As a rape
survivor decades ago — and as a lecturer in Political Science, who concentrates
on global affairs — to me the most remarkable development of 2017, is not
the ascendance of Vladimir Putin to the most powerful men in the world, the
North Korean or Syrian debacles, or Donald Trump’s alarming isolationist
doctrine. Surely, these are important issues, which I do not minimize. But no
development this year impressed me as mush as the expansion of the #MeToo
movement and its success: No longer will powerful men in any industry will use
their authority to sexually abuse their subordinates without thinking about the
consequences of their deeds.
And yet, in
spite of the movement’s accomplishments people will continue to ask, as they
have been doing from Anita Hill to the #MeToo accusers: why has a victim of
rape or another act of sexual misconduct waited for years or decades to tell
her or his story? By posing this question they are deliberately raising doubt
about the accuracy of the accusation or the character of the accuser. Worse
yet, in many cases the victim is afraid to be blamed for her or his own rape.
This is why they may still hesitate to come forward. I know that from my own
experience:
Aaron, a
high-ranking military man, had been my fallen husband’s best friend. He and his
wife, Rachel, became my trusted friends too, and I saw in our closeness the
stuff that makes everlasting friendships. After my husband was killed in the
Arab-Israeli Six Day war, short of my sister and her husband, Aaron and Rachel
were the couple closest to me.
Nearly
two-and-a-half years into my widowhood I was living in New York City, working
for the Israeli government. Just then, invigorated with my determination to
rebuild my life, I was numbed by another blow.
Aaron
arrived in New York, part of a group that accompanied then Israel’s Defense
Minister Moshe Dayan. Assigned to be Aaron’s interpreter on a trip to upstate
New York, arranged for him by a well-known Jewish organization, I found it
natural to accept Aaron’s suggestion that I sleep in a spare room in his
spacious suite at the Carlyle Hotel. The following morning we were to be picked
up early, and doing so would save time.
After
spending part of the evening in an official outing with the group I arrived
alone at the hotel and went to sleep in one of the bedrooms. But at two in the
morning I was awakened by Aaron’s banging on the suite’s door. He was supposed
to have his own key. When I opened the door after changing back into my day
cloths, Aaron was angered by the long time it took me to open the door. Had
that happened years later, with my acquired experience I would have left the
hotel right then. Better yet, I would have never agreed to sleep there. But I
had trusted Aaron as if he were my brother.
When I went
back to my room, he followed close behind me and stopped the door with his
foot. There was a strange smile on his face, of a sort I had never seen before.
“Aaron,
what are you doing?” I asked, pretending to be calm, though my heart was
pounding with fear.
“I’m
coming to your bed to sleep with you,” he said. He pushed me into the room and
then onto the bed and started to kiss me.
He did not
pay heed to my pleas or my screams, and I tried to push him off with all the
strength I had. But he fought back like a vicious animal. He was a tall, strong
man who weighed twice as much as I, and my violent struggle seemed only to
arouse him more. Cruel and terrifying, he was a rapist like all other rapists,
whether in hotel rooms or in dark alleys.
“Rachel — what about
Rachel?” I cried frantically when none of my tactics worked.
“She
said that with you it was all right.”
“Yigal,
remember Yigal. He was your best friend!” I pleaded, as if my departed husband
were in the next room. As if I were calling him to save me from his friend, who
had turned into a beast.
“He’s
dead,” I heard the devil say.
My husband
was dead, and I was a piece of meat, no longer his widow but merchandise that
exchanged hands. Beastly hands. Inhuman hands.
I did
consider charging Aaron with rape but refrained from doing so, fearing that I
would be accused of provoking my own rape. No one would believe me, I thought
in panic. What was I doing in his hotel room to begin with, they would ask.
I was also
concern that the publicity of the case would crush my parents, and that they
would not survive the knowledge of what had happened to me after the
unimaginable losses I had suffered already. Not only was I widowed, but
traumatized by seeing my husband burnt beyond recognition and hearing his
deafening last breaths, I lost our unborn baby.
I was also
certain that Aaron, holding a high position in the military and defense
establishments in Israel, would abuse his power even further. Nothing was
beneath him, I assumed, my mind running wild imagining an army of false witnesses
he would be able to recruit, who would assassinate my character in court.
Only my
sister and her husband and a handful of close friends knew about the rape. It
took me nearly thirty years to be able to talk openly and publicly about that
experience. When I was finally ready to acquire whether I could still press
charges against Aaron, he was dying of a dreadful disease.
Because of
changes in the attitudes toward rape and other sexual harassment, thanks to
brave women and men who did not hesitate to openly declare, “We have been
victimized and we will be wronged no more,” survivors are speaking up. But many
more still fear what I had dreaded: Being blamed for my own rape and being
smeared.