There was some general discussion about the way rape is reported in the media, and the words that are chosen to describe the victim, her behaviour, and her clothing choices. I caused another awkward moment by asking why we don’t call it “survivor blaming” instead of “victim blaming.”

“If there are no victims any more, how can we speak meaningfully about victim blaming? We should call it survivor blaming for the sake of consistency. But it doesn’t have quite the same ring, does it? For the sake of our agenda, we need to decide when to cast women as heroes and when to cast them as victims.”

This led to a discussion about how to be more strategic in our activism without denying the subjectivity of lived experience. The subtext was that my words were seriously off-message, but that I was allowed to say them because I had earned my stripes in the trenches of sexual violence.

We came to the moment the audience had been waiting for. Each panellist was invited to describe what had happened to her in her own words. “Reclaiming our stories in a safe, non-judgemental space” was how it was billed. Am I wrong to suspect the audience of voyeurism? This was the most popular session of the entire conference. The venue was bursting with delegates who had come to watch us “reclaim our stories.” No other session had attracted such numbers.

There were at least as many men present as women, and possibly more. The other sessions had been overwhelmingly attended by women. This didn’t feel like a safe space at all, but what did I know?

We kicked off with the doctor who came right out and said she had never been raped. She was attending the colloquium for two reasons—to share her expertise as one who had treated, patched up, and counselled any number of rape survivors, and to learn more about the survivor’s point of view with the intention of improving the service she offered. Her words were met with quiet respect, even from me. This was a woman who had seen horrors we couldn’t contemplate. She had treated babies and toddlers. Her emotions were assaulted every day, and she kept going back for more.

The academic writer had a drearily familiar story. She was over fifty. Gravity had grabbed spitefully at the skin on her face. The pouches under her eyes drooped and the skin of her jawline hung in soft folds. Only her hair defied middle age with its mahogany resilience.

While she was at university, a boy had walked her home after a party. They were deep in conversation about the respective methodologies they had chosen for their Psychology Honours dissertations. He came in for coffee so they could continue their conversation. Her housemates were out, and they were alone in the flat.