"I have been a victim of rape, and you can not imagine the difficulties that victims have in filing a complaint"

Previously, other whistle-blowing hashtags had stirred the web, with the same desire to make victims of sexual violence visible and allow them to express themselves. But the previous hashtags have not had such an impact, for a reason I think is very simple: the choice of the hashtag. Thus, for example #ActuElles, can give the feeling that it concerns "them", thus "the others"; or #AssociatedAssembly which seems to designate an isolated aggression.

#Metoo is inclusive, it immediately expresses the fact that we are not alone, there are others like us.
On the other hand, #MoiAlso is inclusive, it immediately expresses the fact that we are not alone, that there are others like us. It is the effect of solidarity that is at the origin of a spotlight as effective as it is unexpected on this reality, reflecting the need for the victims not to feel isolated, and revealing, by its magnitude, the urgency to act.

Many victims have broken this famous law of silence. Reading the first testimonies I trembled, with all my body, for hours. Will I say it, write it, too? Will I do it, name him, too? In my turn, I was going to do it. In my turn, I did it.

On October 16, I took a step that seemed impassable until then: I delivered the story of the first rape I was victim at the age of 13 years. A rape today prescribed. This past October 16, I finally dared to tell a piece of my story, my aggression, publicly. If I had talked about it before, it was quietly, silently, shamefully.

On October 16, I have taken a step that seemed impassable until then: I have delivered the story of the first rape victim I've been in 13 years.
Me too, I still, on October 20, I added the story of an assault by a physiotherapist practitioner of which I had been victim in 2011. A certain Marc C., which raged, at the time, with the thermal baths of Salins -les-Bains, in the Jura region.

The stream of stories poured continuously on the web has ceased every day, every hour, to emerge from the shadow of patriarchy. It has not, at this time, not yet completely stopped. Others are talking, again. Others are about to talk again. Not only here. There too. All over. The report is appalling and unequivocally reveals that the laws, intended to protect the victims, actually protect the guilty parties. The laws made by men benefit men.

If I was frightened by the magnitude of the phenomenon # metoo / # moiaussi, I felt deeply upset by this solidarity alliance that (me) exceeds as much as it (me) provides immense hope.

Driven by the strength of one, by forcibly driving another, it is in this impulse that I dared to tell me, after 15 years of silence.

Driven by the strength of one, by forcibly driving another, it is in this impulse that I dared to tell me, after 15 years of silence.
I am so thankful and so grateful to all these victims. Each. Those who spoke but also those who do not speak, because it takes terribly, strength and courage, to bring this silence and negotiate, daily, with all the moments. For a victim of sexual violence, the danger is everywhere. We are exhausted by this permanent state of alert. We never find rest.

Evil can happen at any time. He tames himself, evil, but never without pain. And evils do not know how to say.

Each victim is a survivor. A survivor who, potentially, will never be safe from a memory, anger, pain, presence, trauma she must endure and face. If each victim should not talk about it, in that it has no obligation to do so, it must be able to do if she feels the urge or need. Society has a duty to take concrete measures that finally and truly protect the victims.

The movement # metoo / # moiaussi will undoubtedly have consequences. They are slower to manifest, but they already emerge, here and there, by concrete acts: the victims help each other, organize themselves collectively and complain. The increase in the number of complaint filings, not as fast as the spreading of the hashtag, is already on the rise.

For a victim of sexual violence, the danger is everywhere. We are exhausted by this permanent state of alert. We never find rest.
It is therefore in this same impetus that, on November 6, I made the decision to denounce soon the second rape of which I was victim. A rape that is not yet prescribed and which I can not yet share the story, because shame and fear are emotions that we get rid of with difficulty. This second rape earned me an abortion. A rape that I am going to denounce.

Because I want justice done. Because we say that it is necessary and that I must do it so that justice is done. Otherwise, justice will not be done. Otherwise, everything I say is worthless, it seems. Because men, for the most part, do not imagine the difficulties that victims have to file a complaint.

I will do it. Speak now, as much as I've killed myself before. But questions flow, occupy my thoughts when they do not obsess me. How long will it take to file a complaint? Will I remember everything? of each gesture? of each sound? of every word? of each smell? Will I have enough evidence? Will they believe me? And how long will the wait, before it is summoned? Will he acknowledge the facts? Deny them? Will I meet him? Which street to borrow? Which street to avoid? How long can all this last? How long will all this last? Am I the only one? Are there other victims? How many years will I invest in it?

Men, for the most part, do not imagine the difficulties that victims have in filing a complaint.
And, in the end, will I be recognized as a victim? I'm not even sure ... All for what? To hope that justice is done.

I need this recognition. Thousands and thousands of us need recognition of victim status, and the culprits are finally apprehended. The current situation can not continue as well. Equality between women and men has been enshrined in the Constitution of the Swiss Confederation since 1981, but inequalities are still prevalent and they derive, among other things, from undisclosed sexual violence. Enough!

Enough, wear them silently,

Secretly, shamefully!

Enough!

They do not belong to me. They do not belong to us.

This shame does not belong to us. This weight does not belong to us. These crimes do not belong to us. For too long, we have dealt with this violence alone. Today, around the world, our stories have echoed an urgency. The time has come to politicize our demands, collectively, in solidarity.

Society must take this violence on its own. I give it back to you, this violence. I return to you what does not belong to me. I deliver here the story of the very first rape of which I was victim. If there were unfortunately other aggressions, the most violent one was this one. I was 13 years old. It was my first time.

#Me too. SUMMER 2002

He asked me if I was a virgin.

• You're a virgin?

• Yes.

I answered yes. Did he ask me before or after joining me in the bathroom? I do not remember anymore. In any case, he had asked for it the day before and the day before.

That day, I remember peeing, flushing the toilet. I remember getting dressed and getting out of the toilet. He was there. I can see him in front of me, at the exit of the toilets, in that little dark room which served as a depot, where the merchandise of the grocery store was stored in which he was about to rape me.

The scene takes place inside a tobacco shop. To the left of the entrance, along the wall where are all the packets of tobacco, is located the counter. A small door behind the counter overlooks a small room. Small. I do not know how small. But small. In the room, a bed, more precisely a mezzanine. I do not remember if it was a mattress a place or a place and a half. I remember lying there the day before. When I was prey, before becoming a victim. His victim.

He was there. He kissed me. He started to touch me. Hips. Buttocks. I suggested that we go back there. There it was the public part.

• Come on we go there.

He kept kissing me and told me he just wanted to talk to me.

• I just want to talk to you.

• You can talk to me there.

I remember very well telling him that he could talk to me there, in the public part. I remember it perfectly.

He went on to tell me that he just wanted to kiss me.

• I just want to kiss you.

• You can kiss me there.

I repeated to him that he could kiss me there, in the public part. He closed the door. He locked it. Twice locked. Then began to undress.

• No.

I said no. I remember very well saying no. He told me it was okay.

• It will be fine...

He took a condom out of his blue banana. Was it a dark blue or light blue banana? It was blue, anyway. He took out a condom. Everything was calculated and planned ...

"Sit down," "Do you like that?", "Turn around," "Are you kidding?" Then he said to me "You suck me". Or "suck me". I do not know if he said one or the other. I remember he used the verb "suck". I said no". He insisted.

• No. I do not want.

• Come on ...

• No.

I almost whispered this last "no". I remember. I still do not know why he finally forced me to take his penis in my mouth. I never knew why. But I always wondered why. Why did he hear that no, almost whispered in fear, and not the precedents?

• You're a liar! Do you like dick huh?

• What?

• You're not a virgin, there's no blood! Have you ever fucked ...?! You're a liar. Why you lied to me?

• But ... I did not lie.

We went out of the bathroom to the public part, where his cousin was holding the cash register and, no doubt, was watching no one go into the depot. Her cousin said of me that I was a good girl, that I was not like the others. But after leaving the toilet, he told me how disappointed he was, how disappointed I was.

• I thought you were a good girl. Pfff, you're like the others, you disappoint me, you know.

My legs were shaking. I left. I went home and collapsed. I remember that my legs trembled. Long time. Days.

I was raped in the bathroom of a grocery store.

I was 13 years old, it was my first time.

His name is Abdullah.