Content warning: the following post contains details of sexual assault, and can be upsetting. If you feel like it will upset you, please don't feel compelled to read it.
These stories happened to me, but they aren't my stories. They belong to all of us.
When I was 12 I decided I no longer wanted to be religious. It became increasingly clear to me that religion was just something people made up, and I had stopped playing with imaginary friends when I was eight or nine. It also seemed, at the time, as though non-religious people had more fun in life. They got to eat what they wanted, when they wanted, without having to worry about whether god would approve. They got to go places on the weekend. They got to wear whatever they wanted. It seemed like the secular life was free from a lot of the anxiety that accompanied religion. (I was wrong about a lot of that, and it now seems like people of faith have it a bit easier in life, but that's not really what this blog post is about.)
I started to dress differently. I attempted to imitate what I saw the girls and women around me wearing. In the early 2000s, this was mostly tight, low jeans, and off-the-shoulder tops. I don't have any pictures from that time (it was before smartphones, and nobody just took pictures of daily life), so hopefully you have some idea of what that looks like. Because what I was wearing was so important. To my siblings, my neighbors, the police, the lawyers, the judge...
As most people reading this probably know, I wasn't in school at the time. I didn't start going to school until I was 15. When I was younger, I spent my time reading, playing with the various animals my brother kept as pets, and exploring. But as I started to go through puberty, I sought more social interaction, and realized that I didn't have to work too hard to get people to like me and want to hang out with me. If I let the boys kiss me and touch me, they were happy to welcome me into their group.
Grisha wasn't a boy though. He was a 60 year old man. He had children and grandchildren. And I wasn't interested in his friendship. He worked at the grocery store where I had a part time job. It was mostly to have something to do because I wasn't in school. I was tired one morning, and so I sat down behind the cash register. There weren't any customers. Grisha knelt beside me and started stroking me. He touched my breasts and inner thigh. I kicked him in the balls and ran away. Later I told my mom, who forcefully encouraged me to report it. I did the whole thing. It's like in the movies, but worse. They questioned me again and again and again. They wanted to know who I hung out with, what I was wearing, had I ever said anything to lead him on? Was I flirtatious? Why did I hang out with older men? What was I trying to do? The investigations lasted years. Looking back, I don't think it was worth it. I'm not sure why they thought it was worth the time and effort. So many girls and women get touched like that. If they were to prosecute even a small fraction of the cases, there would be too many for the courts to handle. Maybe that's why it took years. They convicted him when I was 21, and he fled the country.
When I was 13 I was in the habit of staying up all night hanging out with friends. I was still unschooled at the time, so there was no reason to be awake during the day. One time I hung out with a friend in downtown Jerusalem all night. His name is Elazar. I don't remember what we did, but I think it was mostly just sitting in a coffee shop, talking. Buses stopped running between midnight and 6 am, and even the late-night coffee shops closed. We wandered through the city and ended up walking through a dark alley. How cliche. He pinned me against the wall and told me that he knows exactly what I want, and I'm about to get it. I protested that I didn't want anything, and he grabbed my hand and placed it on his erection. "This. This is what you want." I struggled, and managed to push him away. We took the same bus home. Then he told me he doesn't want to be my friend anymore, because of what I made him do. And I begged him for forgiveness.
His name was Arkadi. He was 15. It was the middle of the afternoon, and I had run away from home and was going to stay in the abandoned bomb shelter he and his friends had turned into a hangout spot. He gave me some vodka. I was 13. He started kissing me and then he pulled down my pants. He was really cute. I definitely had a crush on him and wanted him to like me. But I wasn't ready for sex. This isn't how I wanted it. But if I told him that, would he stop liking me? I was getting dizzy from the vodka. He was starting to force his way into me. I told him to stop, and pushed him off of me.
My first boyfriend's name was David. He was also my neighbor, and I had been in love with him since I was 7. When I was 12, he passed me a note asking me to be his girlfriend. Of course I said yes. When we hung out at his place, his older brother, Micha, sometimes came into their shared room where we were sitting, and refused to leave unless I gave him a hand job, or let him touch me, or whatever he was in the mood for at the time. David would turn to me, shrug, and say I might as well do it so he'd leave us alone. So I did.
The stories all kind of blend together. The details may or may not be true. I used to think often about these events, and the many others that I haven't written about. I haven't thought about them in a while though. Every now and then someone says something, and I'll remember a snippet. It doesn't seem to be a part of my life. Shit happens.
I used to think my experiences were unique. I was told by everyone around me that it was because of the way I dressed. Or the way I played with my hair. They told me I was flirting, leading people on. I used to think there was something wrong with me. Something that would explain why I was so often the target. But then, as I grew older, I realized that these stories are very common. They are a part of our culture. A rite of passage, almost. Some stories are worse than others. I haven't written about being catcalled or any of that. I haven't written about my experiences on dating apps or bars and clubs. There are so many stories.
Personally, I feel numb to it all sometimes. And helpless. People talk about raising awareness. There are hashtags and initiatives to try and change things. But sometimes it feels like nothing will change. I don't think sharing these stories will change anything. I'm not really sure what I'm trying to accomplish by writing about them. I've been told be a couple of people that it's eye-opening to hear about what many girls and women have to go through. I hope reading this has at least made you pause and think about what you can do. We can't change the world, but we can call out behaviors that are harmful, and be supportive of those who are harmed.
These stories happened to me, but they aren't my stories. They belong to all of us.
When I was 12 I decided I no longer wanted to be religious. It became increasingly clear to me that religion was just something people made up, and I had stopped playing with imaginary friends when I was eight or nine. It also seemed, at the time, as though non-religious people had more fun in life. They got to eat what they wanted, when they wanted, without having to worry about whether god would approve. They got to go places on the weekend. They got to wear whatever they wanted. It seemed like the secular life was free from a lot of the anxiety that accompanied religion. (I was wrong about a lot of that, and it now seems like people of faith have it a bit easier in life, but that's not really what this blog post is about.)
As most people reading this probably know, I wasn't in school at the time. I didn't start going to school until I was 15. When I was younger, I spent my time reading, playing with the various animals my brother kept as pets, and exploring. But as I started to go through puberty, I sought more social interaction, and realized that I didn't have to work too hard to get people to like me and want to hang out with me. If I let the boys kiss me and touch me, they were happy to welcome me into their group.
Grisha wasn't a boy though. He was a 60 year old man. He had children and grandchildren. And I wasn't interested in his friendship. He worked at the grocery store where I had a part time job. It was mostly to have something to do because I wasn't in school. I was tired one morning, and so I sat down behind the cash register. There weren't any customers. Grisha knelt beside me and started stroking me. He touched my breasts and inner thigh. I kicked him in the balls and ran away. Later I told my mom, who forcefully encouraged me to report it. I did the whole thing. It's like in the movies, but worse. They questioned me again and again and again. They wanted to know who I hung out with, what I was wearing, had I ever said anything to lead him on? Was I flirtatious? Why did I hang out with older men? What was I trying to do? The investigations lasted years. Looking back, I don't think it was worth it. I'm not sure why they thought it was worth the time and effort. So many girls and women get touched like that. If they were to prosecute even a small fraction of the cases, there would be too many for the courts to handle. Maybe that's why it took years. They convicted him when I was 21, and he fled the country.
His name was Arkadi. He was 15. It was the middle of the afternoon, and I had run away from home and was going to stay in the abandoned bomb shelter he and his friends had turned into a hangout spot. He gave me some vodka. I was 13. He started kissing me and then he pulled down my pants. He was really cute. I definitely had a crush on him and wanted him to like me. But I wasn't ready for sex. This isn't how I wanted it. But if I told him that, would he stop liking me? I was getting dizzy from the vodka. He was starting to force his way into me. I told him to stop, and pushed him off of me.
My first boyfriend's name was David. He was also my neighbor, and I had been in love with him since I was 7. When I was 12, he passed me a note asking me to be his girlfriend. Of course I said yes. When we hung out at his place, his older brother, Micha, sometimes came into their shared room where we were sitting, and refused to leave unless I gave him a hand job, or let him touch me, or whatever he was in the mood for at the time. David would turn to me, shrug, and say I might as well do it so he'd leave us alone. So I did.
The stories all kind of blend together. The details may or may not be true. I used to think often about these events, and the many others that I haven't written about. I haven't thought about them in a while though. Every now and then someone says something, and I'll remember a snippet. It doesn't seem to be a part of my life. Shit happens.
I used to think my experiences were unique. I was told by everyone around me that it was because of the way I dressed. Or the way I played with my hair. They told me I was flirting, leading people on. I used to think there was something wrong with me. Something that would explain why I was so often the target. But then, as I grew older, I realized that these stories are very common. They are a part of our culture. A rite of passage, almost. Some stories are worse than others. I haven't written about being catcalled or any of that. I haven't written about my experiences on dating apps or bars and clubs. There are so many stories.
Personally, I feel numb to it all sometimes. And helpless. People talk about raising awareness. There are hashtags and initiatives to try and change things. But sometimes it feels like nothing will change. I don't think sharing these stories will change anything. I'm not really sure what I'm trying to accomplish by writing about them. I've been told be a couple of people that it's eye-opening to hear about what many girls and women have to go through. I hope reading this has at least made you pause and think about what you can do. We can't change the world, but we can call out behaviors that are harmful, and be supportive of those who are harmed.
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