I was assaulted on West Street and nobody did anything to help

If you’re part of a demographic statistically subjected to higher rates of harassment and sexual violence, you will know what I mean when I speak about having a sixth sense. It activates at the sight of every dark, deserted street, a stranger who stares too long, on every night time walk home alone.

For the one in five women who have already been sexually assaulted at some point in their lifetimes, myself amongst them, this violation is already a reality, often making these situations all the more nerve-wracking.

I have never felt unsafe walking down West Street, given how well lit and crowded it remains until the early hours of the morning, and the presence of the bouncers patrolling its many bars. I was functioning under the conceited assumption that if someone were to threaten me, another would intervene.

This was not the case when on my walk home from the library, along a street in the full swing of a rowdy a man approached me from behind, wrapped two arms around my waist and lifted me clean into the air. I fought back, kicking and shouting until I was released. The rest of the walk home is a blur of well suppressed memories clawing their way to the surface of my consciousness. I walked into my studio, sat down and burst into tears.

What shocked me the most was that nobody on West Street stopped to ask what was going on, when it was quite clear that I was in trouble. Perhaps passersby assumed I knew this man, that it was a prank gone too far? But friends should not have to scream “you do not touch me without my permission”, for their autonomy to be respected, to fight to maintain personal boundaries. I am aware that for some people, intervening in such a situation would be unreasonably unsafe, that some are not emotionally equipped to do so for various reasons. Despite this, I cannot believe that absolutely no one was able to help me that night.

However, the outpouring of concern and support I received almost negated this sadness and disappointment. I have been terrified since my rape aged 13 that if I spoke out, I would be doubted, mocked and ostracised, especially given I had a very challenging experience socially and with my mental health at secondary school. Despite these anxieties, I felt I had to speak publicly about Friday’s incident.

During exam season, communal study spaces are occupied 24/7, and I am certainly not the only potentially vulnerable person walking home alone at night, especially at this time in the academic year. As frustrating as it is that we are the ones who bear the responsibility to protect ourselves from the violence of others, this is currently our reality.

We need to be wary, to walk in pairs, to use resources like the Women’s Safety Bus, because we still live in a society where feminine bodies are perceived, by a scary number of people, as public property. By vocalising our trauma, we work towards a time when sexual assault and rape are taken as seriously as they should be, when rape jokes are no longer considered jokes and rape culture is universally recognised and addressed appropriately.

This article is not designed as click bait, fast news, a sensational story to increase readership. It is intended to encourage potential victims to be vigilant, survivors to be respected if they choose to seek justice and/or share their pain, witnesses to speak up when they see incidents of this nature.

I was raped when I was 13. I couldn’t bring myself to kick, to scream, to fight back then. Pure shock and cold fear drained all resistance from my body. This is a surprisingly common reaction amongst rape victims, a biological survival response often accompanied by selective amnesia, triggered to protect the victim from the trauma of their experience. I spent six years internalising the trauma of my rape and punishing myself for something that was not my fault in any way. This time, I found the ability to fight back, both physically and verbally through sharing this with you.