I’ve never considered myself a runner, but I run. I got into
running in high school when friends on the cross-country team recruited me just
to have enough girls to make a full team (you needed 5). It wasn’t really a
priority for me, but I trained with them during summers and ran in meets that
didn’t interfere with soccer games. I remember clearly the first time I ran
more than three miles. It seemed like such a big accomplishment at the time.
I started to run on my own after that. I ran to stay fit. I
ran through teenage angst. I ran through heartbreaks. I ran to try to get off those
freshmen 15.
Now I run mostly
because there isn’t a whole lot else I can do. Because I live on a dirt road
along a beautiful coastline. Because it sets an example for others to be
physically active. Because it clears my head.
In my area, I am the white girl who runs. I am sure many
other PCVs have similar labels based on activities they do that local people do
not do. I’ve been asked if I am a soldier. No,
I just want to be healthy is apparently not an acceptable response. But
they get it, kind of. The boys all train for rugby matches during different
times of the year. So each day as I head down to the road, I am greeted by
friendly questions asking if I am going training. And each day I say yes.
Sometimes this has been true -- that I have been training,
that is. I trained and ran my first half-marathon in New Zealand in early 2012.
I began training for a full marathon early this year, because, Hey, why not? I was not however,
successful in achieving this goal.
There is always risk running on your own. Anywhere. As an
adolescent Dad would tell me horror stories of girls who would go jogging and
all that were later found were their running shoes. I never wanted to be one of
those girls. But I also didn’t want fear to stop me from enjoying life. You
have to calculate your risks in everything, I suppose.
I feel safe running in my area. Everyone knows me, and
people along the road are looking after me. If I didn’t come back, there would
be a search party. I don’t run at night but early evening when there is
reasonable traffic. Now, Solo usually runs with me thanks to the pair of old running
shoes, or “canvas”, that Sarah left when she came to visit.
I don’t really feel safe running in town, and especially
Suva. There are so many people, not to mention they don’t know me, and the city
just plain makes me nervous because of how busy it is. However, in May when I
was about half way into my training schedule for the marathon, I had to take a
trip to Suva and couldn’t really afford to lose training time because of it. I
headed out on a Sunday morning for a 13 mile run. I figured this would be the
best time to run because most people would be in church. It was a little after
8am when I started. I felt a little awkward because in the village it is tabu for me to run on Sundays, but I
wasn’t in the village. I also couldn’t get anyone to go with me because I guess
13 miles can be a bit much.
Somewhere around mile 10 a man jumped me from behind and
tackled me off the side of the road. In the first second I thought it was
someone coming up behind me like they often do in the village and hugging me. Who is this I know in Suva? In the
second moment my instincts kicked in, my heartbeat skipped; there was a
horrible pit in my stomach. This is a bad
person.
I was rounding a bend
in the road where houses were just out of view. We did not roll down the hill,
which was probably his plan. He pulled at my clothes, he kissed at my neck and
face, his hands were in my shorts. I was screaming, kicking, and punching. I
hit his face hard. Somehow my finger got into his mouth and he bit down, hard.
I kept screaming and writhing. The houses
are just out of site. Oh please someone hear me! Why can’t I yell like a
cheerleader? He does not have a weapon. Keep fighting! You aren’t going to die. This is what I remember thinking.
Miraculously, I heard cars coming! Three cars drove towards
us and he got up and ran. I got up too. I was waving my arms at the cars and
pointing at the man running away. He was barefoot. He was wearing baggy jean
shorts, or three-quarters as they call them here. He had a blue baseball cap in
his hand. He wasn’t much taller than me.
The cars drove past. I was so angry. I was so scared. I was
bawling. I was alone.
The cars had turned up the road in the direction he ran, and
so he turned and ran back down the other way, past the intersection where I was
walking towards. I screamed at the top of my lungs, FUCK YOU! He turned and looked, surprised, but kept on running. I
could hear the futileness of my scream as it echoed off nothing and met no
other ears.
I felt so helpless. I didn’t know what to do. It all
happened so fast and then it was over. Adrenaline pumped through my veins. I am okay. I am lucky.
One of the vehicles turned around and stopped for me. It was
a kind, old Indo-Fijian man in a nice SUV. He asked if I was okay, where I was
staying. He gave me a ride back to the PCV’s house where I was staying. I
should have got his info, he was a witness. But I wasn’t thinking. You shouldn’t run by yourself, he said. I know, I know.
Carol was so sweet in helping me call the PC staff. I called
our Safety and Security Officer, who immediately called the PC doctor, who came
right over even though she was in church. He also called our Country Director
who arranged to meet us at the office right away. I waited to shower until the
doc had a look over. Besides some scrapes from the fall, my bitten finger was
the only physical worry. Mentally, I was numb. I didn’t know what I was
supposed to feel. I laughed as I told the S&S officer how I punched the man
in the face, but it was a strange foreign laugh. I didn’t feel like I should be
upset. I hadn’t actually gotten raped. Other women have endured much worse. A
kind of forced stoicism came over me. Be
strong, I told myself. And there were no more tears.
Peace Corps treated the issue efficiently and gently. It was
my call whether or not to take the matter to the police. It was my call if I
wanted to take some leave. There would be counseling available if I wanted it. What I wanted were hugs.
We went to the police. More of a matter of principle than me
expecting any sort of justice to ever come of it. As far as taking leave, it
happened that the very next day my two best girlfriends were landing in Nadi
and we were to be briskly whisked off on a boat to paradise.
Paradise seemed very far away as I sat in the police station
and filled out a police report, re-telling the story for the 6th
time while a blood-crusted drunkard caused a ruckus in the other room. I wish the policewoman and my Security
Officer would just fricking speak in English to me! It was not the time to
be pushing my language skills!
There was not much more we could do at that point. The Fiji
police have vehicles few and far between. (And I just realized as I write this
that they do not carry weapons.) There would be no hunt. The only chance of
capture would be if he were turned in for a similar offense. Then I could be
called in to try and identify him.
My girlfriends were boarding a plane in LA and I knew that
the best antidote to the feelings of hurt and hatred would be the love they
were bringing. That and a week spent half naked basking in the sun, a world
away from the real Fiji, with something rummy in my tummy.
It was a grand time out at Octopus Resort in the Yasawas.
Highly recommended!
But after a week of this…
… it was back to reality. And reality kind of bit… like a
lot. I am so thankful my girls were here, even if I wasn’t ready to open up and
talk about anything. There were lots of held back tears. I had to revisit the
scene of crime, for lack of better words, twice on the day we went back in
Suva. PC and I had to go pick up the lady constable in charge of the new Sexual
Assault Unit because she had no transport. I had to fill out yet another
report, telling the story over again. Get
me back to Bua, snap!
It was so fun having the girls in the village. That deserves
an entire post. I finally broke down in Solo’s arms. We cried together as he
held me on my kitchen floor, the girls sleeping in the other rooms. There was
something about having man with strong arms whose only intention was to love me
and not hurt me, who held me as I cried, who promised to be my protector, that
made me feel better than even my best girlfriend’s could.
I don’t hate anyone, but I hate you
Your nameless face who tried to hurt me
I hate you because you didn’t succeed
And yet I’m left in fear
Your ghost runs behind me
I feel you following me around each bend
Over and over you pounce
You and the multiplicity of your rotten self
On innocent souls all over the world
For me it is just fear
For many a worse reality
Fuck you. Fuck your diseased spirit.
Sometimes you overtake me
But in the end I win.
We win.
Those who keep on running.
It took me a while to be ready, but I wanted to share this
story because I know that there are many others, and many Peace Corps
Volunteers, who have faced similar, and much worse, scenarios. I wanted to
share this story because I want to banish the fear that man left with me. I
want to forgive him.
Love conquers hate.
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