For the courageous girl who withstood such turmoil with unrivalled strength. I hope you know how important and unimaginably special you are.
The following is a completely fictitious account, inspired by true events.
16th December 2014.
A night of robberies. Children robbed of their lives, mothers robbed of their blood, families robbed of their heirs, a country robbed of its future…. And I was robbed of my innocence.
Or so I thought.
16 December 2014. A chilly winter’s night. I recall the leaves making particularly eerie sounds as they swirled about in the dark street. Unlike Karachi, Lahore’s Defence area is barely lit at night, especially in the streets. It gives it a serene quality. But that night, I felt the serenity was overpowered by an unnerving sense of foreboding.
Sarah and I were walking back to our University. We were wrapped in bundles of clothes, shivering against the cold air with our teeth chattering. Our conversation was light-hearted and teasing, unbeknownst to the horror that awaited us.
It was a full moon with a beautiful halo. I remember staring at it in awe as Sarah rambled on about a presentation she messed up. This was one of the best parts about studying away from home – this liberty that allowed us to walk under the inky sky with nothing stopping us. Freedom at its purest. Despite my unease that particular day, I had to admit it was a tranquility and beauty to preserve.
But my moon-gazing was short-lived. I had forgotten freedom at its purest was when you had nothing left to lose. And I did have a lot to lose.
I missed the car approaching us on the nearly deserted street until it was too close. The headlights blocked my vision, but I could make out two men inside. They wasted no time. It hit me like a ton of bricks that they were armed the minute they stepped out of the car. They pointed their guns at us, and my Karachi upbringing came out in full force when my first instinct was to give up our belongings. On the other hand, Sarah had gone completely immobile. The only sound coming from her was her heavy breathing. Her reactions – or lack thereof – did not go unnoticed by the men. One of them moved forward, grabbed her by the hair and slapped her across the face. My eyes widened in shock at the blood that spewed out of her mouth and spattered across the road. The other man grabbed my arm, and I begin to struggle.
“I’ll shoot both of you if you make a sound,” he whispered through gritted teeth, pressing the revolver into my mouth.
I don’t recall being this terrified before. I had death in my mouth while my best friend was being beaten to a pulp before my eyes. What was it that these men wanted? We had offered our belongings immediately. But they didn’t even ask for those. I could feel the panic rising like a cloud of smoke in my chest, and I struggled to keep it at bay. Maybe I could kick the one holding me captive and run for it? The commercial area was not far away, and if I ran fast, I could make it.
Sarah made a gurgling noise as the man punched her and I felt my breath catch. “Please, please stop. Take whatever you want, just stop!” I begged. The man paused. He eyed his partner and then smiled a bloodcurdling smile. The image of those two exchanging that wicked smile still has me waking up screaming sometimes. I often wonder what they were thinking at that moment. How could a human take so much pleasure in the pain of its own kind?
But that is not what I was thinking at that moment. The man holding me captive had dropped his hand to my backside, and through the haze of sheer terror, I began to understand what this could potentially mean. Before I could paralyze with fear, I was already shoved into their car and we were driving away, leaving Sarah barely conscious on the pavement.
A few days later, when the news was published, the headlines detailed how a student at a prestigious university got robbed while walking back to campus. It was the talk of the town since such things are assumed unlikely to happen to the “privileged” like us. My fellow students, even today, discuss the story with awe that the girl missing for hours was just robbed of her cash and then dropped back to campus.
I can visualize those few hours as clearly today as if it happened yesterday. Getting shoved into the back seat, being held down, the struggle. Oh, the incessant struggle. The glint in the man’s eye as he smiled and whispered softly, “there’s no use of resisting, jaan.” He stripped me of the necessary clothes, held me down with the force that this gender takes so much pride in, and did the deed. There was no dramatic assault, no prayers of divine intervention on my part, no savior stopping the inevitable. It happened as it does to countless other people like me: shamelessly and painfully. I remember biting down on my tongue because of the overwhelming combination of disgust and pain. I tried to focus on the taste of blood in my mouth, but I could feel his body everywhere. We were both gasping for breath for entirely different reasons. Once the first man was done, they stopped over and the second one took his “turn”. The same procedure was repeated, only, this time, I was completely lifeless. For some reason, my immobility seemed to bring him less pleasure. He preferred the crying and the struggle; the feeling of being in power.
Violated does not even begin to explain what I had felt at that moment, underneath the other end of the Ashraf ul-Makhlooqaat, panting in his lust-induced haze while my eyes flooded my face. Thank God for the tears because they blurred out his face. Had I been able to conjure up that sight now, I would not even receive the little sleep that I still manage.
Once the rapists were gratified – for the time being – they proceeded to rob my ATM. Thank God for the robbery because it allowed me to file a report later. Otherwise, what police officer files a report for a sexual assualt? According to them, I shouldn’t have been on the road in the first place, anyway.
The memories of the rape are muddled and confusing. I remember shaking, and a repeated demand of my ATM code, and feeling empty. I remember warmth between my legs, feeling as if I’d peed in my pants. Only that urine isn’t scarlet, something I would discover hours later.
It occurred to me in the midst of their ravings that they were dead people. The act was not only heartless; it was mindless too. They were okay with it. You could not be alive to be able to manage that. They had to be dead people.
And for the longest time, I believed I was dead too.
After the robbery, I was dumped back to my University. It was one of the things highlighted in the news. How polite of those criminals to give her a ride back home, right? Nobody knew how I was shoved in the backseat of that car, held down and violated in the worst of ways. Shout out to all those who say rape is often invited by a woman’s clothes: I was wearing three layers of them, bitch. And that didn’t stop the poor, innocent, provoked man from exposing his tweener and shoving it in my unpenetrated hole. Yes, I lost my virginity to rape. And no, it does not end here.
I spent days after that lying in bed staring at the cracks in the ceiling. I couldn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t go to class. I couldn’t eat, sleep or sometimes even breathe. I was dead. Anxiety would often get a hold of me, starting as a ripple at the base of my spine and ending with me gasping for breath, choking in the open air. I contemplated suicide so many times it started to become reality.
It probably would’ve become reality had I not decided to speak about it. It started with my friends when one day I accidentally let it slip in a heated conversation. The first vestiges of life came back to me that day. I found that in my closer social circle, the majority had undergone some form of abuse. We opened up to each other like knots untying and I felt the release. I am not dead. Eventually, I became bolder. I started to speak about it more and more, realizing for the first time that there are many out there like me. If they could find the courage to share their experience through mine, then speaking out was worthwhile.
I talk about my story in more forums now. My family still does not know, because if they do…. The girl is the honor of the household in this society, and if she is robbed of it, she must be hidden, confined, dealt with. I don’t blame my loved ones, for this is ingrained in them. Purity for the people of this nation is not a clean heart, a forgiving nature or a magnanimous character. Purity is virginity. Purity is untouched bodies. Around here, impurity is not manipulative minds or cruel natures. It is losing virginity. It is violated bodies.
There has been, and still are, countless times when I am stunned into silence when someone calls me impure because of my rape. What surprises me is not the accusation at me, but the lack of accusation at the rapist. I have barely ever heard anyone call them impure.
But through the connection I have weaved with other victims and supporters, I am unabashed about this now. Our stories need to be told. I’ve had people confront their traumatic experiences because if a rape victim could do it, so could they. It’s been therapeutic for all of us. I still have people judge me for my attitude and my actions. There have been some that have withdrawn from me simply because I was raped. But I’ve made peace with that. Of course, there are still nights when I struggle to breathe, nights when I examine the same cracks all over again, nights when killing myself becomes a reality again.
But I have reason to go on now. And I hope sharing this story will allow all you victims of abuse to not only forgive yourself for what happened to you and live with it, but to convert this experience into your strength.
To realize that what happened to you does not change this truth: you are pure.
