When the ‘Sunday Rapist’, Johannes Steyn, was convicted on numerous counts of rape, among other charges this week, my hair stood in repugnance as a quiver of trepidation rushed through me. What prompts a man to ruin the lives of dozens of innocent girls? How can it ever be explained why a female in South Africa has more of a chance of being raped than learning how to read?
Louise de Waal and the thousands of other rape victims were ordinary people, living their lives when this heinous crime affected them like a bolt out of the blue. Why them? What did they do? What were they wearing?
Steyn admitted in a letter read out in court that Louise de Waal was not his initial target on the day she was murdered. His target had been girls between 12 and 14 years who were wearing a “short skirt and had nice legs”, the court heard. “He was distracted and therefore settled for de Waal.” No matter how many times I think about this, I never cease to be repulsed.
When a girl is raped, we often look at the outfit she was wearing and think she unwittingly invited it. I was of the simplistic notion that the victim of rape may have contributed to the raison d'être of the crime. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
When I decided to don the Muslim garb or hijaab, I wrapped my scarf over my hair and a sense of safety and security engulfed me. It was my ‘protection’ from unscrupulous looks and lewd comments.
Yes, it came with the challenges of being undermined and misrepresented - but that’s a discussion for another day. Nonetheless I walked around with a smug sense of superiority every time I saw a young girl in provocative clothes. “Is she inviting her own rape?” I would think condescendingly.
But I was flung into the dark, dangerous reality when one night I found myself alone and subject to the lewd glances of a man old enough to be my father. It was the stuff made in a horror movie; a lone female on a chilly night.
Waiting for my lift after returning to the city, I became the object of a man’s desire. I watched him stare at me incessantly. This was unnerving and heightened by the fact that I was alone and it was getting late.
I watched him as he retreated a few meters away to a group of men. He began an animated chat with the men in Zulu. The little I could decipher from my fanagalo Zulu caused a chill to run down my back. To the amusement of his friends he explained to them how much he ‘wants’ me.
A lump formed in my throat.
He walked back to enquire if I was married - apparently he would have liked it more if I wasn’t - but he really didn’t mind. I was stunned.
I had no idea why this man was talking to me. Why me? I mean, I wasn’t emanating sexuality like the hundreds of other women around me. I saw a woman with most of her legs exposed walk right pass me but that didn’t alter this man’s focus. Wasn’t she the ‘rightful target’? I thought naively. I did not entice this man - I was alone and protected.
With so many thoughts rushing through my mind, I managed to squeak out my intentions of calling the police. Unperturbed by my threat, he very crudely told me that he is a man and men have needs and oh, he doesn’t really care if I call the poisa (police).
All I could think of was, “Am I about to be raped?” It was the worst feeling of my life.
It may have been a prayer answered, serendipity, predestination or whatever one may call it, but at that precise moment, my lift had arrived and I climbed into the car not fully comprehending what could have possibly occurred to me.
It was only later when the full reality had sunk in - even though I was ‘protected’ and ‘innocent’ I was still prey. I do not have a grim story to tell, thankfully, but it was as much an eye opener as it was terrifying.
This is when I realised that rape does not have a cause but a long lasting effect. I did not give that man a reason to harass me, nor did any of the thousands of girls who are raped in South Africa.
I now see the reality. One may never be secure enough from this crime nor is there an antidote to the scourge. Regardless of what I wear, the places I frequent or the manner in which I conduct myself, a rapist sees right through it all.
Picture: File photo of a woman wearing a sarf from www.sxc.hu.