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Description
Ink and Gouache on paper
(From my blog: an-nyssa.blogspot.com/2012/08/… or Facebook: tinyurl.com/mq2mow2)

I was prompted to start this painting back in July 2013, when the case of Savannah Dietrich was highlighted in the press. She is the 17-year old girl in Kentucky who was facing jail time for publicly naming her rapists, despite an order from the judge that no one speak of the court proceedings. “There you go, lock me up,” she wrote. “I’m not protecting anyone that made my life a living Hell.”

In a related article, "How to Out A Rapist", in The Nation newspaper , the author, Jessica Valenti, spoke about a culture that silences women from speaking out about issues related to sexual assault, and for the women, there is in fact a (justifiable) fear of the stigma and blame for being a 'victim' which prevents them from speaking up. Valenti said "...talking about sexual assault—let alone reporting it—is not just difficult, it’s straight up heroic."

And so women keep silent. And live with the shame and fear.

I know how that feels.

When I was 9 years old, my cousin tried to rape me. He was 17 years old.

I'd never really spoken about it, because deep inside, I always blamed myself. It was me who had gone into his room to play. It was me who had nagged him and nagged him to play house with me. And when he pushed me on the bed and told me to keep quiet, and started to push his mouth on me, and started to pull off my underwear, and in spite of my struggles and protests, I still felt it was my fault for putting myself in that situation.

For some reason, in the sweltering heat of that afternoon in his bedroom, he stopped. He got up, and told me to leave. I was too scared and ashamed to say anything, and I continued to remain silent for many years. Even at that age, I felt stupid for allowing it to happen. And later, I started to convince myself that because I only 'almost' got raped, I had no justification for speaking up.

But, as the years went by, I would continue to see him at family gatherings. I'd see him, talking and laughing, the same feelings would emerge - mostly of disgust and anger. I would think, how dare he. I had lived with the burden of the memory of what he did, and he behaved like he had done nothing!

It was only in university that I learnt the words to say what I had gone through, and felt about my powerlessness in that situation, to explain what a sexual crime really meant, and I found the words - to describe to myself - that it could never have been my fault. Could an adult have helped the child me understand this back then, if I had spoken up? I'm not sure. The people around me may not have been equipped to handle it either. Rape is considered shameful. And the burden of the shame and the repercussions of what happened is on the girl.

It's corny - but I think my adult self needed to explain to my child self that it was not my fault. That was when my healing began.

I never felt a victim. And I am one of those who resent the hell out of the word "victim" to describe people who had actually dug deep for the strength to survive sex crimes. I acknowledged to myself my own strength, and that helped.

The bastard who tried to rape me - I wonder if he ever did it to any other child. My guardian angel stood close that day, and he did not rape me. But who's to say he never tried it on anyone else.

But reading the Savannah Dietrich story made me realise I needed to take one more step in this healing. I need to name him. It needs to be documented and written somewhere so that it's not just in my head. In the 90's movie Girls Town, these girls wrote the name of their rapists on the tiled wall of a public toilet. This is my equivalent.

So I am naming him - he is Aminudin Baki Md Noor. He lives in Langkawi, Kedah in the north of Malaysia, married with children, and still a bastard, last I heard. He is my cousin. He took advantage of my naivete and innocence when I was only 9 years old. Somehow, he thought that would be a good idea.

No, I haven't forgiven him. I don't think he deserves to be absolved of the sin of what he did. Yes, it gives me great pleasure to think that he can carry that to his grave and the beyond. It wouldn't hurt if his penis shriveled up and turned black. Yes, I am petty and hard that way.

I am no longer silent.

Description
Ink and Gouache on paper
(From my blog: an-nyssa.blogspot.com/2012/08/… or Facebook: tinyurl.com/mq2mow2)

I was prompted to start this painting back in July 2013, when the case of Savannah Dietrich was highlighted in the press. She is the 17-year old girl in Kentucky who was facing jail time for publicly naming her rapists, despite an order from the judge that no one speak of the court proceedings. “There you go, lock me up,” she wrote. “I’m not protecting anyone that made my life a living Hell.”

In a related article, "How to Out A Rapist", in The Nation newspaper , the author, Jessica Valenti, spoke about a culture that silences women from speaking out about issues related to sexual assault, and for the women, there is in fact a (justifiable) fear of the stigma and blame for being a 'victim' which prevents them from speaking up. Valenti said "...talking about sexual assault—let alone reporting it—is not just difficult, it’s straight up heroic."

And so women keep silent. And live with the shame and fear.

I know how that feels.

When I was 9 years old, my cousin tried to rape me. He was 17 years old.

I'd never really spoken about it, because deep inside, I always blamed myself. It was me who had gone into his room to play. It was me who had nagged him and nagged him to play house with me. And when he pushed me on the bed and told me to keep quiet, and started to push his mouth on me, and started to pull off my underwear, and in spite of my struggles and protests, I still felt it was my fault for putting myself in that situation.

For some reason, in the sweltering heat of that afternoon in his bedroom, he stopped. He got up, and told me to leave. I was too scared and ashamed to say anything, and I continued to remain silent for many years. Even at that age, I felt stupid for allowing it to happen. And later, I started to convince myself that because I only 'almost' got raped, I had no justification for speaking up.

But, as the years went by, I would continue to see him at family gatherings. I'd see him, talking and laughing, the same feelings would emerge - mostly of disgust and anger. I would think, how dare he. I had lived with the burden of the memory of what he did, and he behaved like he had done nothing!

It was only in university that I learnt the words to say what I had gone through, and felt about my powerlessness in that situation, to explain what a sexual crime really meant, and I found the words - to describe to myself - that it could never have been my fault. Could an adult have helped the child me understand this back then, if I had spoken up? I'm not sure. The people around me may not have been equipped to handle it either. Rape is considered shameful. And the burden of the shame and the repercussions of what happened is on the girl.

It's corny - but I think my adult self needed to explain to my child self that it was not my fault. That was when my healing began.

I never felt a victim. And I am one of those who resent the hell out of the word "victim" to describe people who had actually dug deep for the strength to survive sex crimes. I acknowledged to myself my own strength, and that helped.

The bastard who tried to rape me - I wonder if he ever did it to any other child. My guardian angel stood close that day, and he did not rape me. But who's to say he never tried it on anyone else.

But reading the Savannah Dietrich story made me realise I needed to take one more step in this healing. I need to name him. It needs to be documented and written somewhere so that it's not just in my head. In the 90's movie Girls Town, these girls wrote the name of their rapists on the tiled wall of a public toilet. This is my equivalent.

So I am naming him - he is Aminudin Baki Md Noor. He lives in Langkawi, Kedah in the north of Malaysia, married with children, and still a bastard, last I heard. He is my cousin. He took advantage of my naivete and innocence when I was only 9 years old. Somehow, he thought that would be a good idea.

No, I haven't forgiven him. I don't think he deserves to be absolved of the sin of what he did. Yes, it gives me great pleasure to think that he can carry that to his grave and the beyond. It wouldn't hurt if his penis shriveled up and turned black. Yes, I am petty and hard that way.

I am no longer silent.