As a survivor of sexual assault, I’ve learned that trauma, healing, and the memories of violence don’t operate within neat paradigms or conform to any intuitive, linear structure. I was raped a few years ago by a person I’ll call Sami, a software developer now based in Seattle. But I’d somehow been able to find some semblance of closure a lot more straightforwardly than the single time I got molested, almost a year after my encounter with Sami. 

On February 25th 2023, I was at a bar in the east of Singapore, attending a now-defunct monthly social mixer with about 50 people, a mix of close friends, acquaintances and strangers. The purpose of the mixer was to meet new people. In fact, the organisers had explicitly stated that the mixer was not a platform for dating or hook-ups, and that in the past, they’d taken varying degrees of action against predatory or simply greasy behaviour. Still, it wasn’t uncommon to meet attendees who treated it like some sort of speed dating activity. 

There were also consent stickers on every attendee’s name tag, colour-coded to indicate how comfortable we were with physical contact (red for “don’t touch me”, orange for “ask me first”, and green for “touch is okay”)—only of the sort that would be appropriate in a public venue where the occasional young family would dine at. I had an orange sticker on that night, which meant anyone, especially strangers, who wanted a friendly hug, or to initiate any physical contact at all, would need to ask for my consent before doing so.

Midway through a conversation with a new friend, I was introduced to Saul, a white man in his early 50s with brilliant azure eyes. Saul was in an open relationship with Jocelyn, absent that night, but a regular fixture otherwise. (Saul and Jocelyn are also pseudonyms.) Unbeknownst to me at the time, the pair were always looking for (usually younger) women and men to have intimate encounters with. Saul’s piercing gaze left me feeling exposed. Perhaps I wasn’t used to such directness, and immediately felt awkward and self-conscious. I sought to fill in the awkward silence with small talk, asking him about his interests and what drew him to this social mixer. The more we spoke, the more I’d realised we were different in the ways that mattered—a white man prattling about accidentally discovering that he can perform the Japanese healing art of reiki is extremely off-putting to me. Yet, I saw no harm in small talk, so continued being agreeable and polite, as many women are socialised to be. 

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment the tone of the conversation shifted, but I remember everything happening at once. I felt a hand—his hand—on my buttocks, generously moving over the expanse of it. I went into a state of internal shock and disbelief. Sure, while some parts of our conversation could be interpreted as flirtatious, my (orange) consent sticker signalled that he should’ve asked first. I had, in no way at all, given any clear indication that he could grope my bottom, definitely not an appropriate thing to do in a public, family-friendly venue in any case.

A year later, in the sticky and gross situation of being groped against my will, and still in the vicinity of many acquaintances, the only thing I could think about was ending the interaction as quickly and politely as I could to avoid making a scene. I can’t remember anything else Saul said after he groped me. Until today, I can’t begin to explain why I gave him a quick peck on the cheek and lips before making a flimsy excuse about going back to find my friends. Ending the interaction on a good note was, in a way, my attempt to protect myself: by minimising any potential ostracism from the group, of which Saul and Jocelyn were influential members. 

That night, I texted the acquaintance who introduced us, with the intention of just raising this and resolving the matter privately without the organisers’ involvement. As Saul and Jocelyn were close friends with the organisers, I was unconvinced that he’d be held accountable. The acquaintance conceded that Saul had behaved inappropriately, and got him to apologise to me. Saul texted me to say he was sorry for “overstepping [my] boundaries”, but he found me “incredibly interesting and [he] was fascinated by [me]”. On top of seeking my forgiveness, he also found the need to add once more (for posterity?), that I was “beautiful and intelligent”. I share this not to flatter myself—I prefer wholesome affirmations from my loved ones about my person, rather than my looks. But it’s illuminating that, even in Saul’s “Razzie”-deserving performance of remorse, I was made to feel responsible for what he had done to me—I was the temptress that had seduced a Nice Guy into folly. Needless to say, his apology left me feeling more disgusted than ever, but I was ready to leave it at that because I felt that pursuing it would be an imprudent use of my time and mental energy.

Unfortunately, Saul and Jocelyn took it upon themselves to report this to the organisers without my knowledge or consent, seeking to control the narrative for selfish reasons. (Jocelyn, recall, wasn’t even there that night.) When the organiser approached me, I was caught off-guard. However, in good faith, I laid out the entire situation, outlining how Saul had broken the rules of the mixer and of general civility. 

After vague “investigations”, the organisers closed the case, deeming that nothing further needed to be done. Since then, I’ve learned through friends and other organisers how Saul, Jocelyn and their clique have spread a version of events that either denied the groping ever happened, or painted me as someone who merely experienced buyers’ remorse, insinuating that I welcomed Saul’s touch until I didn’t. One theory they spread is that one of my male friends, whom they don’t like, had “manipulated” me into believing that I had been molested. 

I’m not sure if Saul and Jocelyn believe I have agency (enough to have walked away if I was really that uncomfortable) or none at all (that a man had to trick or “mansplain” me into believing I had been molested).

While these are also sexual crimes, punishable by law to varying degrees of severity, it would be pointless to split hairs on the lasting effects of any type of sexual assault. I emerged from my night at Sami’s roomy apartment in Kallang with actual scars, and the sense that I’d barely escaped a fate far worse. I recall sardonically wishing I wouldn’t end up on an episode of Crimewatch as he smothered me with a pillow. 

“The most important job of the brain is to ensure our survival, even under the most miserable of conditions. Everything else is secondary,” writes Bessel Van Der Kolk in The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. When I was raped violently by Sami, the only way left for me to cope was to shut down and simply dissociate from that present moment, and through that, escape from my own body. 

While I was not in any physical danger when Saul groped me, I was relatively new to the community and eager to make friends, and I instinctively knew that causing a scene would have alienated me from these people. In retrospect, my concerns about the community present at the social mixer seemed trivial and counter to my own principles—why should I care for people who would invalidate my experience? Yet, Kolk explains that “our brains are built to help us function as members of a tribe.” Thus, I had defaulted to what had worked for me as a coping mechanism before: mentally dissociate from the touch, letting my brain run on autopilot to help me exit the situation congenially, like a good member of the tribe, and most importantly, safely, so I could remain a part of it.

While my mind surely bears the unconscious effects of the rape, I’ve somehow been sent into worse and more frequent fits of anger and depression by Saul’s groping, an act that couldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes and which took place in public with all my clothes on. More than a year after Saul touched me at the bar, I still flinch when my shoulders brush a man’s; I shrink myself, leaning away when I’m sitting next to a man spreading his legs on public transport; and I once even suppressed a wave of nausea, when, riding up on the escalator, I felt the pot belly of a relative accidentally brush my bottom for a brief second, which only happened because he was standing on the stair right behind mine. 

Perhaps one could theorise that I’ve repressed the trauma from my rape, but for me, the key difference between the rape and the molest wasn’t the level of physical danger, but the mental and emotional toll in the aftermath. They were both extremely damaging to my self-esteem and psyche. But with Saul’s unwanted groping, it was the subsequent victim-blaming and apathy I felt from our community that truly crushed my spirit.

In Sami’s case, I didn’t speak much about what happened, bogged down briefly by the shame of admitting that I’d been raped. It took a full year for me to even say the word “rape”. Even when I sought solace in humour, presenting the assault as a darkly funny stand-up comedy bit, everyone who listened was firmly on my side. We could all recognise he had done a terrible thing to me, and everyone expressed their support. Some of them gave me the strength to name the encounter for what it was.

With Saul’s unwanted groping, I was made to believe, by the very community I had befriended, that it didn’t happen, that I was making a mountain out of a molehill, and that at some point I should have gotten over it because he’d already (apparently) apologised. Saul and those with a stake in protecting him also characterised my version of accounts as “slander”. By being friendly or flirting with him, it appeared to some, despite my clearly indicated preferences, that I was apparently already welcoming that sort of touch. During these fleeting betrayals of my own politics in what was a difficult period of time for me, I wondered, could I really have consented to being molested?

Yet if there’s one thing I’m certain about, it’s that I did not consent to the groping that night and that no one “consents” to their own assault. But I do know that consent is a complex concept for many to parse.

There’s no single universal definition of consent, but many organisations, such as AWARE, take reference from the FRIES framework developed by Planned Parenthood, as outlined below:

To contextualise this: in Saul’s case, I’d already indicated that I wasn’t open to physical touch, and I was certainly not informed about Saul’s intentions to cop a feel. That my consent was neither sought nor given seems pretty evident to me, yet not everyone saw it the same way. It appears that even with the existence of such frameworks like FRIES, and an increased vigilance towards sexual assault—witness the proliferation of posters in MRT stations—victim blaming attitudes continue to persist. 

A 2021 study on online misogyny by AWARE and Quilt.AI found that misogynistic comments on X (formerly Twitter) were twice as likely to be “liked” and 4.5 times more likely to be reposted compared to non-misogynistic comments. Evidently, harmful narratives around sexual assault and sexual assault survivors are being normalised within online spaces. 

Many survivors have encountered harmful victim blaming attitudes not just from those around them, but from authorities as well, leading to re-traumatisation and tremendous distress, said Sugidha Nithiananthan, the director of advocacy, research and communications at AWARE, in an email interview. The thought of having to recount either of my assaults and having my narrative being questioned, no matter how confident I am in my truth, were enough for any fleeting thoughts about reporting them to disappear in an instant. 

“It’s 2024 (or insert whatever year it is)” is a quip often bandied around by folks in my generation as a call for people to embrace progressive ideas, though there’s less discussion on how people can think and act in progressive ways. It’s 2024, and we need to create a more compassionate, caring and supportive environment for all survivors of sexual assault. The question is, where do we begin? 

There was, and still is, little to no emphasis on safe sex and healthy relationships. As a result, said Nithiananthan, youths often end up turning to alternative sources of information, like the Internet, to learn about consent, relationships, and sex. The wide range of available online sources, coupled with varying individual levels of media literacy, can lead to wildly different interpretations of “consent”. 

“We hope that a comprehensive sexuality education curriculum can be implemented based on UNESCO’s technical guidelines on sexuality education,” said Nithiananthan from AWARE. These guidelines cover topics like gender norms and stereotypes, and healthy and unhealthy relationships, to be taught to children above five years old, in an age appropriate way.

Additionally, Nithiananthan said, “research has shown that CSE can delay the onset of sexual activity, reduce risky sexual behaviours, contribute to child sexual abuse prevention and lower rates of domestic and intimate partner violence, and help foster healthy relationships.” This addresses the misconception that implementing CSE will promote unhealthy sexual activity among underaged youths. In reality, it can allow youths to identify unhealthy relationships and dynamics in their own lives, and equip them with the necessary skills to support survivors.

The prospect of a nationwide roll out of CSE based on UNESCO’s technical guidelines remains elusive—the guidelines incorporate lessons on gender identity and sexuality that I can’t see the Ministry of Education implementing in the foreseeable future. Still, detailed guidelines and frameworks like FRIES can help us in discussing these issues within our own circles. 

As with most concepts, it’s much easier to discuss consent in theory than embody it in our day to day lives. Nithiananthan highlights the importance of communication, especially when we’re not very familiar with the other person. Body language can be a good way to tell if someone isn’t keen on engaging in something, but is often not a reliable indicator of consent. This could be attributed to an individual’s trauma response, in which they may freeze in shock, or even fawn in an attempt to smooth over the situation quickly.

She suggests asking people if they’re comfortable with something before going ahead with it, and providing alternatives that everyone is comfortable with. On top of that, familiarising ourselves with the ways people communicate their “yes” and “no”, and thanking them for communicating those boundaries, goes a long way in ensuring people feel safe around us. 

Consent educator Prescott Gaylord, who counts almost two decades of experience in conducting workshops on the topic, told me that frameworks like FRIES are a useful starting point for discussing consent and boundaries. On the flip side, they can inadvertently reinforce the belief that there is always an “active” partner who is seeking permission to do things, while the other remains “passive” in letting things be done to them—a binary that is usually steeped in heteronormative gender stereotypes (in this case, reinforcing the idea that men typically chase after something, while women submit or permit them to do it). It can also be challenging to find out how to translate conceptual frameworks into action.

He and other consent educators, like Joanna Chak of Mindful Movement, a studio specialising in aerial, pilates and mindfulness, adopt an approach that centres around three main concepts: open communication, rejection celebration and dynamic co-creation. Early this year, I attended a workshop run by Chak, in which some of these concepts were covered. In one activity, participants paired up, with each person proposing three different forms of saying hello, such as patting each other’s shoulders, or high fiving. For the sake of the activity, we had to reject one of our partner’s suggestions. Our partner was then supposed to thank us for expressing our boundaries, before we worked out a greeting that we’re both more comfortable with. This exercise is meant to instil the habit of honouring someone’s boundaries and navigating the discussion towards activities that both parties consent to and find meaning in. Being able to say “no” to something and have it celebrated instead of questioned, was empowering. 

Another well-received activity, said Gaylord, is one where participants rate, on a scale from -10 to +10, how much they want to engage in an activity that their partner suggests. This moves beyond the yes/no binary that comes with granting permission to someone, and allows room for nuance. For instance, I could be a -1 on watching a horror film, which is almost on the fence, but if I know my partner’s a +8, I might go along with it because doing things for and with my partner might be a value I hold dearly. Of course, all this is predicated on the assumption that there’s no coercion involved and that the relationship is healthy, or that both people are at least striving towards a healthy relationship where they can communicate openly as equals. 

These exercises also provide actionable steps we can take to improve the way we communicate with the people around us. After all, improving the way we understand consent leads to feelings of safety that doesn’t just benefit our romantic and sexual relationships, but those we have with our families and friends as well.

At some point in our conversation, he began expressing his disbelief and rage at being accused of rape by two different individuals. His tone was aggressive and insistent, and I felt immediately unsafe. My mind went blank and in a state of panic, I muttered an excuse before escaping the bar in tears. I’ve been shaken by this encounter since, as the acquaintance was, up till that point, a figure I trusted and cared for.

Unpacking one’s own experiences with sexual assault, is challenging at best, and re-traumatising at worst. It requires tremendous vulnerability and exposure, and a great deal of mental preparation for the victim blaming that sadly but certainly will come. You can also clock in many hours of therapy and internal work, only for a brief encounter to destabilise everything.

Yet, I recognise the importance of showing other survivors that they aren’t alone, of writing to educate and to heal wounds. I can only lay claim to my own experiences and no one else’s, but I do hope with this, we all learn how to be kind towards ourselves and the people around us, and better communicate and respect each other’s needs and boundaries.

Resources

Further Reading:
The Art of Receiving and Giving: The Wheel of Consent by Betty Martin and Robyn Dalzen
The Body Keeps The Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma by Bessel van der Kolk
AWARE’s Understanding of Consent

Support:
Alliance Counselling’s monthly support group for women who have experienced sexual violence 
AWARE Sexual Assault Care Centre
Care Corner Project StART’s Sexual Assault Recovery Programme 
KK Hospital’s Psychosocial Trauma Support Service (need to be referred within KKH). 
National Anti-Violence & Sexual Harassment Helpline (NAVH): 1800-777-0000

Note: This list is neither exhaustive, nor is it an endorsement of any organisation.

Cherry is a communications professional and freelance writer who has written on topics such as books, relationships and sustainability. In her free time, you can find her buried in books or enjoying her solo movie outings.

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