We Will Not Go Quietly - Centre Against Sexual Assault

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CONTENTS
Kate Ravenscroft & Matthew James × Editor’s Note × 2
Aerin Kaye × Stolen Words × 4
AJL × Listen and Yell × 8
Anne-Marie C. × A Healing Journey × 10
Angela Atlast × Telling × 16
Bronwyn Lovell × 20 Contributing Factors × 18
Che Koala × Duty of Care × 20
Chloe Angyal × Talking Publicly About Sexual Assault × 24
Kristy × In the Distance × 32
Mary Zimmer × Invisible × 34
Anon × Finally the Anger × 36
Karen H. × Spidery Lament × 38
Max Royale × Grateful to be Me × 40
Jo O’lone-Hahn In Collab. With Zach G × Survivor Solidarity × 42
Kimberly Keys × Violated! × 46
Lauren Grocott × Silence is Not Consent × 54
Liz × Dear Andrew × 58
Maya Ruin × Oh Father, Dear Father × 62
Nicki Reed × Don’t Think It × 69
Premjyoti × Fuck You × 72
Neo × Racing × 74
Acknowledgements × 78
Colophon × 79

KATE RAVENSCROFT
& MATHEW JAMES
MESSAGE FROM THE EDITORS
Sexual assault and sexual abuse are topics that no one really wants to hear
about. And yet, one in ive women and one in twenty men worldwide will
become victims of sexual violence in their lifetimes.
Few of these sexual crimes are reported, and for those that are, conviction
rates are extremely low. Much sexual violence is perpetrated not in the
mythological back alleys or deserted streets – although some are – but in
homes, workplaces and social spaces. Far too frequently, perpetrators are not
strangers but people known; husbands, brothers, fathers, bosses. Far too often
it is family or friends, those whom we trust, who commit these crimes.
And yet, although sexual violence is common – a frequent occurrence in the
world we live in – stories of surviving sexual violence, of living on, of putting a
life and a self back together after, are rarely heard, rarely valued.
In fact, when we tell our stories, they are often met with disbelief, disregard,
or dismissal as “not that bad”. The damage done by these thoughtless
reactions can be monumental. It can take just one experience like this to
keep a person silent for years. Some never discuss their experience again.
And so, We Will Not Go Quietly, was born of a need. The need to speak
and hear these stories of survival. The need to create and foster a space
where victims and survivors of sexual violence can speak of their experience
and have it heard, have it validated. Sexual violence may be a reality of
the world we live in – and an exceedingly ugly one at that – but survival is
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the other side of that horriic truth. All around us are those living on after
surviving sexual violence, reconstructing their lives and their selves and, using
their experience to counter a culture that has for far too long facilitated and
covered up sexual violence.
Every victim/survivor has a story to tell and very few of them get to do it
on their terms. We Will Not Go Quietly is a space where victim/survivors
can speak in their own words, on their own terms and where their survival
is honoured. By providing this space, by listening to survivors, by honouring
survival we hope to show not only the damage a culture of sexual violence
creates, but the way out.
Sexual violence is a disgrace, a burden and a far too frequent occurrence.
But we can change that. Speak, even if your voice hurts. Listen, even if your
heart breaks.
We will not go quietly - Because our voices demand to be heard.
Kate and Matt
×
For more stories of survival, or to contribute your own, see:
http://notgoquietly.tumblr.com

AERIN KAY E
STOLEN WORDS
Aerin Kaye is currently married to a
wonderful man who treats me with
love and respect, and we have 3
amazing children together.
I own www.giftstohealthesoul.com
– a website dedicated to creating
gifts and awareness products
for sexual assault and domestic
violence survivors. A portion of
each sale is donated to my local
women’s center where I volunteer
as a rape crisis advocate, speaking
out for and providing emotional
support to victims in the emergency
room.
5
I was sexually assaulted by my irst husband over a two and a half year
period. I will never forget the pain of having someone I loved so much use my
body for his own sexual gratiication, with absolutely no regard for who I am
as a human being. I will never forget what it felt like to look him in the eye as
he told me I deserved it because it was all I was good for. I stayed as long as I
did because I believed him. After all, I had trusted him with my entire life and
future when I said “I do” and rape within marriage wasn’t something I had even
considered a possibility. I wasn’t sure I was even allowed to call it by name, as
my ex-husband would admit to nothing more than “borderline” rape.
Words are important. “Borderline”, “legitimate”, “forcible” and “real” are all
words that belittle our experiences, sending the message that although rape
is a horrible crime, it is not what each of us, individually, has experienced. We
should “get over” our experience and leave the “real” healing to those who
have sufered “real” rape.
I can no longer accept another’s deinition of my experience. It was my
experience and they are my words to deine. I am intelligent enough to know
the diference between having consensual sex and being raped. I was raped.
The pain and emotional scars are real and legitimate even if you can’t see
them.
I am proud and honored to be a sexual assault advocate in my hometown.
I speak out for and provide emotional support to victims of sexual assault
in the ER. I am grateful for the opportunity to comfort a stranger who is
frightened and alone... lighting the path toward counseling and support for the
next step on her journey.

I have learned so much as an advocate. Each woman I sit with is ininitely
important to me. Every story is diferent and every story matters. My story is
not less important than yours and yours is not less important than mine.
Rape is an attack on your soul, on who you are as a woman. I can no longer
pretend it didn’t matter because doing so implies that it is ok to treat my
body and soul with disrespect. I can only heal by speaking the truth. The
truth is, I was raped. It was not my fault. It mattered. I matter. I deserve to be
treated with dignity and respect. I am worth more. I am beautiful. I am brave. I
am courageous. I am stronger than I ever dreamed possible.
×
6
7

AJL
LISTEN AND Y ELL
This grew out of a strange space -
baby steps on the way to healing.
AJL is a woman of a certain age,
an education professional and a
competitive dreamer.
9
My teeth were made for chewing
My mind is clear and strong
My sex boils restlessly
Like the gas light under the stove
It boils over and over– frothing down my sides
Although cognizant of my lizard brain, it has been some source of comfort!
It has helped to divide the line between acceptable and not.
It is just a drive
And although powerful, it is but a mute binary code.
Somewhere in the zeros and ones I have managed - and still manage
Forever counteracting harmonies to keep an even keel.
Wary of clichés - what does not kill you can leave you crippled, still.
Any demon - craven human - not nearly worth their salt - will rue the events
that brought me here
And left me proud and deep
Wet organs cradled by my diamond spine.
×

ANNE-MARIE C.
A HEALING JOURNEY
What words can encapsulate who
I am, who I have become given
the circumstances...? I came on
Earth once more. I so wanted to.
Deep inside, I found a source of
contentment, of being OK. All I need
is to walk that way again, and again,
and again...
For Anne-Marie’s full story see:
http://notgoquietly.tumblr.com
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When we let life unfold its deep crevices,
when we dare to sit through these,
then life naturally takes us back out.
–
If you had asked the little girl I was to describe her idea of a heroine, the
image she’d have painted would have been of a woman, a ‘real’ one, strong
and feminine, elegant, someone who had battled to overcome something big,
able to say things that mattered to her, able to stand behind these, someone
one could approach and conide in, a woman who had travelled and seen the
world - a genuine heroine!
Recently, in the dark of the enwrapping night, I realised that I, the adult
woman, had become that heroine.
How did I, as a child, come to distinguish and free myself from the prison
walls I was entrapped in? Who to trust when the very people who are
supposed to give you love keep on hurting you day in, day out? Which
direction do you turn when even your own body is feeling ever so heavy, tight,
clogged, in pain? Can you trust in the messages it is giving you at all? If so,
what words are there to say what aches so much?
So many questions. I suppose what led me all the way has been the very
body I felt so tightly conined in. It’s a paradox, isn’t it. And yet... when the
body you’re in aches so much for no physical reason, when every day is a
struggle to live, when your parents are the ones inlicting so much aching, if
even in your bones you don’t feel safe, then there’s got to be something that
leads the way: the pain! That feeling of heightened tenderness where the
wounds are irst inscribed in the lesh, a kind of open bleeding.

Living with incest has not been easy. To survive, I left France as soon as I
was twenty-one. When I say “to survive”, I really mean it. I had to leave the
country where every word seemed a dagger with the power to pierce through
me. I felt I had no protection whatsoever. Moving to England and inding myself
in a country immersed in a diferent language somehow protected me, it
ofered a linguistic shelter, for a while at least.
Later on, I got to know a stream of knowledge existed in me which I could
trust, my intuition. I discovered I could be as safe-as-can-be if I tapped into
it and used it. So I made sure I was with that companion every day. I used it
as others use their eyes. My intuition gave me a sight I could feel safe with.
The world was still full of people whose words or actions could hurt me but I
now had a way of knowing which I carried with me wherever I went and which
seemed to reduce the incidence of painful encounters.
Following one’s truth is challenging to some people. Whilst a student, I would
walk barefoot on the moist grass of the football ield, a central feature of
the university grounds, and cry what needed to be cried at that moment.
Looking at the newly cut grass stems or the trees surrounding the area, I
would summon up my Self, I would ponder. I was the only one doing what can
be seen as a healthy meditative practice out of the hundreds that locked on ABSTRACT)’
the university grounds at that time. And so I stood out, of course. In the four
years of my studies, as I followed my intuition, not once was I rained on whilst
doing my meditative barefoot walks on the football pitch. Not once.
(LANDSCAPE
It will have taken all these 46 years of my life to work at it, to grasp
the intangible of my emotional world and ind the words that matched my
‘UNTITLED
hurricanes, my loods and inner wars. The raging conlicts inside me were
C.
totally legitimate, for how can one truly sit quietly, at peace, when one has so
vehemently been strode upon? How often have I wished I could be in another
body? Not to feel that latent agony, to have a space in which I could no
longer be with that horrendous pain... a pain which feels paralysing at times so ANNE-MARIE
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ANNE-MARIE C. ‘UNTITLED (PORTRAIT ABSTRACT)’
15
intense and heavy it is, a pain so potent that a scream would not express even
an inch of it. How does one live with that inner sufering and not become
alienated from oneself, so unbearable it is?
What matters most is that I be there for my Self. There are thousands
of ways of doing it. Through not clogging my body with medication, through
trusting in the rhythms of my life – by experiencing the downs, life would bring
me up – through trusting in my intuition, my body was able to release what had
happened at an age where words are not yet present. I have used so many
modalities classiied as “alternative” to get me through: massage, Aura-Soma,
Bowen, Chi distant healing, Reïki, shamanic healing, healing through sound,
homeopathy, acupuncture, kinesiology, rebirthing ...
There are days when I relect back and sadness overwhelms me: where
have my 46 years of life gone? 46 years of ighting, 46 years of barely making
it through. My personal struggle to make sense of the abuse I lived through
has consumed all my time, energy and money. I have needed every little bit
of what I’ve got to make it this far. What I managed to achieve seems little
compared with people who could ‘build’ something. I have little to show but
the inner peace I have gained in my life. It took me 46 years but at least I
have made it. At least I can smell lowers early in the morning, at least I can
meet others, at least I can write these lines. Yes, I am alive.
×

ANGELA ATLAST
TELLING
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Growing up I learned I was responsible for my family’s survival. My task was
to keep silent about the sexual abuse because if I told I would be taken away
from the people I loved and placed in the care of strangers. My father would
be in jail, my mother would live in poverty and all this trouble would be my
fault.
But I did tell. In irst grade I blurted it to a teacher who told my mother who
said I imagined it. Age ten, I tried to alert a relative who said it was not up to
him. As a teenager I turned to a Uniting Church Minister who said I must stop
doing whatever it was I was doing to cause this and I must never tell because
the disgrace would kill my mother.
Many years later, after my mother died of natural causes, I felt safe to
tell. But “coming out” as a sexual abuse survivor still proved dificult. The irst
person I told, a medical practitioner, said, “Why tell now ? No-one here knows
so why invite the stigma?”
I tried to explain that telling was about establishing the reality of who I
was. I was not an instigator of repulsive acts. I was not the cause of family
dysfunction. I had been the innocent victim of a crime - of many crimes. I did
not deserve to carry a stigma for society’s dirty secret.
It was then I realised that I had been telling myself a lie for my entire life. I
thought I had sufered throughout my childhood because no one believed me.
I reasoned if they had believed me they would have done something about it.
×
But the truth was no one disbelieved me. They all knew.

BRONWYN LOVELL
20 CONTIBUTING FACTORS
While travelling in Turkey in 2006,
Bronwyn Lovell hailed a taxi to travel
a quick ive minutes up the road.
However, the driver took her to a
deserted ield, stopped the car and
made a phone call.
She told him over and over again
that she had to go to the bus station
because her friends were waiting
for her. After about 20 minutes, he
thankfully turned the taxi around and
took her where she wanted to go.
Once there, he charged her for the
40-minute detour, and she argued
with him but in the end, crying, paid
the outrageous amount. He then put
his hand up her dress and pushed his
ingers inside of her. She got out of
the car and he drove of laughing.
Since then, she often thinks about
the many factors that contributed
to the chain of events, and wonders
how things might have happened
diferently.
www.bronwynlovell.com
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Western woman
white skin
red hair
sunny day
snug dress
freckled legs bare
construction – a hole in the earth
heavy trafic
lights that didn’t work
Taxi driver
eyeliner
blush
language barrier
naiveté
trust
pink lipstick
misogyny
lust
choosing the front seat
and the colour green
×

CHE KOALA
DUTY OF CARE
Che Koala is a blogger at ‘Wobbly
teetering blogging’ where she blogs
about the good, the bad and the ugly
of autoimmune conditions, physical
disability and - what is all too often
- their invisible impact on social
interactions and expectations.
http://multiplesclerosisprincess.
blogspot.com
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From where we sat waiting we could hear the leukaemia kids crying once
they were taken behind the doctor’s door. The stark heads of the ones still
on the waiting chairs had an eerie neatness, were orderly and aged. Their
stoic waiting somehow made their later crying more piercing.
‘Come on that’s us,’ my mother would call and we would walk to the other
end of the corridor. We would cross a threshold without me crying. It was a
mystery what was beyond their door making them cry.
I was eleven. He would sit at his desk to start with. He was immensely tall
and immensely old. This visit, upon my mother seating herself, he announced
from over his glasses, that, according to his learned diagnosis, I was entering
puberty. I became an apparition. ‘Oh she’s embarrassed.’ I willed myself to
loat out the window. ‘Well let’s have a look,’ he commanded. He stood up,
came around from his side of the enormous desk then paused. I felt him
watch me climb up onto the examining table. His long, learned face leaned
from a long, long way away. My mother sat in front of us. Her chair faced the
desk and the window light. Just like all the other visits. As usual, he paused to
pull the hospital curtain semi way around the table screening the end of the
examination from the light coming through the window. Making a dim corner.
Did he realise?
As he did every visit, he pulled my top up and leaned over with his
stethoscope. He pressed my lesh. I had a history of being ticklish.
The cold lat of his stethoscope pressed against my chest. His breathing
came without excuse into my ears as he checked whether my heart was
working. His ingers ostensibly prodded my stomach checking whether there
was anything below the surface.

There was some connection between his latest diagnosis and my knickers
being pulled down but no one thought it necessary to put it in words and I
didn’t want to seem childish by having to ask why. All I could see was his
reddened face bent over me, a grey rattail from his combover falling forward
while his attention was diverted. Futilely he attempted to push it back
beyond his line of vision. It would happen again and again. Why there is the
impression of pent up panting I do not have the words to explain. I’ve always
had nightmares, maybe it’s just an embellishment from them. I thought it was
the combover that I didn’t like.
‘Touched’ what does it mean? ‘She’s a bit touched,’ people say and indicate
to the side of their head. ‘How touching,’ people say and nestle the palm of
their hand to their heart. ‘What a ine touch,’ others exclaim opening their
arms wide and taking a step back to admire the handiwork.
‘Did he touch you?’ No one asked. It was wordless.
Years later as I ran out of teenage years I had one of my last dreaded
visits to the hospital. My mother no longer came. Dr C was unexpectedly
not available. The young registrar saw me instead. A regular sized man. A
surprising exam: no need for me to undress. No need to check whether I had
pubic hair or not. My eyes widened as he matter-of-factly asked me from
across the desk: ‘Did I want to go on the Pill?’ The light from the side window
looded over us. Did I know my illness was irrelevant to protecting myself - if I
wanted?
I was dumbfounded. I wondered about this adult he was speaking to. He
spoke as if I were substantial. He did not teeter over me containing his
mastery. The blood neither drained from, nor rushed to, my face. I crossed the
threshold of the room. I was touched. I had no words for this. I was careful.
×
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23

CHLOE ANGYAL
TALKING PUBLICLY ABOUT
SEXUAL ASSAULT
Chloe Angyal is a freelance writer
and an Editor at Feministing.com.
She grew up in Sydney and is now
based in New York City, where she
writes about gender, politics and
popular culture.
She is so grateful to Mel and Kate for
their work on this zine.
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Earlier this year, my friend Jamie, who is a young feminist blogger living in
Chicago, wrote a post called “Today I had to leave class to cry.” Her tears
were tears of frustration and anger, the ones you feel when an injustice is
being done – or in this case, excused – in front of you, and you feel powerless
to stop it.
Jamie, who is in her irst year of university, was in a class called “Free
Speech,” and the topic of discussion was whether or not it would be a
restriction of free speech to ban a manual for how to rape someone. The
conversation soon turned to rape prevention, and to what women can do to
prevent rape:
There is no such thing as “rape prevention.” The only way for
people to not get raped is for people NOT TO RAPE THEM.
We can’t end rape by dressing modestly or avoiding dark
alleys or letting friends babysit our drinks when we go to the
bathroom. The only way to abolish rape is for nobody to rape
anyone else. It really isn’t a dificult concept.
I chimed in politely and explained this to the class. I fully
expected at least one other person to agree with me. I looked
around. Nobody agreed. A bunch more people raised their
hands and tried to correct me. “They can at least be aware of a
rapist’s techniques!” they argued. “It is silly to think that women
can’t prevent rape.”
At this, Jamie writes, she could no longer control herself. “It isn’t the job
of women to prevent their own rape!” she said. “The only people who can
prevent rape are rapists!” And then, she had to leave class to cry.

As I read Jamie’s post, I felt a hot, uncomfortable dread creep over me, that
prickly feeling under your skin that you sometimes feel when you’re ashamed
of something you’ve done. I sat for a moment and thought about what Jamie
had written. And then I opened up my browser and wrote her an email.
I used to be one of those people who made you cry today.
When I was a sophomore, I took a women’s studies class, and
when it came time to discuss alcohol and consent in precept, I
didn’t get it. I said things about being drunk and being responsible
and being raped that I now deeply, deeply regret. I hurt the
feelings of two girls in the room - that I know of - who had been
raped while drunk. Things got heated and we all went and met
with the professor teaching the class and it was really ugly. Now,
four or ive years later, I get it. Like, really, really get it, enough
to write about it for Feministing. I think about those girls in
my class every time I write about this stuf, because I have to
remember how much pain I caused them just by espousing stupid,
poorly thought out and entirely mainstream ideas, and I have to
remember what I used to think and how I used to justify it to
myself. I guess all I’m saying is, you probably converted a person
or two today. And if you didn’t today, you will next time or the
time after that.
When Kate and Mel asked me to contribute to We Will Not Go Quietly, and
told me that it was a resource for survivors, I wasn’t entirely sure what of use
I could say. I am not a survivor. I am lucky to be one of the three out of four
young American women who has not been the victim of rape or attempted
rape. Every day, I am grateful for that. Every day, I live with the possibility, and
the fear, that I will one day join the other twenty-ive percent. But as it stands,
I do not know how it feels to be sexually assaulted.
What I do know is that I have sat where Jamie sat and felt the frustration
26
27
that she felt. But I have also sat across the table and inlicted that pain on
other people. I’m not proud of the things I said in that class as a second-year
student. I’m appalled when I remember the tears in the eyes of my classmate,
a woman who, she told me later, was a survivor of a brutal rape. I wish I could
take back what I said in that classroom – and even though I can’t, every time
I write a blog post about victim-blaming and rape apologism now, I feel like I’m
atoning, in some small way, for the fact that I said them.
I’m atoning because at some point, I saw the error of my ways. I saw how
wrong I had been in believing those ideas I espoused back then. And ever
since then, I’ve been on the other side of the table, Jamie’s side. I can’t
remember exactly what it was that made me see reason. But it did happen,
eventually.
My point, then, is this: conversations like the one Jamie describes are
incredibly dificult to have. They can be triggering and traumatic and
sometimes they can make you cry with frustration and disbelief that people
just don’t get it. But they can also convert people. They can make those
people question beliefs they’ve never really thought to question before. They
can bring them around to see what you see, what Jamie sees, and what her
classmates could not yet see: rapists cause rape. The only way to prevent
rape is for rapists to stop raping people. Perhaps it won’t be your words that
change someone’s mind, but that doesn’t mean that their mind won’t one day
be changed.
As dificult as these conversations are, we have to keep having them.
We have to believe that when it comes to mainstream ideas about who’s
to blame for sexual assault, minds can be changed. We have to ight that
good ight, even when it’s exhausting and enraging and frustrating beyond
description. And sometimes, we have to leave the room to cry.
×

28 MATTHEW DUNN. ‘BE FREE’

31 KAROLIN SCHNOOR. ‘SURVIVOR SOLIDARITY’

KRISTY
IN THE DISTANCE
33
You’ll see me fading into the distance
and wonder where I’m going.
Hide your eyes and don’t question
because it’s better for you, not knowing.
I can’t tell you what it feels like
to want to go and never come back
and I guess I’m doing this
because I can’t grasp the things I lack
There are days that keep me alone
and days that keep me alive
but in the end it’s just a means
to hold on and simply survive.
×

MARY ZIMMER
INVISIBLE
Mary Zimmer has published poetry
in Folio, WomenPsalms, Alive Now!,
Daughters of Sarah, Pilgrimage:
Psychotherapy and Personal
Exploration and Piecework: A
Magazine of Poetry by Women.
Previously a pastor, preacher and
social worker, she is currently
a writer and grandmother in
Madisonville, Kentucky, USA.
35
Can you see her?
Here, four pews back
sitting on my lap.
Two years old, dressed in
blue and white gingham,
anklets edged in white lace.
Black patent Mary Jane shoes,
of course.
She doesn’t idget,
leans back in my arms.
Except
her blue eyes are pools
of terror.
Her smile is hesitant,
not all the way there.
Wary, she stays alert always
for smooth-voiced men
who carry power easily
on their shoulders,
the mantle of privilege
from their Father God.
×

ANON
FINALLY THE ANGER
37
I hate you.
You with your blackened, cracked heart —
ilthy, ilthy,
broken, incapable of love.
For years I endured you; your Fucked up ways.
You were my sentence,
a sentence I served in silence, in disbelief, in dissociation.
I didn’t even dare discuss it with myself.
You came and just took, took, took —
That which didn’t belong to you,
That which no Father should.
I stomp all over those memories.
I stomp all over you!
Hateful, hateful,
Broken, stupid, you.
×

KAREN H.
SPIDERY LAMENT
As a young teenager, Karen was
raped in the school dark room
by a teacher. She still deals with
the aftermath, but with help and
the passage of time, her life has
improved and she has healed
somewhat. Karen is now a mother,
a health professional and trains with
the Women’s Circus.
39
Constructed so carefully
with guarded decision,
this web to keep you out.
To protect my feelings
and mixed-up thoughts
was my plan.
But now, all that I ind
is me,
trapped inside.
Can I deconstruct this work of art...
in time?
×

MAX ROYALE
GRATEFUL TO BE ME
41
For me there have been multiple traumas and abuse. I have been asked,
‘when will I be healed?’. Living is healing. Healing is awareness everyday. At a
young age just breathing kept me going.
I live with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I don’t sufer from it. This is my
choice. This way I am in control of it. It is not controlling me.
Speaking up. Watching and seeing other survivors. I am grateful for the
people who have helped me in my journey to live. Healing is ongoing.
Hugging a female for the irst time was a milestone to forgiveness. Hugging
a male for the irst time was enormous. Tears of forgetting. Wide eyes at the
trust of the other party. There were no sides, just US. Safety and trust can
make a “rainbow after a storm”.
All Abuse Is Abuse. Never say sorry for anger. I have a right to be angry.
I am who I am because of my history. I am strong today because of it. I would
not change any of it. My view is I am thankful for the child and the wisdom in
me. To accept myself for the unique human I am. I LIVE.
I have learnt to love – myself, men, and women. If I can do it so can you. The
journey never stops. The steps get greater. Breathing life is always a must. Live
and show yourself you can.
Replace Fear with Love. Anger with Joy. Face all fears to heal them. F: feel
E: emotional A: afects R: relaxed. Take the risk and trust yourself. It’s a great
place to start.
×

JO O’LONE-HAHN
IN COLLAB. WITH ZACH G
SURVIVOR SOLIDARITY
For the full version of Survivor
Solidarity see:
http://notgoquietly.tumblr.com
43
I’m tired of the isolation of survivors. Every day we hear the statistics, 1 in 6
women are sexually assaulted, and 1 in 33 men are too, 73 percent of rapes
are perpetrated by someone the survivor knows. Numbers tell us what to
fear. These statistics keep the real, breathing, heart-beating survivors trapped
in obscurity. We know the numbers, but not the faces. The world doesn’t want
to know the real, down-in-the-dirt facts. Rape exists, and survivors live on
every day carrying what we’re told should be a secret.
Survivors are a group. Survivors are the people you see on the subway and
walking down the road. You’d never know unless there was a sign on their
forehead, or they told you. We are expected to always pretend.
I’m tired of this shame. I’m tired of people being called victims. Victims
are helpless and alone. We live in a society that creates victims rather than
survivors, that makes survivors feel helpless, and that doesn’t help. Society
does not make the attacker feel the shame instead. I’m tired of a world
allowing for traumas to be held in so long that survivors eventually break.
Survivors are questioned by police and blamed for the acts committed
against them. We are joked about, we are tip-toed around. People in the room
often don’t look at survivors the same again, the subject changes. When we
develop post-traumatic stress disorder, rape trauma syndrome, or a myriad
of other mental dificulties due to the attack, we are discriminated against
should any institution discover these issues.
Survivors are shamed, beaten, and abused by family members and friends
who are too weak to deal with the subject. Survivors are told that they
will never again have normal relationships, that they are homosexual if
they’re attacked by someone of the same sex, and that they can never fully
experience the joys of consensual sex. Survivors are told how to deal with

their problems without having any say in the matter. Survivors are continually
harassed or attacked by the perpetrator and live in a society that never quite
gives a damn. Survivors are ignored because of their reputation, race, sexual
orientation, gender identity, intoxication level, mental background and sex.
Survivors are just ignored.
I’m tired of watching this silence whir around me and other survivors. I’m
tired of loved ones in tears. When will we stop telling survivors to be ashamed
of being attacked, but to be beaming with pride that they survived? When will
we stop ignoring rape? When will we stop telling survivors how helpless they
are, when we can help?
I can’t watch this world go on around me anymore. Because of this, I’m
making a call for survivor solidarity. I am asking myself and my fellow survivors
to not be ashamed of having been attacked, but to be proud of having lived
on. I am asking myself and my fellow survivors to not be afraid to say exactly
what happened, to not be afraid to call out their attacker, to not be afraid to
stand up and ight this.
I’m asking myself and my fellow survivors to live on, to heal, to exist as we
have always wanted. I am asking for a world in which survivors can unite and
stop being so afraid. I am asking for a world in which survivors know they can
do anything, and through that, they can survive.
So go out into the streets and don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid to tell others
about your experience. Don’t be afraid to ask others for help, and to help
yourself. Don’t be afraid to confront your attacker. Don’t be afraid to be
open. Don’t be afraid to ight back against this world. We are calling for a new
scenario in which survivors can be free. We ask to eradicate sexual assault.
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We are calling for a new system of action which ights for the rights of
survivors, and for non-survivors to stand with us. We have rights to ourselves
and our bodies. Just by living another day, you are showing the world what you
are capable of. It’s time to create survivor solidarity.
×

KIMBERLEY KEYS
VIOLATED!
47
He holds me captive in my car
With the games he likes to play,
My screams and pleads go unnoticed,
He will get his way.
Taps the glass with threatening eyes,
Takes me against my will,
The things he’d say and do to me
Makes me think he’s mentally ill.
When we reach the destination,
He gets me on his bed,
Kisses my neck and pushes me back,
As he glides his hand up my leg.
My pleads and cries give him pleasure,
As he forces himself on top,
I’m feeling weak and powerless
As I cry for him to stop.
He ties my hands and calls me names
And eagerly tears my underwear,
The unbearable pain, he makes me freeze,
But he doesn’t seem to care!

He forces himself deep inside
As he begins to kiss my breasts,
With my struggle, he pushes harder,
His eyes smile like he’s possessed.
The agony during the penetration,
I was totally unprepared,
He tells me I have to kiss him back,
I did it because I was scared.
His dark obsession with control,
He wouldn’t let me leave,
Violated my body and mind,
So I became naive.
He manipulates me like it’s efortless,
Makes me believe it’s my fault,
I blame myself and my mistakes,
When it was sexual assult!!
“What you did, it’s just like murder,
Except I live with the pain,
You took away every part of me,
For your own selish gain!
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When you’re done with what you want,
Finished denying me of my youth,
You tell me no one would believe my lies,
So I silence the dirty truth!
You leave content that I won’t tell,
No one will have a clue,
I leave empty and feel deserving,
Of the torturous days spent with you.
I can’t quite grasp what you did,
Then the law helps to console,
Aren’t you just a little bit scared,
That I’m now in control?!’
×

50 REBECCA BUCK. ‘REBEL GIRL CLIMBS THE MOUNTAIN AND FIGHTS THE BATTLE.’

53 KATE RAVENSCROFT. ‘CORPOREAL INSTRUCTIONS’

LAUREN GROCOTT
SILENCE IS NOT CONSENT
55
I stand and stare
surrounded by white cloudy dusty fog
it covers my body whole
like cheap perfume
it stains my senses
there is no point to hold onto
no spark to capture my gaze
I breathe the fog deep into my lungs
the dust dances through my insides
choking, assaulting
my every breath
I stare, my eyes sting
silent in the clouds
I don’t know how to write about the experience of being raped. It has taken
a very long time to handle hearing the word, seeing the word and writing the
word rape. I hate that word so much. I hate the way society conceives of that
word. I hate the misconceptions that come with that word. I hate that people
use it in jokes. I hate how much that word haunts me. It hate that it jolts me.
It still bafles me how hard it is to accept. The way my brain swings from
denial to acceptance so quickly is exhausting. Especially earlier on, I honestly
thought that I was going insane because my brain would replay so many
diferent arguments for and against what happened to me all day and night
long. I just sat and replayed and replayed the arguments. I barely left my room.
I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t work. I wanted to die so desperately. I really wanted
to die. That felt like the only escape from the confusion over what happened
and the pain that maybe it’s real.
–

But there was also a small part of me that wanted to ight because when I
did accept what I had been through I became tremendously angry. It was like
ire was rushing through me and I wanted to ight. I wanted to see myself get
through it otherwise he would not only take away my right to consent, my
right to say what happens to my body, my ability to live in the world free from
fear, but he would also take my life.
Silence is not consent. That’s law. This was news to me. Do other people
know that? How did they ind that out? Why is it so hard for me to see? I
wish that the event was ilmed, so I could see, because there are blackouts
and my own natural ability to blame myself that lead to confusion. I used to
look for validation in other people’s reactions to what happened. So I wanted
to keep talking and talking about it all the time. Please someone say it’s
horrible so I can stop beating myself up for living in this emotional hole. It was
also a way of processing it. But most people don’t want to hear about it.
I actually think that surviving in the beginning is somewhat easier than now.
Well easier is certainly not the right word! But a year ago I could hide and
watch endless movies, and eat and eat and eat and never leave my room and
I had good reason. I would cut myself in the shower everyday to redirect the
pain and I had good reason. Now what do I have? I have to get up. I have to
get started on life. I have to rebuild. I can’t do those things anymore. Because
I can’t let him win. But it’s so hard. And I don’t know where to begin. I need to
remind myself to feel empowered because I have survived, because it is an
amazing, amazing thing to get through to the other side.
I do feel the memories slowly fading. My mind is illed with other thoughts
and images. I am no longer replaying and replaying it all the time. I do believe
that time is the greatest healer of all. It is time that has lessened the pain. My
cat has also helped. I bought him afterwards and loving him makes me feel so
happy. Having to care for him gives me something enjoyable and something
to wake up for when everything else feels too much. I would recommend to
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anyone going through this to get a pet to cuddle and love.
I would recommend to watch lots of comedy, to take time - as much time
as there is - to just be with yourself, to get massages, to go for walks, listen
to music, to have baths, to sleep, to cry, to feel, to heal in whatever way you
need to. Being around female energy was so important to me without me
even realising it at the time. I am so thankful for the things that have got me
here. I am so thankful that there are beautiful things in the world. Nothing will
take away my ability to seek them. Nothing will take away the hope. I will ight
and strive for it because there isn’t another option. I want to feel good and
strong and free. And I will. I am.
×

LIZ
DEAR ANDREW
Liz is a 25-year-old social worker
from Chicago, IL who specializes
in working with children and
adolescents. She has volunteered
on a rape crisis hotline, worked on
a youth-friendly crisis helpline, and
received her Master of Social Work
this past year. In her free time, Liz
enjoys yoga, reading, baking, and
doing crafts.
For Liz’s full story see:
http://notgoquietly.tumblr.com
59
Dear Andrew,
Today is June 25, 2011, exactly 1.5 years since you raped me. Does the
word rape sting for you as much as it does for me? Does it make your heart
drop... feel like someone punched you in the stomach... make you clench your
teeth? Probably not.
As easy as it is to say, “the rape was YOUR fault, Andrew,” it’s much more
dificult for me to actually believe those words. When you raped me, you
took away my sense of self. It was like I was transported to an isolated island,
watching everything I once knew loat past me and disappear. My self-esteem
plummeted and left me wondering, who am I?
I have spent the last 18 months confronting the fact that you raped me. I
have had lashbacks, nightmares, uncontrollable crying spells, so much anxiety
that I started seeing a psychiatrist, muscle twitches, guilt, self-blame, low
self-esteem, and avoidance of places or people who remind me of you. When
you raped me, you took away my ability to trust, to let people in, to feel like I
had control over my body and my life. You instilled fear in me... fear of anyone
named Andrew, fear of raspy voices, fear of drinking alcohol, fear of losing
control, fear of dating and intimacy, fear of what to tell my future daughter,
fear of being vulnerable, fear of blond men, fear of reporting the rape to the
police, fear of being judged, fear that you will never be caught, fear of being
raped again.
As dificult as it was, confronting the symptoms of PTSD helped me to
become stronger than I ever imagined. Healing from a sexual assault is a
lifelong process, and I’m never sure when something will creep up on me and
remind me of that night, or of you. However, the supports I have found and
my ability to turn pain into strength give me hope for the future.

Every once in a while a ire ignites beneath me that brings up anger. I
typically don’t act on my sadness, but anger is the emotion that has allowed
me to ight back. Whether it was the smallest action like checking on you
online, or a monumental triumph such as speaking to a room of sexual
ofenders at a prison, my anger gave me the courage and strength to survive.
When I speak to groups of perpetrators at a local prison, the men are
forced to confront their own demons while listening to the horror I have
endured since you raped me. I know how hard it is for them to sit in the room
and listen to the pain I went through, thinking of the people they hurt. I have
been told that many of the men are ashamed to be in the same room as me
because they feel like they don’t deserve my respect. In both the prison and
the outside world, I am making a diference not with violence or vengeance,
but with my voice.
Andrew, rape creates a ripple efect of consequences. Not only was I
afected in every aspect of my life, but so were the people around me. I wish
that your name didn’t hold so much power to me, but using your name through
the stories I share and the letters I write allows me to confront my fear of
you. Every time I say the name Andrew, it gives you less power. And without
that power, Andrew, you hold nothing over me.
Eighteen months later, I am still healing from the wounds you caused me, but
I’m also so much stronger than I ever was before the rape. I may have been
victimized by you, Andrew, but, I am NOT your victim. I am a survivor. You can
try to hide the fact that you’re a rapist from the world, but you can’t hide it
from you or me.
Dearest Andrew, your only victim is YOU.
Yours truly, Survivor Liz
×
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61

MAYA R UI N
OH FATHER DEAR FATHER
63
Sam was the irst to put a hairline crack in the hard shell I carried. We spent
a year together, Sam and I. I would creep from his bed in the early morning
light to let the guilt of being intimate with a man sob and soak into my own
sheets. We lived in a share house in Fitzroy. Five of us sharing a dark musty
house, with mold hidden in the crevices. Sam was the last to move in. I shied
away from him at irst. He was too handsome, too tall, too much for me. I was
twenty one years old, and only twenty two when I fractured his heart and
asked him to leave me alone. You never met Sam. I hid him in the contours of
the city while you remained in farming country, hoping for my return.
The city is an avenue for hiding. In the city I didn’t just hide my sorrows, I hid
my body and history. The city is all embracing. It will take you in no matter
where you have come from, though it does not promise a comfortable home.
It bids one to not expect acceptance in that place, yet also to be assured
that it will not outright reject you. No one is tossed from the city.
I made the city my home. Here I could expand on my expertise in
pretending. I could pretend that I had no hazardous family dilemmas, and
no strange dark history. In the city you can tell people only the delicately
selected narratives about yourself. You can exclude the stories that still
cause your heart to cramp and your tongue to thicken. Yes, the city allows
you to construct a happy existence, as though you never had been scared.
One time I dated a drummer and chef named David. He had curly black
hair and had already paid of a house at twenty three years old. After we
had dated for some time, David asked me why my childhood was missing. I
hadn’t noticed at the time, but I had only ever told him stories from the time
after I had left our family home. To him, it was as though my childhood and
adolescence never existed. The conversation between David and I turned
sour then. The detachment feeling captured my body while I told him ever
so briely about what occurred in our family. David kept quiet. I was grateful

for that. He and I didn’t see much more of each other after that night. You
see, he had gained some insight, so I went to Europe to ind some other hiding
places. David was gone when I returned to Melbourne nine months later. I
didn’t miss him, we never really got that close.
Instead I met up again with Sam. He came back into my life at my request.
He looked the same even though it had been seven years since I irst met him.
His hair is long and blond and frayed at the ends. He stoops a little to try to
hide his height, though it does not work. You can see the Dutch heritage in
him, just like ours; the shapely jaw line and the strong cheek bones.
Sam came over to my white weatherboard home. My housemates were out
and we had the place to ourselves. The heater was turned on to shed the
brisk air outside from us. He took of his black ingerless gloves and scarf and
for a moment we glowed together. He had been back in Melbourne for some
time now, two or three months. We were somewhere between friends and
lovers and strangers. Playfully he pulled me across his lap, like a father would
his child. In cradling position he began singing Rock-A-Bye-Baby. As he did this
my insides snapped frozen. My face screwed up into a tight ugly scrunch and
my emotional faculties bolted into the of position.
Do you remember that song, Papa? Of course you do, you sang it to me a
thousand times. I was a lot smaller then, and my hair was golden brown and
long. My whole slender body would drape across your lap and you could
actually rock me from side to side. Remember how you changed the words? In
the last line, instead of singing “when the bough breaks the cradle will fall, and
down will come baby cradle and all” you would substitute the last cradle and
sing my name instead while you tickled me all over.
It’s such a loving memory dada. Such a pity that the recalling of that image
can make me fall over and graze my heart. I guess every fond memory of
you does that these days. There are so few fond memories; most of them
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65
are tainted by the fear and ugliness that pervaded our lives. Those memories
have a much worse consequence.
Sam has left now. He’s gone to California. I can imagine him itting in there,
with his handsome looks, muscular body and his bourgonese ways. He’s left
again. He leaves to escape me. It is dificult. I understand his reasons for
going. He aches for stability, for a love that says ‘I will always be there’, for
commitment; for all the relationship wonders I cannot give him.
Sam’s relationship ideals are everything that I resist. I resist commitment. I
resist monogamy. I resist anything that is ixed. And still, after all the years of
counselling, I do not recognise if this strong sense of resistance is a rebellion
or a liberation. Either way, my ways are not Sam’s ways and the diference
between us tortures the love that brings us back together again and again.
I live for freedom – giving and receiving afection whichever way it comes.
Sam craves commitment strummed with monogamous strings. Sam feels
threatened by my luidity of afection, I feel stiled by a sense of duty to
obey a commitment. It appears there is no way out for us, no way to share
love without hurting each other or without wishing that the relationship was
something other than it is.
I read a line in a book about forgiveness and a howl from my heart gallops
out into the loungeroom air – and it’s you Papa I am crying for, it’s you that
I hate and love and am angry at and grieve. But it is the walls that hear the
moans, and the loorboards that soak up the tears. And you sleep in the
country, the walls stony cold, the carpets dry.
×

66 NELL BUTLER. ‘UNTITLED’

AERIN KAY E. ‘UNTITLED’
69
NICKI REED
DON’T THINK IT
Nicki Reed met a bloke, chucked
university, bought a house, married
the bloke and had three sons.
She writes lists, love-letters, short
stories, and says writing her irst
novel, Unzipped, is the best fun she
ever had. Nicki Reed is not a fan of
silence and will not go quietly.

How many paedophiles does it take to change a light bulb? Who cares,
one is too many, let’s sit in the dark. Listen, I’m not writing this, I can’t. Writing
means thinking and thinking means remembering. I’m watching TV (Two and
Half Men, I’m trying to get the point) while my pen takes over. It’s the only
way.
I have children, three boys, they are 8,10,12. My boys have problems.
Sometimes they have to get of my iPhone and put their toys away,
sometimes they have to do their homework when they’d rather play outside.
Yesterday my youngest was roughed up at school for his tooth fairy money.
My kids have kid problems.
When I was eight I had already managed ive years of sexual abuse by my
grandfather. By the time I was ten we’d moved interstate and the abuse
became a school holiday thing.
Knowing the world can be a shit place should not be a kid problem. Survival
is nice. Realizing you’re not complicit in your abuse is good. I know why I never
said anything and I know I didn’t do anything wrong. He was the wrong one.
Therapy does get you somewhere just not on the irst day.
Understanding you’re not the only one is good and depressing. Comparison
is evitable; my abuse wasn’t as bad as what she sustained. And everybody has
a naughty uncle. Child sexual abuse is a rite of passage like swimming lessons
and L plates. Get on with it. I can’t not remember.
Years ago, I changed my niece’s nappies and saw how little I was when the
abuse began. I got scared I was abusing her just taking her nappy of. That’s
not right and it’s not fair.
I take my boys to the park, the beach, the shops and I can’t help it,
I remember. Underground car-parks are a great place to abuse your
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grandchildren and most shopping centres have one. I cannot piggy back my
sons. Flashbacks are as real as nausea. I limit myself to ireman’s carry.
Two weeks ago I was cuddling my middle son on his bed. He’s a cuddly guy,
always has been, we call him the Cuddle King of Chicago (it’s a Ferris Bueller
reference, if you haven’t, do). He’s kissy, he tells me he loves me, he wanted
to marry me until he met one of my friends. My son climbed on top of me and
pressed his lips onto mine and I was back to the hard kisses of my grandfather.
I sat up, pushed the memory to the place it waits til next time, and asked my
son where he was up to in the chocolate factory, had he met Willy Wonka
yet? Don’t think it, don’t think it, don’t think it.
When people kiss me hello on the lips, sometimes I miss it. Last year I
realized why. My face stifens. I brace myself because of my grandfather.
Thirty years after the abuse, I was crying in my bathroom because I’d
measured another impact of his abuse. I told my sister. She said, soften your
lips. I’m trying.
My therapist says I’m well adjusted. I am. I was the good kid now I’m the good
adult. Life does go on. My husband is terriic and my little boys are wonderful.
I have a career, I’m doing it now, tap, tap, tap. I have great relationships with
brilliant people. I’m lucky. I feel lucky. I’m interested, I’m inspired, I want to
know things. But I’d love to not remember.
Well, look at that. My pen is inished, I didn’t have to think about my
grandfather and Two and a Half Men has nothing going for it. Just like I
thought.
×

PREMJYOTI
FUCK YOU
Premjyoti is a yoga & meditation
teacher. Her whole world was
turned upside-down by sexual
assault and the response of others
to her disclosure. Her personal
yoga & meditation practice became
a lifeline during her recovery.
Against all the odds she returned to
teaching, by starting her own small
business in Melbourne, Every Body
Yoga.
www.everybodyyoga.com.au
73
He screwed with my head, then digitally raped me - twice in two days. To
him I say: Fuck you.
I discovered he is a serial sexual perpetrator, so I reported him to the
leaders of our yoga community. I thought they would talk with me, go to the
police, or at the very least, ensure he never teaches yoga again. Instead, they
condemned me to silence, gave him a slap on the wrist. To them I say: Fuck
you.
His best friend spread malicious rumours about me, said I’d made it all up. To
her I say: Fuck you.
A counsellor told me it wasn’t so bad, cause it wasn’t really rape. She
warned me not to go to the police, for my own good. To her I say: Fuck you.
A senior yoga teacher told me I must have done this to someone in a past
life, so I’m just getting what I deserve. To her I say: Fuck you.
The so-called “Spiritual Leader” advised that it was my fault. She made
excuses for his behaviour, and recommended I seek counselling to sort out
my sexuality. To her especially, I say a big: Fuck you.
There are those who know what happened, but never phoned or emailed to
show they care. I feel angry, shocked and heartbroken, because I need trust,
compassion and respect. If you know someone who’s been sexually assaulted,
don’t try to ix it – you can’t. But for goodness sake, acknowledge she is going
through hell and SHOW HER YOU CARE.
×

NEO
RACING
75
I’m racing always racing
trying not to lose
hoping, trying to fake it
always try’n to prove
that I am not so crazy
that I can live my life
that I can face this truth
and come out feeling right
but it is going to beat me now
I can feel it closing in
coz coming close in second
is the other little me
she’s crying for attention
she’s freaking out alright
she’s trying to be heard
all the fucking night
she wants my damn attention
she’s clinging to my speed
she’s racing round the corner
trying to beat her Me
she’s going to get there irst
she’s scrambling to the line
she’s going to do me in
her vile is set on ire
she’s going to fucking kill me
with her truth, her pain, her shrill
and I don’t have the will
to do her in the spill
she’s crying and she’s screaming
she’s wanting to be heard

she’s beating and she’s real
she’s dying to get there irst
and prove that’s it’s the deal
she’s holding onto my arm
she’s taking all my strength
she’s showing all my harm
and it seems so little will
so little I have to give her
so nothing is my way
so little for her bill
her need is so pressing
her pain is just so great
we are not going to inish
or cross the fucking line
coz we are in a battle
I’m spent, I can’t survive
this load that she is holding
this pain that’s so so great
it’s going to take us under
it’s going to make our fate
it’s never going to end
this torture we went through
and now it’s time to say enough
it’s time to say adieu
it’s crazy and its over
my life, I’m just a fool
I’ve tried to keep us up
I’ve tried to stay aloat
but craziness is winning
there’s water in this boat
I’m tired and I’m hurting
I’ve played my hand as well
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and we’re just too heavy
to loat in this fucking hell
I’ve tried to igure out
how to take the pain away
to turn and face the anger
to make it sound okay
but there is just no way
that I can do this any more
the line is just a igment
and it’s so far, and so I fall.
×

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A huge thank you, irst and foremost, to Matt. This would never have come to
life without you.
To Cat Macinnes, Carli Hyland (The Grim Press), Katy Ladbrook, Chelsea
McKenna and Karolyn Schnoor, thank you for your designerly contributions.
To Melinda Tankard Reist, for your generous support, your feedback, your
ongoing encouragement and last, but not least, your editing prowess, thank
you so very much.
To Rachel Hills, Chloe Angyal, Catherine Deveny, Emily Maguire, Clementine
Ford, Nina Funnell, Hoyden About Town and everyone who helped us promote
this project and recruit contributors, thank you.
To CASA and YWCA, thank you for putting your organisational weight
behind this project and sharing it with your networks.
To Jez from Dude, thank you for your wisdom and encouragement.
To Anne Riggs, thank you for sharing your resources and your experience.
And most importantly of all, we want to thank from the bottom of our hearts
each and every contributor and everyone who got in touch with us to share
their story. Each and every one of you has amazed and humbled us. Bearing
witness to your stories has been an honour.
×
Kate and Matt
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We Will Not Go Quietly
Editors × Kate Ravenscroft and Matthew James
Cover Design × Cat Macinnes
Layout × The Grim Press
COLOPHON
Typeface × Pontus Sans - Ivan Kostynyk
Risograph Printing × Dawn Press
Digital Printing × Elgin Printers
Paper × Envirocare 100% Recycled, Canary Grange (Graphics)
Made in Melbourne, Australia
© 2012. All Rights Reserved.
For more information and to read full submissions, further relections on
survival or to contribte your own story of survival please visit:
http://notgoquietly.tumblr.com