In the beginning I was in utter and complete shock, I could not believe that it had happened to me, that this person had done this. I could not admit to myself let alone to anyone else that I had been RAPED. While in that denial, at the back of my head I was thinking about what I was going to do. I had imagined that POWA or some organisation had a centre somewhere with certified women doctors that did the examination and in-house counselors or at least had a list of friendly doctors that you could go to at a time like this.

Even before I admitted RAPE to myself, even before it actually hit me and the sting in my vagina was something I was aware of, I was calling around asking hypothetical questions trying to find out what to do and where to go. I knew that I had 72 hours within which to collect the evidence and so had to move fast. I had already done the first wrong thing, which was to take a shower, but at the time I did that I was still in a daze. Part of me was showering to just get dressed and get out of there at first light and the other part of me was trying to wash away what I thought and felt had happened but refused to, couldn’t believe had happened.

I knew from the start that the last place I wanted to be in was a police station saying that I had been RAPED. Let alone who I had been raped by, and what all that meant. I knew that I was going to be asked what I was wearing, why I had been there, if I had cried for help, and that I would be told how I had brought it on to myself, and a whole lot of things that had nothing at all to do with the fact that a grown, supposedly sane man had decided to, against my will, shove his penis into my vagina. I knew that I was not going to be able to face that ridicule and abuse by myself, so I organised to have support to go there, over and above a person from a women’s rights organisation that would help. I needed someone to hold my hand and keep me strong through what I knew would be one of the toughest battles I would ever have to face. Although I knew that it was possible that at its extreme the visit to the police station would end up with me being raped, I was still taken aback by the things that happened when I got to the one-stop rape crisis centre.

First of all, it was near impossible to find the place. I know that it is supposed to be confidential and hidden and all that, but there is no fun in running around a hospital and passing by ambulances and all sorts of ugly scenes while you have your own issues going through your head. Thank goodness I had someone with me.

11 When I did eventually get there, the staff was not pleased with the fact that I was going to have the district surgeon take evidence and then not lay a charge or give the name of the man I was “accusing” of raping me. The nurse on duty told me that things simply did not work like that, that there was a slot on the form for a name and I had to put it there. Luckily I was prepared for anything and I had some support, so I stood my ground and did not give a name or lay a charge. I waited for hours on end for the doctor to arrive though. I had come at a time between the doctors’ shifts and had to wait, wait and wait some more. I had my support person, the television and my phone to keep me company. Not that any of that could take my mind of what had happened and what I was waiting for and what would follow in days weeks and perhaps months to come.

All this time and I did not receive any counseling at all. Somehow I was meant to be dealing with all this on my own and keeping sane and being able to go on with my life.

The doctor did arrive eventually. I was not pleased that he was a man, but there I was and I had to do what I had come to do, so I took a deep breath and got on with it. He did his job but made sure to point out that he too was not pleased with the idea of collecting evidence before a charge had been laid because often women wasted the doctors’ time by not coming back to lay a charge, or, once laid, by coming back to drop the charge.

I assured him that once I had sorted out my complicated family situation I would be laying a charge, and so I left the Chris Hani Baragwanath rape crisis centre on Thursday night and by Friday afternoon I had sorted my family situation and was ready to lay the charge. You would think that things would have gotten easier, that since I was doing this for the second time it would be smooth. I went to a one-stop centre in town and there I hoped that at least the entry point would be counseling. But NO, I was told to put my emotions on hold, to hang in there, pause the effects of what had happened to me for until after I had given a statement, and there was a counselor available, as though in order to earn the counseling I had to give a statement first.

I had come to a one-stop centre and expected that I would get counseling as well as have my statement taken, but I had to do some fighting in order to convince the social worker that I was not going to be able to go to Hillbrow police station to give a statement. First of all, I had already been to one other place and, second of all, I just knew what kind of an environment that was and I simply could not take it and, furthermore, I did not think that I would be taken seriously there. So it was that the statement would be taken right there at the centre, there I was in a room behind closed doors with a man once again. I took a deep breath and told my story of how I had been violated just the other day. It took all of my energy to feel safe in the presence of this man and to recall all that had happened that I didn’t even notice that he was not writing anything down. I did not notice, that is, until he said “Alright then, now let’s start all over again and this time I will write it down.” I can’t even begin to express how that felt. Didn’t he know how much it took out of me to get to this chair in the first place and then to have to tell him the story? But then I had started this and I had to continue.

So yes, I once again took another deep breath and started all over again telling the story of how I had walked into the house of a man I thought of as a father and walked out confused by how it possibly could be that his penis had been in my vagina. How had he leaped and jumped, not just in his imagination, but physically also to have done this to me?

So there it was. I had given my statement, so perhaps now I had earned the counseling. Oh no, instead, I was subjected to a room with four strange men interrogating me about all sorts of things. This perhaps is unique to a “high profile” case, but still, it was yet another not one or two but four men interrogating me. Luckily for me, I had my dear support person there this time, so even though we felt outnumbered by the men at least I felt safer. 12 And so it was that I left the one stop centre that Friday night after hours of talking and interrogation. They were going to collect the evidence from Chris Hani and take it from there. I had done my part, I had reported the case and now had to wait and see. See if the docket would not get lost. See if the NPA would think there was enough evidence for them to prosecute. For at least another week of that waiting I still had not gotten any counseling.

Again, you may say that it was a “high profile case” and therefore special circumstance applied, but the fact is that there I was, having reported a rape and a week later I had still not been given counseling.

The Trial
The whole idea of my lead witness statement and all the things that went into it that had nothing to do with that night baffled me, but I had no way to question it, no one to consult and no choice but to trust that it was all in the hands of the prosecutor. I trusted that she wanted justice to be served as much as I did, and that because she had done this several times before, she knew what she was doing. So I went through preparation after preparation as though memorising lines for a play, but nothing could have prepared me for the day when a man in a robe was sitting on the high chair and I was asked to look at the man that had raped me and point him out. It was as though until that moment I had hoped that it was all a bad dream and it would go away. Not that the media had not on an almost daily basis made sure that I didn’t forget. And after all I was in so-called witness protection away from my normal life and friends, so I knew that there was nothing normal about it all.

There I was again taking that deep breath and for a fraction of a second I looked at him and pointed at him. Can you believe that he had the audacity to smile? What the hell was he smiling about? After that initial look though, I didn’t look at him at all for the entire five days. I didn’t even look at the defense lawyer who was to me like an extension of him. I wish that I could have been able to control my menstruation, that I had not been menstruating and in excruciating pain the entire time that I was being cross-examined. I wished that I had been angrier and less patient, had just given short answers and got it over and done with sooner than in five days. But there I was speaking calmly and making jokes, being polite and answering questions and correcting the interpreter every time he misrepresented in Zulu what I said in English. What the hell was I thinking, that I was the interpreter’s supervisor and having a pleasant conversation with the judge? Let alone the fact that I was still referring to that rapist as my “uncle” after all that had happened.

I was following instructions from the prosecutor based on her experience. I was answering questions on issues like my sexual history and previous rapes that had nothing to do with that one night, those few minutes that this was all about. I was answering questions about all sorts of things that had nothing to do with the fact that this man had raped me that night. I was answering questions that were meant to make me look like a liar, a fraud, a confused, insane person. I took it all in and wonder now who it was that was there doing all that answering for me. It was the glimpse and ever so often the touch of my friends and supporters in the courtroom that somehow kept me awake and alert and alive. I do not know what I would have done if I had been alone without the presence of people that I knew believed me and supported me and who knew that what was done to me was wrong and that justice needed to be done.

It took me all of four days to get to the point where I thought “TO HELL WITH THEM, I HAVE HAD ENOUGH, I CANT TAKE ANY MORE OF THIS.” I asked to be released early that Thursday; I couldn’t take anymore by 15h15. And unlike the first four days, when I had walked around that safe house with a radio to my shoulder listening as I sat in the toilet, this day I came back and closed myself in my room and tried to forget, make it all go away.

But anger is a beautiful thing, it doesn’t come when you expect it to sometimes, but when it does it doesn’t disappoint. There I was as angry as I could be on Friday morning and ready to face the judge, that ugly defense lawyer and the rapist that I refused to look at. I was not joking, 13 I was not making conversation, I was correcting the translator. I was just answering as factually and as briefly as possible what I was asked. I had not even bothered to sit down that day. It helped, of course, that by then I was at the end of my period. And there it was, by 10h30 there was nothing more that the rapist’s extension could ask me, I was DONE.

But this was by no means the end of it. There were weeks, months and even years to follow even after the verdict that it would not be over. And so what do I think I could have done differently or would have liked to have known or would advise someone else. It is going to take all the strength and willpower and all of you to go through with this. You have to be ready to take humiliation, abuse and ridicule from even the places and people where you expect support. But coupled with your own self you need at least one friend to hold your hand and provide you a shoulder to cry on. You need people behind you that know your rights and the legal system to make sure that the system does not mess you up, that you get all that you are entitled to including counseling and proper court preparation.

Unfortunately, as our chauvinist, patriarchal society stands now, the minute you tell someone that you have been raped, report it the police station and go to court, you are in a battle. So, in a sense, in the middle of all your grief, confusion and pain you need to remember to keep the evidence, think of people to support you, see a district surgeon as soon as possible, before 72 hours, and protect yourself from all the abuse that will come from all angles. It’s a battle that may leave you wondering if it was worth it, maybe even regretting your decision and wishing that you had just closed your eyes and pretended it had never happened. But you can never forget and it will never go away.

* Khwezi was raped in November 2005. The accused was acquitted a few months later. Through the trial, thousands of supporters of the accused threatened to rape and kill Khwezi. After the conclusion of the trial, Khwezi left the country because she knew she was not safe in South Africa. She has still not been able to return home.