During my college years, I briefly volunteered at a rape crisis center before realizing the emotional toll was beyond my capability. Initially, I joined with some friends, eager to contribute positively without considering whether I had the resilience to support someone who had just experienced such trauma. Unfortunately, I found that I did not.
Our training consisted of six weeks filled with intensive education, statistics, and a walkthrough of the hospital experience for survivors, along with counseling sessions to address our own potential emotional triggers. After this rigorous preparation, I was assigned a pager for a weekend, with precise instructions for when it might buzz. If it did, my role was to rush to the hospital and advocate for a rape survivor, providing support, information, or just a compassionate presence. In the beginning, we would be paired with seasoned advocates, which felt like a much-needed safety net.
However, when I clipped on that pager for the first time, a wave of dread washed over me. It felt as though I was waiting for a dreadful event to occur. I knew that on any campus, at any moment, sexual assault was a grim reality that necessitated the existence of crisis centers and advocates. I thought about how someone, perhaps just like me, was preparing for a night out, oblivious to the impending upheaval her life would soon face at the hands of someone who would violate her trust and autonomy. The thought was unbearable.
The sobering statistics we learned highlighted that one in six women would face attempted or completed rape in their lifetime, often at the hands of someone they knew—especially prevalent in college settings. This makes it all the more disturbing when law enforcement officials like Captain James Foster of the NYPD trivialize acquaintance rape, suggesting that only incidents involving strangers are truly alarming. Such statements dismiss the horrific reality that a friend or acquaintance can commit such an atrocity. Rape is rape, regardless of the perpetrator’s relationship to the victim. If someone violates your body, it is rape—period.
That pager did go off on my first weekend. At 3 AM, I was on my way to support a woman who had just been assaulted by someone she knew. I was terrified, hoping to maintain composure to offer her the help she desperately needed.
This first call ended up being the last one I took. The experience was devastating. I struggled to hold back tears as I witnessed her trauma firsthand. She had been assaulted by a friend, someone she had trusted, under the influence of alcohol. The horror of such betrayal is profound, and it underscores that whether the assailant is a stranger or a familiar face, the pain inflicted is equally valid and devastating.
It is crucial to understand that both scenarios are traumatizing. Being attacked by a stranger is horrific, but being assaulted by someone you trust can be just as devastating. Downplaying the experiences of those assaulted by acquaintances only perpetuates shame and silence, hindering victims from seeking the necessary support and care. Survivors deserve compassion, not judgment, and our collective anger should be directed at the predators who commit these heinous acts.
We must strive for a better understanding of these issues, eliminate victim-blaming, and reject harmful statements that only serve to further the stigma surrounding assault. The world does not need more individuals like Brock Turner.
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In conclusion, it’s vital to recognize that rape is a universal violation, irrespective of the circumstances or the relationship between the victim and the perpetrator. We must rally around survivors and advocate for systemic change.