this day I have no recollection of what happened that night. I do think I let the guy drive. My husband wanted to denounce but I was drunk and in no state to give a statement to a policeman. Scared because they would say it was all my fault. Which I believed for a long long time until I finally put it away with my other shame. I was 44.
4.- I was 7. I was a member of the Chiro, a Catholic youth group which was only 2 streets away from where I lived. Every Sunday I left home with a packed lunch to spend the day with my friends. It was winter and dark at 6 pm when we came out of the gate. My friend only lived next door to the Chiro’s quarters, so I said goodbye to her and crossed the road, ready to walk the short distance home. There were two older girls in front of me but they walked fast and had nearly reached the end of the street, ready to turn the corner. The priest who was leading the Youth group stood at the gate chatting with a neighbor. A bike screeched to a halt in front of me and blocked the footpath. The guy, I think he could be no more than 16 or 17, (but in my perception then was an adult) told me to jump on the back of his bike because we would go to his house where he had loads of sweets. And toys. But especially sweets. I didn’t want to. He insisted and tried to grab my wrists and lunged at me. Then I screamed, I think I screamed help. The two bigger girls turned their heads and started coming back to see what was going on. The priest didn’t move or stopped chatting although I was just across the road from him, and this was happening right in front of his eyes. The guy turned his bike around and disappeared. My mum was livid at the priest for not doing anything and I think that was the last time I spent my Sundays there. As said, I was 7.
5.- We are three school friends on our way to an indoor swimming pool on a free Wednesday afternoon. We decide to eat our lunches on a bench in the park before we go for a swim. Fooling around, we notice an older man sitting on his own on the next bench. He is waving at us. So we wave back. He waves again and signals for us to come over. My friend and I are walking towards him, my other friend stays behind eating her sandwich in peace. We stop at some distance from him and the man tells my friend to go, he only wants to talk to me. We laugh and say no way and what is it that he wants? He wants me to come closer and drop my knickers. We are shocked. We thought he was a lonely old man who needed some help, or maybe a friendly chat... (He was probably not that old). We beckon to our other friend to come over and tell her what a dirty old bastard he is. He disappeared while we were retrieving our lunchboxes from our bench so we decided to follow him. He figures it out quick. We are hiding behind trees and bushes and do the movie-stuff. And then he is gone. We leave the park trying to find out which direction he could have taken, then cross the road and settle for the graveyard, which looked the more adventurous option. Suddenly he appears behind a tombstone. Startled and scared we call it a day and run for the exit. But of course not admitting to each other how terrified we were. Later that week I have nightmares. We were 13.
6.- Traveling. France. Hitchhiking on a country road with a friend and two guitars. It was a sunny day and we were in the perfect mood. Slowly a Citroën Diane 6 with a middle-aged driver in shorts appears on the horizon and comes to a halt in front of us. It is my turn to settle in the back seat, leaving the conversation task to Mieke, the co-pilot on this journey… Struggling with rucksacks and guitars on top and around me, I start to doze off as the driver restarts the engine and we are on our way. But it doesn’t take long before he stops the car and I can hear him announce:”Cinq minutes de repos!”. My blissful zen-mood where I’m peacefully listening to the zooming of insects and the distant mooing of one or two cows is all of a sudden disturbed when Mieke’s faint voice drifts to the back of the car; “donne-moi ma main!!” Only a bit alerted because they were conversing about topics I was not following and for all I knew they could be playing a game (like cards in a stranger’s car), I peered through the rucksack-guitar-mayhem on top of me trying to figure out what was going on. Next thing the passenger’s door is being flung open, my friend’s slightly hysterical voice now telling me to pass the guitars and luggage through to her (priorities!!) and get the hell out of the car. Being the obeying friend as always I did as I was ordered and once safely outside I looked back in and saw the driver sheepishly sitting in the driver’s seat with his shorts around his ankles. Mieke was already vigorously kicking the car, calling him all names under the sun (literally and figuratively speaking) and it only took me a split second to join her, until he finally managed to pull up his pants, reverse the car and speed away. We were about 23–24.
7.- Sauna. My daughter is 4 or 5. We were used to taking her to family saunas with us since she was 3. This sauna is our favourite because there is a guy called Gary, a 17-year old who gathers the kids around him in the outdoor pool and plays games with them. Most parents are quite happy going along with this as it gives them a chance to enjoy the relaxing saunas which are not really suitable for small children. In Belgium it is the protocol that in most spas swimming gear or bathing suits are not allowed, so everybody strolls around naked. We are sitting in the dry sauna which is packed when one of the people who has a view of the hot tubs from where he is sitting suddenly asks if the little girl who is in the jacuzzi with Gary is one of our children. Turned out Gary was a pedophile who operated together with an older man. They used to wait in their car in the parking until enough children had entered the sauna before they came in. We didn’t know any of that then. When we filed a complaint the management told us that there had been various accusations from other parents but they were unable to act until one of them got caught redhanded. The police knew about it, but they both had a membership card and they could not forbid them entry. By the time we complained the older guy was already caught with an underaged child in the dressing rooms and had just been sent to prison, so luckily we never met him.
I remember vividly on a Sunday morning when we were on our way to the sauna with our daughter in the backseat when she started to moan about a tummy-ache. Strange because when we left the house she had been her usual cheerful self with no complaints. But before leaving that morning we had told her that from now on mummy or/and daddy were going to play with her in the swimming pool or the sauna, and she had to stay away from Gary, as he was not a nice guy. The closer we got to our destination the louder the sobs and the moaning. My husband was ready to turn the car and head home when an idea occurred to me and I asked her if she wanted to go to the indoor playground instead. Her little face instantly cleared up, gone was the tummy-ache and the mystery solved. I can imagine though, shy kid as she was, she would have been terrified of being faced with the ordeal of telling him she couldn’t play with him anymore. Although she had never been on her own with him so far as there were always grown-ups around the pool and it was a very busy resort, I keep hoping to this day he has kept his dirty hands of her. I did approach him the moment we found out but of course, he pretended to be offended when I told him in no nice words to stay away from our daughter or it wouldn’t be his best day. There were always newcomers with kids like we had once been, but the moment we arrived in Tenerife in the year 2000, the Belgian newspaper read that Gary as well had been caught and was finally sentenced to prison. Our daughter was 4 or 5 years old.
8.-Friends. Wednesday afternoons meant children’s matinees in the Catholic school of the nearby parish, and with one of the older priests in charge. They were always showing kids movies, and during the break, you could buy sweets and soft drinks. A few times during these breaks my friend used to disappear and come back with sweets. I always presumed she bought them after she went to the toilet, although we usually didn’t have the money. She was always back before the movie started again. I recall her saying something about the priest being her friend. Years later she told me the priest used to take her to the toilets indeed, but in his private quarters, where he touched her up. For candy. She was a very outgoing but troubled child and thus easy prey. We were 8.
9.- Tuur was a friend of the family. He was a fairly good looking man for his age, which I guess would have been in his 40’s then. Tuur likes me. I want a parrot. My parents say no, so I ask again and again and again but the response remains negative. Then Tuur comes to my aid, discusses the topic with my parents and off we go to the animal shop, him and me, and come back with a green parrot. Tuur likes me better than my two brothers, he is always standing up for me. I need to start wearing a bra. My friends are ridiculing me because when I run, my breasts are jiggling all over the place. I hate them. I don´t want to wear a bra, a harness, I want to be a boy between boys, go on adventures, climb walls and be fearless. I am not a girly-girl, I am tough!. Alas, I am not. I am deadly shy and blush crimson at the slightest confrontation. Not in my head though. Tuur arrives with a bag full of bikinis. A present for me, they are his daughters who grew out of them. I feel odd. I never wore a bikini and don’t need one, we never go anywhere near the seaside, and I am safe in my bathing costume for pool-use. My mum comes and tells me my dad and Tuur are waiting for me to put the bikinis on and show them off. I am shocked, confused and furious. My mum is taken aback by my fierce reaction and calms me down, maybe only at that moment realizing it was a not an ordinary request from both my dad or his friend and that I was not a kid anymore as my body had just started to develop, and I was very conscious about it. I do not put the bikinis on and they will disappear into the bin, but I will never forget the sleazy sordid feeling that stuck with me for a long time afterward. I was 13.
Years later I’m a 20-year old grown up and ready to move into my first rented apartment on my own. I’m excited and full of plans. Tuur who is in the living room with my parents asks me for the address because he wants to come and visit me. Later that night my older brother shows up in my room to warn me about Tuur’s intentions, which might not be as innocent as I presumed. Although I did not need a reminder because by then I was a lot more cautious when he was around, I was certainly glad for the recognition that even my brother was aware of what was going on, although my parents were not, or preferred not to make a big deal out of him.
10.- Stalker. I live alone in a quiet residence on the third floor of an apartment block and love it. I have loads of friends keeping me company when I feel like it, and peace and quiet when needed. I have a landline with an old fashioned telephone device attached to a long-wire cable stuck in the wall. My phone starts ringing around 11.00 pm one night while I am watching tele. I pick up the receiver, throw in a friendly “hello” and then, nothing. Then the heavy breathing starts. I repeat my hello a bit less enthusiastic but the breathing continues, till I freak out and slam the receiver back on the hook. Next night same old. The third night I ask a friend to stay the night and we make a plan. This consists of as soon as the phone rings she will answer in a deep voice so the caller will think I have a male companion in the apartment. A cunning plan, or so we thought. 10.55h. We are both engrossed in a television program with the telephone sitting between us on the sofa when the loud ringing startles us both and we nearly jump out of our skin. My friend is so alarmed that when she finally picks up the receiver she has a severe bout of amnesia, and says nothing. Then a familiar voice comes through; “Ingrid”?? I return to my senses and explain to the friend who is calling that we are lying in wait for a heavy breather who had chosen me as his favorite of the week. Eventually, we relax back into television mode, thinking that would be it for the night, as mister Heavy Breather might think we left the telephone off the hook. Wishful thinking! At 11.30 pm the ringing is as loud and clear as ever. My friend picks it up, hears the panting, panics and throws the receiver at me meanwhile exclaiming: “it’s him!!!”. I throw it back at her and blurt out “it’s for you, answer him!!”. We hang up and call the police. They arrive, tracking the phone cable with their eyes to where it had come out of the wall, as I had tripped over it in my hurry to go to the bathroom earlier, and reprimanded us with “ Trying to tear the cables out of the wall is nót going to help!!” Clearly, he thought we were so thick that we had deliberately pulled the cable out of the wall so the phone would stop ringing... I get hysterical, but they talk with stern voices while looking around the apartment as if the guy could be hidden under the table using a walkie-talkie. Obviously, we are timewasters to them. “Nothing we can do until something happens” were their encouraging departing words. “Jesus, that’s comforting, so for all, I know this guy could be in the building and you are not going to investigate this??” Then before they reach the door, the phone rings again, halleluja. They gesture for me to pick it up, and mouthed “ask how he got your telephone number”. And incredible, the panting stops for a minute and a male voice has the decency to inform me “that he found me in the yellow pages”. My coping mechanism has had it, I throw the receiver at the cop, who barks a hefty “Hello!!” in the mouthpiece, and the line goes dead. “So”, they announce cheerfully, “we are going now, there is nothing more we can do. Just remember not to rip cables out of walls, and if there is an emergency you know where to find us.” And with an arrogant smirk they disappear, no doubt to the next damsels in distress for whom they can play superheroes. Because, admit it, who needs these Crimestoppers in more serious offenses? “Ok, thank you, I am feeling much better, have good evening officers” and we both collapse hysterically, laughing and joking until tears are streaming down our faces. But the next night I am alone. And the next. He never called back, but my peace at night was gone for a long time. I was 22.
11.- Friends. We are 3 friends, two of us have alcoholic fathers. While my friend’s dad drinks in bars and is mostly out of the house, mine prefers to drink from home. My friend and her sister are still kids when their mum urges them nearly on a daily basis to go and find their dad in the bar and plead for him to come home, which of course never works. Or the police would find him out cold in the street and bring him back. He is an abusive and aggressive drunk. One afternoon my friend came home from school and found a blood trail when she entered her house and followed it to the kitchen where her mum lay unconscious in a pool of blood. He had bashed her head against the stove, while the grandmother who lived upstairs stood at the top of the stairs with a broom in her hand, ready to fend him off and shove him down again. As kids, we always had to be very quiet when he was home, mostly while he was sleeping his hangover off. Once she unintentionally recorded his drunken destructive behaviour; the ranting and raving and threatening at the mum and her and her siblings, the crying and pleading and screaming is something I will never forget.
12.- So I was quite lucky with my dad drinking his Johnnie Walker in his semi-leather swiveling chair watching John Wayne movies, or so I thought at the time, with him pretending to be and dressed up as a cowboy. This included the complete gear with Stetson, 2 Colt 45's hanging in holsters from his hips, the turquoise shirt with the tassels and silver cuffs on the collar and cowboy boots. Not so lucky for me were the black and white hard porn photographs and magazines I found at a young and still innocent age, which shocked me to the core, and was probably the reason why I tried to avoid being in the same room with him for as long as I lived at home.
13.-My mum. My mum went out cleaning offices in a rough part of Antwerp every night, not far from the famous red-light district. First, she had to walk a fair distance to the tram, get off halfway and catch a bus which brought her close enough to the building where the offices were situated. Every day she left at 4 pm and was usually home by 10 pm. One winter night she just got off the tram on the way home and noticed she was being followed by a guy in a parka. It was dark, drizzling and no one to be seen in the streets. Petrified she started to run the last stretch, and instead of ringing our bell she pretended to live next door and faked putting a key in their door so he would think that that was where she lived. When he turned and walked off she rang our bell because she was shaking too much to use her key, and as soon as we found out what had happened my brothers ran out into the street and went on a search, but they never found him.
14.- Years later, when my dad had died and my mum had sold the house to move into an apartment on the 6th floor in a fairly abandoned area in Deurne, her friend dropped her off after a night out dancing (dancing was my mum´s one and true passion). My mum always had her keys ready but when she entered the hall downstairs, and before she could open the door leading to the lift, someone had slipped in behind her and attacked her. When she phoned my brother it was morning and hours later, and he found her sitting on a chair in her living room, still completely dazed. All she could recall was that someone had attacked her from the back in the hall and that’s where she came to, with her clothes torn, her golden necklace broken, and her handbag gone... She must have passed out because she didn’t remember much more. She was 71!
15.- I remember all the stories my mum used to tell me about guys making a pass at her, and I remember some of them were happening when I was still living at home. Once the house needed painting and my mum called in the painter. When he got to the bedroom and she entered to see how it was going he tried to grab her and told her she could pay him “in natura”.
There was a girl in my class whose dad was our postman. A virile species as he had seven daughters and one son. He was always trying to chat my mum up and calling to the house, post or no post, even when my dad was at home.
So did the abusive drunk dad of a friend. And so did the next-door neighbor. Telling her they should sleep together as his wife was having an affair with my dad (which was true and she found out just then). She told them all where to go. But as my mum was pretty fearless before, she slowly started to lose her confidence and bravery and by the end of her life she was living in absolute fear of everything, but above all, of abuse and rape.
16.- Car. I was on my way to my parent’s home after a volleyball practice, and because my washing machine was not working as it should, my mum had kindly offered to do my washing for me that time. As I wandered the dark streets from my apartment to my parent's house, I noticed a car driving slowly next to me. The driver, as far as I could see, was a middle-aged man, who was beckoning for me to come over. I started to walk a bit faster but he just caught up with me. I started to run but to no avail, there was no one else around in the street, so I stopped running and rang the bells of two neighboring houses in a panic, hoping and praying someone would be in. Fortunately, one door opened and a woman appeared. At this moment the car slowly drove on, stopped at the end of the street and waited there. I told the woman what happened and as she could clearly see the car was still waiting, she kindly offered for her son to drive me to my parent’s house. As soon as we were in the car my stalker had turned the corner and was gone. I was 23.
17.- At 5:45 am I boarded the train from Brussels to Antwerp, where I would start my internship as a trainee assistant for the elderly. As I found my way through the wagons which were nearly all deserted at this time, I took a seat by the window in one of them. As the train started moving a man came in and sat opposite me although there were a million seats to chose from as the whole carriage was empty. He unfolds his newspaper. I peer through the window into the darkness outside but catch him glaring at me over his paper in the reflection of the window. I start shifting uncomfortably in my seat when he suddenly addresses me and asks what I have been doing in Brussels. I tell him I had been with my boyfriend who is a student at the University there, imagining that by mentioning another male it would make me feel safer. His next question comes quick and as a total surprise. “So how about you do to me what you have been doing with your boyfriend all night?” My first reaction is that I must have misunderstood him, but as he is starting to get up from his seat I grab my bag and run run run, I run through 3 empty carriages before I find some other travelers, and shaking violently I sit down, looking behind me the rest of the journey to see if he was following me. As soon as I arrived in the ancient hospital for my first workday I was assigned to a dorm with 30 groggy old men in the midst of waking up under a harsh white dorm light. The nurse on duty handed me a washing cloth and told me to start washing them. Instead, I ran to the toilet and threw up. I was 19.
I was never an esthetically beautiful or special child or young woman. These stories are therefore telling their own truth. It does not matter who you are or what age you are, from babies to the elderly, no woman is safe in this man-ruled world. Having a daughter, whether outgoing or shy, attractive or not, young or older is a constant worry because you realize they will never be safe. I realize I have been very lucky on various occasions that I’m even still alive. The statistics of these facts happening to boys or men are far less, except maybe in the clerical world.
If my stories have made a tiny little dent into someone’s thick skull who can identify with this macho and destructive behaviour and maybe change their attitude towards women, then it has been worth going through all these painful memories and hope can grow that one day the world will be more aware for more than just 1 day, before another casualty reaches the headlines.
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