A Sexual Assault Survivor Speaks Out

It’s been nearly three months since Oct. 7th, and as more and more details come out about the brutality, the stories get harder and harder to read. The pure evil exhibited that day is impossible to comprehend. The murders, the tortures, the rapes, seemingly endless arrays of dehumanization – how can it be possible that there are so many human beings capable of these types of atrocities? I’m overwhelmed, not because I can’t relate to the barbarism, but because I can.

On Oct. 6th I had gone away with a friend. We turned off our phones and left the area.  The goal was to disconnect and quiet our heads. We drove to the Cape for a few days, looking forward to some solitude near the water. We had turned on the television on Saturday afternoon to watch the Formula One race happening in Qatar that day. Little did we know  from the urgent newsbreaks that the horrific violence in Israel had likely been planned and funded by the billionaires attending the very same race. This was not the peaceful weekend we had planned. The sand and sea have always been calming factors for me, and I had been taking my first steps to try to heal.

Only two weeks before, on Thursday Sept. 21st, I was the victim of a violent sexual assault.  It wasn’t by a gun-toting terrorist.  It wasn’t by a masked stranger.  It was by a man I voluntarily went out with after meeting on a dating site.  He checked many of my boxes:  Jewish, successful, charming, handsome. We had spoken several times over two weeks, seemingly getting to know each other on the phone as he continually lied about himself and his background. He told me that he was only attracted to smart, successful women, a detail that I would think about over and over as he did everything he could to make me feel powerless.

Some of the early details of the night are lost; the drug he apparently put into my drink caused memory loss.  I know that I got into his car – something I never do on a first date.  I have scant memories of being at a second location, but don’t remember getting there or leaving. What I do remember is most of the attack, and the heinous things he said and did.  The excruciating pain as he pinned me down on my side, his hand under my jaw, the damage done requiring months of traction and physical therapy.  I remember crying out as I felt the first tear in my vaginal wall from the metal pipe he used to rape me.

The next few days were a blur. I was overwhelmed with shame and self-loathing. I knew that I had to see a doctor, the bleeding was significant.Th e pain from my vertebrae was causing a constant headache. The medical staff were incredibly kind, keeping their office open for me after normal hours so that I could have privacy and their complete attention.  They did a thorough exam, even taking pictures of the bruising across my face, chest, and legs. I started several rounds of antibiotics, steroids and anti-inflammatory medication.  They sent me for X-rays and MRIs, and most importantly, made sure I was getting the mental health support I needed. It took me several days before I could tell a friend.

The blatant disregard of sexual violence from women around the world is astounding.  And the victim blaming, stating that the violence was justified, even glorified, as an acceptable means of “resistance” by supporters of the Palestinian movement is impossible for me to comprehend.

The night has played over and over in my head over these past few months, as the news cycle provides a never-ending source of triggers for me. The blatant disregard of sexual violence from women around the world is astounding.  And the victim blaming, stating that the violence was justified, even glorified, as an acceptable means of “resistance” by supporters of the Palestinian movement is impossible for me to comprehend.

The attacks of Oct. 7th have conflated in my mind with my own assault, and the fear and anger inside of me swirls like a tornado, ripping through my head. But the worst part?  The thing that brings me incredible shame?  On a tiny level, I am jealous of the fact that the survivors have the support of an entire country. I feel incredibly alone.

I have a few other friends with whom I’ve shared my trauma, including the one that took me to the Cape, and another who took me to the mikveh in an attempt to provide me with some ritual cleansing.  I wouldn’t have gotten through the past few months without them. They’ve each been a true source of comfort and companionship, but right now, I’m not fun to be around.  I hate feeling like this. It’s so unlike me. I think the expectation is that I shake it off, that I throw myself into my work again, and keep myself busy with other things. Maybe if I would only watch a comedy or take a drive, I’d feel better. But I’d have to be living in a cave to avoid the constant reminder of rape.  It’s overwhelming. 

So I’m asking a favor of those of you reading this.  When you pray for the release of the hostages, for the souls of those who were killed, for the complete recovery of the thousands of injured individuals, please add a prayer for me, and for the millions of women living in silence after sexual violence. Because evil is not limited to terrorists, to war, to strangers. It’s right here among us.