I Was Sexually Assaulted on the Train During Rush Hour
Why didn’t I feel better after my perpetrator was jailed?
Content Warning: This article contains descriptions of sexual violence and can be triggering for some. If you have experienced sexual violence and are in need of crisis support, please call the RAINN Sexual Assault Hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE (4673).
I can still remember the day I was sexually assaulted like it was yesterday. I was waiting for the tube on my way to work when I noticed an olive-skinned guy around my age looking at me. Another tube sped away from the platform — too packed for either of us to have boarded — and I gave him an exasperated smile. By the time the ninth tube arrived, I was late for work, and I decided to squeeze myself onto the tube, rolled-up yoga mat and all.
During rush hour on the London underground, finding yourself nestled under an armpit, or chest to chest with a stranger, is rather routine. And that day was no different. I saw the man from the platform had also made it on to the tube, but didn’t think anything of it until an hour later when I found myself making a statement to the police.
It was a matter of minutes later, we were pulling into Old Street when I felt what I can only describe as a warm sensation on my bum. I was confused at first. I wondered if someone had some hot straighteners in their bag, or if someone had accidentally flicked a lighter on. It was only as I stepped off the tube that I realized that whatever I could feel on my bum was not only warm, but wet too. And don’t ask me how, but I instantly knew what had happened: to my horror, someone had just ejaculated on me on the tube.
I remember standing on the escalator, convinced that I had a smear of white all over the back of my jeans, too scared to walk in case whoever had done it was behind me. My plan was to head straight into the toilets at work where I could assess the situation and determine if I was going completely mad, or if someone had in fact jerked off on me in broad daylight.
When I saw a female tube attendant by the barriers however, I went over to her and asked if she could tell me if I had something on the back of my trousers. When she said yes, there was something white and asked if I had sat in something, I burst into tears as I explained what I thought had happened. She called the police, led me into the staff toilets so that I could change into my yoga pants, and held my hand as I gave my statement to two officers..
In the aftermath of what happened, people I thought were confidants kept asking me, “but didn’t you feel anything?” That was closely followed by, “what were you wearing?” and then “how did nobody see?” Finally, and perhaps most shocking of all, several people voiced their surprise that I had reported it to the police, offering a thinly veiled “hats off to you” over what they deemed a brave, if surprising act of courage.
The investigation seemed to drag on. I had to make more statements. My hair and saliva were tested to differentiate it from that of the perpetrator. My case officer was changed halfway through the proceedings and, to complicate the matter, I moved to Sydney a couple of months after the assault took place.
When I made my statements, I had mentioned the olive-skinned guy, but I reiterated to the police that I had no idea who had done it. It turned out to be him, after all. I was told that he was known to police, but he had never been arrested or charged. He pleaded not guilty, and that meant the case would go to court, with even more complications and unknowns.
Initially, law enforcement indicated that I might have to fly back to London to give evidence. In the end, the DNA, along with my victim statement and the testimony of the tube worker, was evidence enough. A little over six months after it happened, he was sentenced to eight months in jail; I was told he might get out after four with good behavior.
While I should have felt instant relief, instead I felt a mix of emotions. His not guilty plea weighed on my shoulders. I wondered if it had maybe been an accident. Did he take my exasperated smile as a flirtatious grin? Or could my jeans have been a bit too tight, a bit too figure hugging? I also wondered about him — if he had a family, or if being a registered sex offender would prevent him from ever working again.
Such feelings, I suppose, are unsurprising in a way, and evidence of the patriarchal society in which so many of us have learned to bear the brunt of men, their egos, and their wants and desires. Because while my perpetrator may have been jailed for eight months, eight years on and the assault is still never far from my mind.
But in the wake of the Me Too movement, in a time where victim blaming is tolerated less, where consent is talked about more, where up-skirting is now illegal, and harassment is called out for what it is, I have hope for a better world. Maybe for future generations, sexual assaults of any kind could be the thing of a long-gone past.
