Living with PTSD is manageable: a few thoughts

Purple, peace, light

I don’t know how long I have had post-traumatic stress disorder, but living with PTSD is manageable. I first started addressing the main symptom of numbing the emotional pain in 1990. This means that this August I will have been actively trying to get beyond PTSD for thirty years. It wasn’t until some years after 1990 that I was officially diagnosed. Although I wasn’t numbing my pain, I still lived with other symptoms.

These other symptoms included anxiety, depression, negative self-talk or obsessive worrying. I was easily startled (especially if awoken), frequently feeling emotionally overwhelmed whether in crowds, at home, or in groups. I also had difficulty making even small decisions (subconsciously fearing unknown consequences), difficulty dealing with anyone who was or could be angry with me, difficulty speaking out for fear of retribution. Furthermore, for many years hiding myself from movies, news media, or books that might include information or scenes on rapes.

I have actively faced my issues with intense group therapy, workshops, individual counseling, EMDR counseling, and various support groups. Because of this I grew incredibly fast and past many obstacles. I was able to teach my children at a young age to name and talk about their emotions, and to learn the importance of self-care. Despite my diagnosis, I was still able to raise two children with high self-esteem. I finished my Ph.D. on an extremely difficult topic (sexual violence and war). I ran a part-time business for twenty years and homeschooled my kids for about six. I also wrote essays, encyclopedia articles, and started a memoir about one period in my life (I still hope to finish this). I was in a swing dance performance group, later took tap dance lessons, and then more recently started playing taiko.

* * * * *

Because of societal and self-imposed pressure, however, I used to hide my symptoms. I put on a brave face to the outside world. Often, I wasn’t fully honest and pretended I was “normal” when I had to explain something. I couldn’t admit that I had this “thing,” this “issue,” this “problem,” that makes whatever the event or issue was too hard for me to fathom doing.

I also tried as hard as I could to hide my anxiety or sadness to my kids. Because children can sense so much, I put a conscious effort into smiling and being positive. I pretended to be brave and without fears of simple societal contact. I had always shared smaller feelings, because I wanted them to see one parent who could express a range of emotions naturally. As they kids grew, I began to share more of the feelings I was ashamed of. I came out to my daughter as a rape survivor when she was about sixteen, and I have yet to share much with my son.

As a child, I was told to “pick myself up by the boot straps” and to stop “feeling sorry for myself.” These are positive messages when given in moderation, of course. In excess, however, this led me to swallow my natural emotions and to not learn how to express my feelings verbally in a healthy way. Despite all my journaling about feelings, I still grew up believing no one cared if I was sad or scared. I also thought I was supposed to be stronger and I didn’t want to feel sorry for myself.

* * * * *

I hid all my assaults from my parents and friends, and once I stopped numbing my pain, I still only told certain people who were safe to me. I knew intellectually that I should not feel ashamed of anything that had happened to me. But I did not know how to voice it. I was deeply ashamed. I taught my children that people do and will care about their feelings. With the right people, it is safe and healthy to express one’s sadness, disappointment, frustration, etc. It is also good to learn to move on after facing a setback. 

According to the National Center for PTSD, about half of all women will experience a traumatic event in their lives, and many of these women will subsequently live with PTSD. Traumatic events are also common among men and transgender people. Those who develop PTSD from a traumatic event can experience debilitating symptoms, while for others, the symptoms are less severe. Some people never experience PTSD from a traumatic event. This could be because they have the emotional tools to deal with what happened, but it also could be something about how their brain is wired – something even the experts cannot yet explain.

* * * * *

I have complex PTSD in the sense that it wasn’t just one event. The childhood lack of emotional support and physical abandonment (in the sense of being left alone, even for multiple days as I entered middle school) prevented me from learning basic coping skills. Plus, I abused alcohol since before before I was a teenager. This led me to not being able to cope with traumatic situations later, including sexual harassment in middle school, high school, and workplaces, constant bullying in middle and high school, and multiple rapes.

You may think that I had lousy parents, but I believe they did the best that they could with the tools they had while I was a young child. Despite not providing me with certain tools required for emotional, physical, and spiritual health, I learned these tools quickly in my twenties. It was like I took an intense course to overall well-being! And by my thirties I was able to provide my children with these tools only because my parents gifted me a sense of drive and a will to survive.

In 1990, I first started realizing all that I had been through. I saw how my childhood, despite not being as bad as many stories I heard, still was not ideal. Digging in, I fought to stay afloat, get past my rapes and understand my raw and strong emotions. I reached out to others, used my phone list, and shared my feelings over and over again in safe supportive settings. Because of a heart condition, I believe that I would be dead if it were not for this determination to not only survive. And I didn’t only survive: I thrived and gave back to the world in a kinder and gentler way than some of what I have experienced.

* * * * *

Recently I had the experience that someone seemed to think I was a project they could fix. This was because they had witnessed some of my raw emotion and knew I had trauma in my life. But living with PTSD does not mean someone needs fixing, especially someone who has actively been working on growing past their obstacles for so many years.

I think we are all works in progress, and for some reason some people do have extra obstacles to overcome. Early on in my recovery I started to see myself not just as a survivor, but as a thriver. I have been fortunate to have grown up without too much economic distress and much travel and education. This has helped my ability to thrive. I could fight back for my sanity and for justice in ways that those less fortunate than I cannot.

* * * * *

Still, though, thirty years into this journey, I see how my trauma and the PTSD directed many of my life decisions. I could have become a professor. But having researched war and rape for seven years, I was traumatized and needed a break. Many, I know, would have forged on, but I had fear and felt overwhelmed. I was exhausted. Plus, I had already faced so much in my recovery. I felt a need to step away and stop “kissing ass” to the academic establishment.

Additionally, I had a young child. Had I become a professor, I would have had to leave her for someone else to raise. But I couldn’t do this. I felt a grave ownership and will to make sure she would not be raped at sixteen, not have her first drink at nine, or have regular blackouts by the age of thirteen. My parents were good people, but somehow those are a few of the milestones of my childhood. I just couldn’t let something like that happen to my daughter. 

* * * * *

My last dramatic amount of growth came because I needed to find something more for myself. My kids were older, which allowed me more time. I found taiko, which has helped me shed more grief in three years than I could ever have imagined when I picked up my first pair of bachi and hit a drum. The #metoo also movement inspired me to speak out. I hoped that my story could help others with their grief and sorrow. 

This is all to say that while I have had many symptoms of PTSD, I still have been able to push past them – sometimes better than other times – and give back to the world in a variety of ways. I know some of my trauma will always be a part of me. Still, this will not prevent me from continuing to get stronger and to help others who have similar struggles. I, like many of you, am a force with which to be reckoned! 😀

http://www.victimsheroessurvivors.info/VictimsHeroesSurvivors.pdf

Sexual Violence in War, Police Custody, Civilian Life

Victims, Heroes, Survivors: Sexual Violence on the Eastern Front During World War II. PhD dissertation.

Purple, peace, light. Living with PTSD really is manageable. But we need to accept and seek help to help in our healing.
Living with PTSD is manageable.

“My” Rapes: Taking Issue with a Feminist Theory about Rape

To raise awareness of sexual violence

Just a short note today to take issue with a new-fangled feminist theory about which pronoun to use describing one’s own rape. An academic feminist who graciously read one of my essays turned my pain into an academic exercise and took issue with my use of the pronoun “my” to describe my rapes. This theorist explained that “my” insinuates that I blame myself for my rapes, and that the possessive pronoun make the rapes the my possession. She also wrote that she would not “want to identify that closely or take possession of being raped.” 

I wholeheartedly disagree with all three of these points. To shy away from using the grammatical pronoun “my” falsely separates oneself from one’s own trauma. This slows down one’s own and the world’s healing process. To me, not owning one’s trauma is at the heart of many problems in this world. By facing one’s own pain one can more easily empathize with the experiences of others. To move forward in a progressive, healing, and inclusive manner, we each need to face our own trauma. Then we can teach the next generation to be strong and move forward with insight and wisdom. Feminist theory about rape should be grounded in reality.

To insinuate that using “my” means the survivor somehow blames themselves for the assault is illogical. Survivors often blame themselves, just as society blames rape victims, but this is not because they use the pronoun “my.” The issue of (falsely) blaming oneself for one’s rapes is separate from what pronoun a survivor uses to describe their rape. Such theoretical nonsense will not make our world, feminists, or trauma survivors stronger.

It also will not help our children or young college students heal. If survivors divorce themselves from their own trauma at the instruction of their teacher or parent they may be stronger temporarily, but the wound will fester under the facade of strength or happiness. Trauma is in one’s body at a cellular, emotional, and even some would say a spiritual level. To disassociate oneself from it on an intellectual level can only be a temporary fix. I believe one can heal the fastest by facing one’s pain, not by running from it.

Additionally, a survivor of rape or other trauma uses the pronoun “my” simply because the rape is their experience. Just as an incarceration, a beating, or a birthday party is one’s experience, so is a rape. It is the only logical pronoun to use. We say, “I was robbed,” or “We were broken into,” or “I was raped.” Similarly, we say, “she or he raped me.” The rape belongs to both the rapist and the victim. This is tragic, but but it’s reality. Trying to distance oneself by not owning or possessing the crime is pushing both sides away from healing, truth, and wisdom. We might not want to own our assaults, but they are our experiences, so they are “ours.”

Maybe we do not want to take possession of our deep pain, but to pretend it isn’t our own will not promote healing. “Identifying closely” with one’s rape is how we learn to empathize with other survivors and even perpetrators. This way we can closely understand the pain inflicted and how that pain mingles with other experiences. Many perpetrators also feel pain and have had trauma in their lives. As a society we need to understand all different kinds of pain to be able to not raise more perpetrators. If we do not claim and understand our own pain or if we spend time taking issue with the usage of the pronoun my to describe one’s own rapes, we postpone our own healing and even the healing of those around us and those we influence.

Divorcing oneself from one’s own trauma, which is felt on so many levels, is exactly how to prevent people from understanding and empathizing with one another. I am not a psychologist. But in addition to years of reading about trauma and survivors, I have heard hundreds of women in person speak about their own trauma. The ones who make progress in healing are the ones who face their pain. They own it and speak about it. By doing this, they move forward and grow stronger, all the while lessening the control their trauma has over them. This way, they bring up and teach their children or students to be morally courageous. They teach them to look inward first to see the source of one’s emotions.

I have referred to my rapes as “my rapes” for twenty-nine years. They happened to me. I own them, and I experienced them. They exist in my brain and my body, and they have affected my life in countless ways. In day-to-day life, in healing workshops, and in therapy I have shaken, screamed, and physically felt my shame, rage, and fear on a cellular level. That is not theory. That is real. No feminist theory about rape can change these basic facts.

Being in touch with what one’s body and psyche has experienced by embracing one’s own trauma is the key to how we can have empathy for others. It is how we as a society can move forward in a progressive and healing manner. We do not need fancy, nonsensical feminist theory to heal. I believe that because I faced my pain head on, I moved from being a victim, to a survivor, and then to a thriver. My rapes will always be a part of me. And in various odd or miscellaneous ways may affect me to the day I die. But by embracing my pain, I have experienced many levels of healing. By doing this, I have been able to teach children and adults around me that facing, owning, and naming one’s own feelings is the easiest way to understand much of the trauma in the world today.

 

http://www.victimsheroessurvivors.info/VictimsHeroesSurvivors.pdf

Sexual Violence in War, Police Custody, Civilian Life

Victims, Heroes, Survivors: Sexual Violence on the Eastern Front During World War II. PhD dissertation.

Feminist theory about rape often only helps survivors distance themselves from their internal pain.

The Forgotten History of Sexual Crimes in World War II

To raise awareness of sexual violence

German military brothel during World War IIInterview by Luka Pejić about sexual crimes in WWII, civilian’s coping methods, and the social consequences after the war.

Wendy Jo Gertjejanssen is an American historian from Minnesota who received her PhD in 2004 with the dissertation “Victims, Heroes, Survivors: Sexual Violence on the Eastern Front during World War II.” In doing this research, she worked with material available in archives in the US, Germany, Latvia, and Estonia. In addition, for the purposes of her dissertation, she spoke with more than thirty women and men from the territory of Ukraine whose life experiences were an important source for a fuller understanding of the problems of sex crimes during the war events in the east of the European continent in the 1940s. Although, after completing the nearly 400-page text, she temporarily gave up historiography, because of the trauma she had experienced from going deeper into the topic of her own research. In the last few years she has returned to academic work, the focus of which is gender and social history.

You wrote that the Germans developed an “extensive system of sexual slavery” during World War II. What exactly do you mean by that?

Germans, Soviets and others perpetrated sexual crimes in WWII against people of all nationalities, including Jews, Africans, Slavs, etc. The German racial laws were forgotten when it came to sex crimes.
Author of “Victims, Heroes, Survivors: Sexual Violence on the Eastern Front During World War II,” 2004.

The German leadership recognized the dangers of venereal diseases to their armed forces and the reality that men, married or single, were having sexual intercourse with local women they met on the street, in local brothels, or elsewhere. Without antibiotics to fight syphilis and gonorrhea, soldiers became ill and eventually were unable to serve because of their unsafe sexual practices. To save the health of their soldiers, the Germans established brothels in concentration camps and across the areas they fought and occupied. Sanitation officers required a strict cleansing routine before sexual intercourse for the soldiers. The workers also were required to be clean, and doctors routinely checked them for disease. Females who engaged in prostitution during the war were starving or had limited options/chances for survival. Germans also forced girls and women at gunpoint to work in brothels where they could serve more than thirty men a day. This is sexual slavery.

Could you elaborate how the spread of prostitution in Eastern Europe during the war was economically conditioned? What were the consequences of this phenomenon?

During the war people had a hard time finding food, medical services, and other necessities. The Germans viewed Slavic people as Untermenschen and planned to starve them and eventually inhabit their territories in the east. Not only were people starving because of typical war conditions, the Germans purposely confiscated any food they could find. With the arrival of sex-craved soldiers who had essential food items, as well as chocolate and liquor, prostitution spread.

The consequences were many. The German army began arresting women and forcing them to undergo medical examinations to see if they were infected with venereal diseases. Venereal diseases spread through both the local populations and the German forces. This in turn led to Himmler insisting on establishing brothels, even if the females were Untermenschen. The spread of prostitution of course probably enabled some to bring food to their starving families, and maybe in some cases there were happy endings with love and romance. I’m sure that women forced into prostitution also were injured by sadists, which was traumatic beyond the pain of having to sexually service strangers.

Brothels existed even in the concentration camps such as Auschwitz, Buchenwald, and Dachau. How do you explain establishment of places like these in those locations? What were the living conditions there?

There were two different kinds of brothels, one for the prisoners and one for soldiers and officers. The prisoners had an incentive program so that they would work hard and behave themselves. One of their rewards was a visit to the camp brothel. This is something that is rarely talked about in Holocaust discussions. The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington D.C., the outdoor Berlin museum, Topography of Terror, as well as the museum underneath the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe in Berlin, all do not mention that camp prisoners visited camp brothels where women and girls worked. Even if a female prisoner volunteered to work in the brothel despite the fatal risk of pregnancy or of injury and death by multiple rapes, this likely was NOT because she wanted to have sex with multiple men a day, but because she thought perhaps she would have a place to sleep and possibly more food. This is another layer of victimhood, where a victim victimizes another in the camps. While the topic of layered victimhood has been widely discussed in regards to arranging food, jobs, and services in the camps, museums and textbooks need to include in their discussions how sex, prostitution, and rape were bartered just as bread or indoor jobs were. Sometimes the SS would visit the camp brothels, and there is also testimony attesting to SS brothels just outside of camps.

Sexual Crimes in WWII includes the expansive German system of forced prostitution


In one chapter, you mentioned the various forms of “camouflage” undertaken by the female civilian population under German occupation for the purpose of avoiding rape. Could you tell us more about that?

Camouflage seems to have been a common phenomena. Several people told me about this, and you can read about it in various memoirs or testimonies. In one memoir, a family goes to extraordinary efforts to camouflage the teenage girl as being ill when the Soviet soldiers reentered the Crimean town of Feodosia in December 1941. Ukrainian women I spoke with also told about trying to make themselves look old or contagious. They would limp, cough, and cover or smear dirt or coal on their faces to make them look dirty.

Did you come across any specific information regarding sex crimes and prostitution during the 1940s in the area of former Yugoslavia?

Yes, the Chief Sanitation Officer in Poland argued that a brothel visit was not a social relationship, but a “material and economic kind,” and therefore such sex with Poles, Greeks, Yugoslavians, and others, was allowed. This infers, as another scholar pointed out, that there is evidence of Yugoslavians in brothels. Additionally, historian Danijel Jelaš found a document for me from 1941 in the Osijek archives that discusses the plans for multiple brothels in Osijek and the sanitation procedures required. I suspect there were others in additional cities in the former Yugoslavia. We need further research to ascertain how many brothels there actually were and what kinds of sexual violence people endured.

In the thesis, you also analyzed crimes of the Red Army. Moreover, you point out that in Berlin alone, more than 90,000 women visited doctors’ offices because of sexual abuse perpetrated by the Soviet soldiers. What were the causes of these mass rapes committed by Stalin’s troops? How did the dictator perceive reports on this type of crime when they had reached him?

There are several points: The first concerns motivation. The Soviet soldiers did not rape en mass as a political act to degrade the German enemy. They raped females of all nationalities and cultures. The Red Army consisted of soldiers from across Europe who raped Ukrainians, Poles, Estonians, Latvians, Yugoslavians, Jews, Christians, etc. The primary motivating factor in rape is sexual desire (not power or politics), and rapists use their power to obtain what they want, which is sexual satisfaction. Similarly, sexual desire motivated men to visit German brothels and have sexual intercourse with females who were not there to enjoy their afternoons.

Secondly, the desperation men and women felt as they went into battle or continued to fight is something we can barely begin to understand. Imagine the trauma of seeing Germans carting off women and girls to serve in Wehrmacht or SS brothels, of seeing entire Slavic towns disappear to mass graves, and knowing their own families were malnourished and dying at home. The soldiers were living in a surreal and horrifying alcohol-infused nightmare. They had seen corpses of men, women, and children, murdered, raped, or otherwise violated and mutilated, not to mention the carcasses of cows, horses, cats, and other animals, and all the destroyed (bombed or burned) trees, houses, farmyards, outbuildings, etc. Their desperation does not excuse their actions, but it does put the rapes into their horrific context.

Thirdly, historians and the media have long ignored the sexual crimes of the Germans and other western forces and instead have highlighted the rapes and other crimes against humanity by the Red Army. They have depicted the Slavic men as an Asian horde of rapists. While the mass rapes are inexcusable and horrifying, even unimaginable to most, so are the extensive sexual crimes of the German forces.

The Germans spent an enormous amount of resources in the establishment of their extensive system of brothels that enslaved thousands of females, and likewise, Stalin was unconcerned about the welfare of civilian females. There are mixed reports, however, about the issue, because as more diplomats became aware of the raping, there was a Soviet attempt to show that an effort was being made to control the soldiers’ behavior. One of these attempts was the Marshal Rokossovsky Order #006 by which a soldier would be executed for raping. However, various diplomats report meetings with Stalin who dismissed the sexual crimes. Even Yugoslavia’s Milovan Djilas wrote about how Stalin completely ignored the issue and acted angrily when Djilas asked about the conduct of the Soviet soldiers, who were not only raping Germans, but also Yugoslavians. I too acknowledge the horrors the Red Army experienced and the soldiers’ heroism pushing back the Germans, but unlike Stalin, I don’t believe that a soldier was entitled to “have fun with a woman or take some trifle” (Djilas).

Military brothels were for the SS, Wehrmacht, other military forces, and even concentration camp prisoners who could earn a visit to a brothel. Women and girls of all nationalities were forced to serve dozens of men a day. The main purpose of this was to try to prevent the spread of venereal diseases. This is just part of the picture of sexual crimes in WWII.
German military brothel during WWII

What social consequences did victims of sexual abuse have to deal with when the war ended? You mentioned that some abused women were referred to as “German whores” upon return to their hometowns and that their children, who were born after rape, were also victims of discrimination.

Because of patriarchy and cultural norms, local people abused those who had been raped or had suffered prostitution. People condemned and shamed females as whores for consorting with the enemy, regardless of the circumstances, and society did not condemn those who had abused their power to obtain sex. Even in Germany, but more so in the more conservative Slavic countries, there was silence surrounding the rapes, and victims were unable to obtain counseling. One Ukrainian family I interviewed suffered for generations because a Polish man drugged the mother and raped her. When she came home her townspeople called her a German whore. She bore her rapist’s child, who in turn was bullied and called a German bitch (even though the rapist was Polish). Furthermore, many people in conservative societies did not view exchanging food for sex as rape, even though probably in most cases, the female normally wouldn’t have sex with the person who had the food. Instead of blaming the person with the food who used their power to obtain sex, both men and women blame the victim. Even my Ukrainian translator thought this particular woman wasn’t raped, since she was sleeping, but the man drugged her, and of course, a sleeping person cannot consent to sex.

How is it that, despite the abundance of available materials (official documents, testimonies, memoirs, etc.), such topics remain historiographically neglected? Have you noticed any progress on this issue in the last ten years?

Simply answered – shame, silence, and patriarchy. If someone is attacked, people ask what the victims were wearing or if they were intoxicated, none of which is relevant because the perpetrator is to blame. Women and men hold these institutionalized patriarchal views, and thus victims feel shame and do not speak out. Male and female victims need to talk, analyze themselves and heal, so they can heal their children and students. Historians need to tackle these topics so we can better understand why people rape, whether during peacetime or war. Because of these persistent views, professors may discourage graduate students from tackling sexual violence. One educated Croatian woman asked me why I had chosen my topic because it was a “man’s topic.” This kind of archaic view hampers progress toward raising awareness of sexual violence, which is a gender-neutral human rights topic that affects males, females, and transgender people.

When I presented my research in Cherkasy, Ukraine, it was momentous occasion because many people in Cherkasy had not yet spoken publicly about their trauma. It was as if my talk about sexual violence gave them permission to also start discussing and sharing. When we break the silence and fight the shame to honestly face our own trauma, we can better understand the trauma of others, the complexities of victimhood, war, and violent sexual and other crimes. It is extremely difficult to openly admit and discuss one’s own rape or the rape of a family member. Despite the difficulties of recovery and healing, war- and peacetime survivors of sexual violence can help us understand other trauma if they face their own pain. I was only able to do the research I did and to continue to write because for the last twenty-nine years I have faced my own complex trauma of sexual abuse and other childhood familial issues. It has been extremely challenging at times, but well worth the effort because I have changed the world for the better in small, but meaningful ways—by writing, talking, and raising children who will be less likely to be victimized as I was. Understanding our complicity in crimes around the world or the motives behind mass shooters or rapists in the US can help us better teach our children and students to not engage in such violence. Similarly, the more Croatians better understand their personal and societal traumas by breaking the silence and shame, they too can help Europe and the world grow toward a more peaceful and healthy society.

And yes, now there is much more written on the topic of WWII sexual violence than when I first tackled it. However, the general public still is not aware of the widespread system of brothels the Germans established nor how much the drunken Axis soldiers raped, yet a larger portion are acquainted with the extent of the rapes by the animalistic Red Army. This needs to change.

Sexual crimes in WWII came in all forms: rape, forced prostitution in military and camp brothels (sexual slavery), and prostitution on the streets due to starvation.
Camp Brothel

This interview was published in Vox Feminae, a Croatian magazine, with the help of Luka Pejić:  https://voxfeminae.net/pravednost/zaboravljena-povijest-seksualnih-zlocina-u-drugom-svjetskom-ratu/.

Empathy will Change the World: My Empathy for Drunken Soldier Rapists

Purple, peace, light

I have thought about a passage from a memoir I read almost twenty years ago to this day. I had empathy with a drunken rapist, which surprised me because I am a survivor of many non-life-threatening rapes. But I believe empathy will change the world.

Major Kopelev was on the eastern front during WWII when Marshal Rokossovsky issued his order to execute rapists without trial. The reasoning behind his order was to try to regain control over the troops as they moved through the devastation the Germans and others had caused in the Soviet Union, Poland, Hungary, Germany, and all across the eastern front. Kopelev wrote that a Polish woman with a torn dress came running in screaming for help. The lieutenant in charge threatened to execute the rapist, according to the “orders from headquarters. For rape – execution on the spot.”

The major did not want to shoot a “brave soldier blind-drunk on vodka.” Kopelev drew his pistol, and the drunken man “came at [him], hoarse with anger, spraying saliva. ‘You fucking officers, fuck your mothers! You! Fighting the war on our backs! Where were you when my tank was on fire? Where were you, fuck your mother, when I set fire to that Tiger?’” The officers could hear the men saying things like, “Some commanders…They’ll shoot their own men over a German bitch” (Kopelev, No Jail for Thought, 50-51). (Note that the woman was not German, which I discuss because it helps to explain some of the raping that occurs during war.)

Empathy will change the world

My empathy surprised me because I am a survivor of multiple peacetime violations. I am working on an essay where I explain my reaction to the horrific sexual crimes western and eastern European men committed during the war. I have not felt empathy for the leaders, for example, for the Germans who planned and implemented the largest system of sexual slavery during the war, still mostly unheard of today. But for the desperate soldier who was forced into a nightmare so large and long-lasting most of us cannot even begin to fathom, I have felt understanding and empathy even for those who raped, usually in a drunken and frenzied state. This empathy and your empathy will change the world.

You can read more about sexual violence during World War II in my dissertation here.

 

Contact

Purple, peace, light
Drunken soldiers and my empathy for rapists

I told my teenage daughter I was a sexual assault survivor

I knew it was time to tell my daughter I was a rape survivor. It is a significant detail in my life, and it has influenced many decisions. This detail inspired many years of research on sexual violence, and it seemed natural to have my family members know. Some day I will tell my son. Telling one’s teenager about one’s sexual assault is important, but I think the time needs to be chosen carefully. Their growth should be about them and what they experience, not about how you have been hurt or how you have survived and thrived. If we tell too early, there is no point because they will not comprehend the enormity of it. Instead, as they are younger we need to show and teach our empathy for others, for them, and for ourselves.

Additionally, I am writing about my life and experiences and want to include my entire history. If anything would go online, even if anonymous, my daughter might know it would be her mom from the context. There are journals and electronic devices around our home with my past outlined, so if I died or otherwise because incapacitated, she may come across the information. It felt that I had waited long enough, and she was old enough. I also needed to write and add my piece to the metoo movement, in case it would help even one other person.

I had considered telling her for years, but it hadn’t felt right for various reasons. Now, in 2018, my kids are older, and I’ve been writing more since 2016. I am clear-headed, healthy, and strong, and it’s time. Telling one’s teenager about one’s sexual assault felt like it needed to be well-thought through, if possible.

* * * * *

My considerations were these:

  1. I did not want to burden her. I did not want or need her to worry about me or be scared for me or her family. That would be putting a burden on her, and her life is full enough now as a teenager.
  2. I made it clear from the beginning of our conversation because she is my daughter, it felt important to explain this large part of my life, my existence. My assaults do not define me. Yet they have been an immeasurable part of me since I first realized all I have survived, and I wanted her to know about this.
  3. I told her I was telling her from a place of strength because I have done many workshops and hours of therapy sessions. I explained the growth process from victim to survivor to thriver. In so many areas of my life, I felt I had reached the point of thriving. I wanted her to know that although I recognize the injustice and tragedy of sexual assault, I also feel my power as a person.
  4. I told her she could ask me any questions, any time.
  5. As I was speaking my voice caught a little. Instead of ignoring the emotion and having her wonder, I explained why. Even though I was telling her from a place of strength, it still is a significantly sad part of my life history and so to tell someone as close to my heart as my daughter is emotional. The news can affect someone who loves me, and I know this deeply.
  6. I explained the anger I had felt in the decades following my great realizations. I said that even today a part of me also feels shame.

Telling one’s teenager about one’s sexual assault is okay!

Basically, I ended up telling her one afternoon because I couldn’t stand it any longer thinking about when a good time would be. I told her when there wouldn’t be that much time for us to sit and discuss. Originally, I had planned to tell her when we had a lot of time. But I felt it was better this way because the awfulness then couldn’t bog us down. Even though it was my first time, I knew that telling one’s teenager about one’s sexual assault could be emotional.

I knew from experience that telling people you are a survivor can be a shock to the other person. Even though it is the survivor’s pain, the person listening also experiences emotions. Still, I knew I would be there in the next hours and days for any questions or feelings she needed to process. She was able to ask four or five questions, and I answered them. I checked in after the interuption to reiterate that she could ask questions and we could talk any time. She said she was okay, and we hugged…

* * * * *

I am fifty one, and my daughter will be seventeen in a week.

My first rape was a statutory rape when I was sixteen and the man thirty-two. He took advantage of me one other time, as did an additional man in his twenties on a different occasion. I never included the latter occurrence as one of my rapes, but of course it was illegal for him to do what he did. I was lucky I had the sixth sense to know he probably wasn’t the type to tie me up or physically rip apart my body. Many people in my life have told me I have some kind of extra “sense.” I truly believe this sense saved my life on many occasions.

The other two were before I was twenty. I had been drinking alcohol before all instances, and the last rapes I was intoxicated.

None of the men used a weapon or physically harmed my body. But these assaults, having grown up in a rape culture and all that that entails, personal family circumstances and the way I was raised (which in part was influenced by our rape culture), immeasurably affected my self esteem, some major life decisions, my research, numerous day-to-day decisions and habits formed, and my general life direction. I have suffered and survived. I thrive as a survivor, and I still suffer in ways that continue to surprise me. And this is still only part of my story.

Originally posted July 30, 2018 on an anonymous website.

https://www.facebook.com/groups/victimsheroessurvivors/

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Telling one’s teenager about one’s sexual assault

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I’m not a football fan, but…yes, let’s take a stand against racism

I commend the football players who take a stand against racism. I have never supported the NFL, nor been a Vikings fan. When Croatians were excited that I was from Minnesota, I could barely remember what sport the Timberwolves played. The research revealing the high incidence of sexual violence and football players added to my dislike of football. I am saddened by how many ex-athletes have life-long physical and mental health issues. Their experiences either on the field or in the spotlight can have debilitating long-term effects. The issue of concussions is a travesty. It shows how greed and ambition trumped the welfare of players. Despite their wealth and fame, were still pawns in the great monetary game of sports.

I am opposed to how much money these athletes and their managers and owners make. Caretakers, teachers, essential workers, and other educated people in our society make so little. Working class people have to struggle so hard to get basic healthcare or schooling. It isn’t just that I don’t usually enjoy watching these popular sports. Once in a while I do enjoy a game if kind of forced to watch because of a situation. But I also oppose them for political and social reasons.

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But what the NFL players and owners are doing now is worth commending. They are using their visibility to take a stand against racism. Our lousy president’s continued, childish Twitter responses reveal his racism and his inability to understand more than one side of an issue. The tweets also reveal how he doesn’t want us to think about his failing presidency. His rhetoric about peaceful protests against racism in juxtaposition to his tweets about some Nazis being nice people is shameful.

He is frustrated by the inability of the Republicans to repeal the ACA. Plus, he is on a dangerous path with North Korea because of his insistence to take things personally. This man is incapable of being a unifying, democratic, diplomatic, and conciliatory leader. In response to Trump’s horrific, racist rhetoric the NFL players and owners have bravely continued to peacefully exercise their right to protest racism in our country in an extremely visible setting.

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I adjure the NFL players who have so much wealth and visibility to also use their power and influence to take a stand against racism. This is work toward a a more racially and economically just America. Some already have and currently do philanthropic work. I hope more of them follow suit. But members of the NFL kneel to protest racial injustice. They lock arms to show solidarity with those who choose to practice their right of free speech. These are brave moves that come from their hearts and probably after much personal consideration.

Their actions raise awareness about the racism of the White House, our president, and of institutions and far right groups across America. These actions of protest may spur others to action as well. Our flag and national anthem symbolize the freedoms we hold dear in this country. These are freedom of speech, of protest, and of the press. Unlike Trump, these players  do not insult veterans or families of veterans. America is far from being a equitable country, and if this is how some want to make a statement about the very real injustice in our land, I commend them for it.

Victims, Heroes, Survivors: Sexual Violence on the Eastern Front During World War II. PhD dissertation.

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Bullies don’t always know they are what they are – We need to speak up!

Part of the problem with bullies and people who feel victimized by bullies is that often the latter do not realize they are cruel. Often the people they insult do not know how to speak up. I believe I continued to be berated for personal choices in my life by certain people because it took me so long to clearly point out the fact that this was inappropriate and that I wouldn’t tolerate it anymore. We need to speak up! I needed to learn to speak up!

I am not blaming myself for other people’s cruelty and insensitivity. As a young girl I was not taught at home or in school that my private life choices are to be respected and that my feelings are important. Nor did anyone teach me I am not too sensitive, and that it is necessary and healthy to speak my mind so long as I do it in a respectful way. Had I been taught these principles, I would have spoken out more often. I would have set more boundaries for myself. This would have saved myself a lot of anxiety.

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One area in my life I often had to ward off disrespectful comments concerned dietary decisions. I stopped drinking cow’s milk in the late 1980s. To my incredulity, this seemed to offend people around me. I heard various comments in voices filled with shock and emotion. It was as if I had personally decided to insult them with my private decision about what kind of milk I would drink. People were so aghast and dumbfounded at my decision! This showed the success of the dairy lobby because giving up cow’s milk seemed to be an idea that had never entered their minds. It felt as though I had told them I had joined a new religion from outer space and that as a ritual I would be cutting off one of my arms. 

I was private about my decision and didn’t advertise it. People found out because I declined when offered milk or because they saw me pour myself a glass of soy milk. I didn’t announce my decision or try to convince other people to  give up cow’s milk. And yet some reactions were this strong.

Later, becoming a vegetarian caused an uproar in various situations, especially with my family of origin. Again, it was somehow as though I had insulted others, and the anger and distaste displayed toward me was impressive. At certain gatherings, how we ate seemed to cause such discomfort even though I never expected people to go out of their way for us, and even though we always tried to be flexible.

* * * * *

At gatherings we took part in the dinner rotation schedule when at a vacation spot for a number of nights. Each night a different family would be in charge of dinner. My husband and I spent much time making sure what we made to eat would be something satisfying to meat eaters. On one of these weekends I remember making a wonderful chili with fake hamburger. I had often served this to meat eaters who almost always proclaimed they couldn’t tell the difference and that it was delicious.

Not everyone on these mini vacations was cruel, but one family member not only never had anything good to say about what we offered, but they would berate it. And on a few occasions when it was their turn, they served meals where my husband, kids and I ate bread and butter. Everything else, even the salad, had meat in it. Of course, we didn’t expect a full-out vegetarian meal, but just bread and butter? Childish and rude.

After a few times of having to later feed my kids and us separately, we opted out of the dinner rotation and brought our own food. I was fed up with the blatant verbal insults as well as the passive aggressiveness our vegetarianism provoked. And yet, I only rarely said anything to my main bully. When I did say anything, it seemed to be too late and ineffective, and it was after we had opted out of trying to do any kind of collaberation with food.

We need to speak up

Even after having been a vegetarian for a decade or more, at one gathering a person berated my choice of soy milk over cow’s milk in front of my young, impressionable daughter. This was at least fifteen years after I had quit drinking soy milk and had endured friends and strangers odd and sometimes cruel comments. I felt sick that I allowed my daughter to be with such people who would openly insult such personal health decisions. This inspired me to slowly started speaking out and pulling myself away from such gatherings.

When my daughter was just a baby, a person close to me incessantly cracked jokes about my decision to feed her vegetarian and would say things like, “I bet she would just love a sausage right now!” Or, “I bet when she gets teeth, she will love the way I cook steak.”

After listening to these jokes for months, I finally brought an end to it by telling the person the jokes were hurtful and disrespectful. I said that how I chose to feed my child was a personal decision. This was over fifteen years ago. I was still nursing, was exhausted, and leaving for an airline flight. I also was not yet speaking out as much as I would learn to, so this felt like a milestone. Indeed, the jokes stopped for about a decade.

* * * * *

People who find offense at such jokes about food or religion choices are not too sensitive. I think most of us understand that we would never make some senseless joke to a Muslim woman about her wearing a headscarf. We wouldn’t tease someone on a paleo or low carb diet about their choices. We understand that making a joke about someone’s personal decisions is hurtful and disrespectful.

But as a young girl, I internalized that my opinions were unimportant. Growing into adulthood, I started to speak out about various issues. But I often heard from others that my feelings were too big, that I should just lighten up and that I was too sensitive. When the person who is somehow different speaks out, it sometimes is met with silence and acceptance. On the flip side it can sometimes be met with defensiveness and the comment, “lighten up!” This only adds insult to insult. When this happened, the childhood internalization of the idea that my opinions were unimportant would rear up. I would have to go back to ground zero and figure out how to speak out again.

It feels I wasted much time and emotion being upset about other people’s dysfunction while in my twenties and thirties. I also spent time figuring out ways to express my anger and disappointment in a healthy and respectful way. I did not want to lower myself to a bully’s standards of communications. And yet, this time spent was the only way I knew to grow strong in the realization that my feelings counted, and that these bullyish comments explained a lot about the people making the comments.

* * * * *

If you are reading this and think I cannot laugh at my vegetarianism, it isn’t true. I have laughed many times with others about misunderstandings with food or diet. One example was in the dentist office when I asked why I should want to fix my teeth. I argued that my mother-in-law had dentures and she seemed to manage just fine. The technician said to me, “well, it can be quite difficult chewing with dentures, especially trying to chew a nice, juicy steak.” I laugh and said that I was a vegetarian, so that wouldn’t be a loss. We all laughed, and she said, “well, you won’t be able to chew that carrot very well either.”

No offense was taken. Nothing was said with passive-aggressive distaste or anger. There were no negative feelings. This and other conversations I have had are funny and enlightening.

I am not too sensitive. I can tell which jokes or comments about my diet, personal habits and choices, are disrespectful and hurtful. There are no hard and fast rules about what is disrespectful and what isn’t. But if someone says something that feels wrong and you wish the comments to stop, then you can request this and be assured that it is okay for you to do so. And we need to learn and be assured that it is courageous and okay to set these boundaries. We need to speak up! 

 

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Victims, Heroes, Survivors: Sexual Violence on the Eastern Front During World War II. PhD dissertation.

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We need to speak up! It's okay. We don't need to scream or bare our teeth...but we can if we need to. :)

The Escape of the Polish Public Transportation Controller: my humongous fear of this controller was rooted in the past and in my sixth sense

Where my fear of the controller originates

Recently my fear of a controller in a bus was a surprise, but it saved me from a lot of hassle and stress. My crimes of smuggling illegal books, other written material, and East German Marks into the German Democratic Republic (GDR, aka East Germany), purchased with West German Marks (DM) in the west, still haunt me. My many experiences in these police states had an effect on my psyche, even if at the time I didn’t feel the fear I do as an adult.

Not that I regret doing what I did, but in certain situations I acutely feel the fear I felt as a young person. I remember crossing from West Berlin to East Berlin with illegal printed material hidden under the bottom of my duffel. Since I was living in East Germany, this could have cost me my visa and probably a lot of time sitting somewhere alone. Smuggling eastern marks I purchased in the west into the GDR was likely a serious crime. I have not researched this, but I think I could have been in a lot of trouble.

Also probably what haunts me is all the travel as a young person alone. Police stopped and searched me multiple times on the trains. Once in the pedestrian checkpoint they put in a room in East Berlin with my friends and made us wait and sweat. In general, I traveled a lot in the east during a time when there were so many police with machine gun type weapons. I felt invincible as an American, but of course I wasn’t. When I did feel the fear back then, I always suppressed it emotionally.

Today

So, now I am fifty and many of those experiences were all between twenty and thirty or more years ago. But today I still overreact to certain situations that involve security, police, or other forms of authority. Here is a recent story of such an over-reaction in Krakow, Poland. Oh, my fear of the controller and his power was extreme, but not exaggerated.

The botched ticket purchase

My legs still feel like rubber as I begin to record this. Luckily, I could understand some Polish because of my knowledge of Russian. And, luckily, Cora had decided to sit halfway back in the street car. She did not follow me as I went forward to get tickets from the machine with the coins I had counted out. I had checked earlier to make sure I had enough (2.80 zloty per person). But as I tried to get my reading glasses off my shirt to read the coins, they tangled with the sunglasses also hanging there. And splat went the coins. I tried to pick them all up and thought I was successful. I bought one ticket and proceeded to try to buy the next. In alarm, I realized I was 10 groszy (one coin) short.

As an aside, so that you know I am an honest adult, I had always bought tickets and never rode “black.” Schwarz fahren it is called in German, and I believe similarly in other languages. That morning in Krakow, I had also rightfully purchased two tickets for us to ride the street car to Oscar Schindler’s museum. The tickets were very inexpensive, so there was no incentive for me at all to ride black. Especially knowing that we were in Poland and the fear of any controller would be huge, I would not have tried to cheat the system.

My options

Since the machine didn’t accept bills, I didn’t know what to do except go back to Cora and sit down. I guess we could have gotten out, since we had twenty minutes before the first ticket expired. Then I could have gotten more change. Unfortunately, I guess I thought we would chance it. At the end of our European blitz trip, we were exhausted. Getting off to try to find some coins from some establishment would involve quite a bit more walking. More walking when we needed to get back to eat seemed insurmountable me.

Or, I guess I could have gotten off the train temporarily and tried to talk to the driver in English. This actually didn’t even occur to me though, although I do not know why. You cannot speak with the driver while in the car. The driver is in a separate area from the passenger area. Had I thought of this, I would have dismissed the idea, though. I know I would have thought that the driver would just tell me I needed to get the money.

(All of this is me overanalyzing my steps, which is something people with PTSD commonly do. It sometimes makes for a good essay, though!)

So I sat down and briefly told Cora the problem. I very nervously started counting the stations as the street car made its way toward the city center. For some reason, though, I was hoping it was “just” my trauma from years back causing me to panic. (I will write more about my trauma in more detail soon). But I had a strong feeling that Murphy’s Law would prove right. That is, the one time I am riding illegally (having only one full ticket for me and my daughter), I would get caught.

The switch to slow motion

Sure enough, I suddenly heard something on the speaker about “Billet Kontrolni.” Since it was in Polish, those were really the only words I remember understanding. I screamed so loudly in my head! My fear of any controller shot forth through my eyeballs. I was suddenly hyper aware of my surroundings! My brain raced to understand what and where this controller was or if I had misunderstood.

Shortly thereafter, I saw a balding young man with a round face and dark brown eyes, dressed in a white dress shirt. He was moving his way amongst a crowd of young kids who had jumped on the streetcar after we had. They had surrounded the pay station where I had tried to buy both tickets.

It felt like the train was moving very slowly on purpose, so that the ticket controller would have enough time to make it through the train to us. It felt like everything was moving in slow motion except my heartbeat. I imagined that the city or state purposely had the trains move slower when a ticket controller boarded. This would ensure that no one could escape. I actually caught his eye once, and I immediately looked away, the contact not having been any kind of comfort. Of course, I felt I looked even guiltier because I had looked away. But fear of this controller would not allow me to act casually and keep eye contact.

My mind was racing

I immediately dug out the one ticket and asked Cora for her ticket from the morning. Although it was irrelevant, I thought we could appeal to his kinder side if we showed that we had paid for the morning ride. I also got out my money that was just ten groszy less than what was needed for the ticket.

All this was to prove that I had really tried my best to get both tickets. I wanted to show I was an honest person. We had paid four hours earlier for the ride to the museum, and I did have at least one ticket for us. I wanted to show that I had honestly attempted to purchase another ticket. I would explain that I had bills, but the (stupid) machine didn’t accept them, that I dropped the coins, and so I hadn’t been sure what to do. In my mind I was even ready to explain how tired my daughter was, how her back hurt, etc. I would play the mother role as to why we had continued on the streetcar despite only having one ticket.

As all this was going through my mind, I noticed that a man kitty corner from us on the train had immediately stood up. He was heading to the door next to where we were sitting. I caught his eye, but his face revealed nothing. An unverifiable truth occurred to me: he was also riding without a ticket. I hoped we were nearing a station. With that thought in mind and this huge urge to run, I literally ordered my daughter to get up. She complied, and we went and stood by the door.

Waiting impatiently for the next stop

It still felt as though the car were moving too slowly, and I impatiently waited to see if a stop was coming. I did not turn around to see where the controller man in the white shirt was. I wanted to run off the car. Finally, finally, the train slowly came to a stop. Suppressing my great desire to shove the man in front of me out of our way, we innocently stepped off the train. It felt like my pounding heart was visibly bulging my chest in and out!.

I didn’t have any idea what the fine would have been had the controller not believed my story and taken my 2.70 zloty, but I just didn’t want to deal with it. I felt like I COULDN’T deal with it. My fear of having a Polish official confront me was so huge, my legs felt like rubber. My torso felt heavy. I had experienced enough exchanges with the police in East Germany before the wall came down.

We ended up getting out of the train just on the opposite end of the main square. I briefly shared how I felt with my daughter. As she happily looked into shops, I got out my phone to type in some notes. This helped me process what had just happened. It was a nice walk through the square again (such a lively place!) back home to our hotel on the other side. It was clear to my that my fear was rooted in my past experiences traveling alone and in eastern block countries.

But my fear of the controller were spot on

Almost ready to post this story, I read online various posts about how harsh and bullish the Polish public transportation controllers have been. I read about a woman and child crying, about one family who was forced to pay 240 zloty on the spot. Since they did not have it, the controller, joined by another one, took their ID and escorted them to a cash machine. They were told they would be arrested if they weren’t able to produce the cash. It is uncertain whether the controller really would arrest a foreigner. Still, this man had made the mistake of not stamping the purchased tickets. For a ticket to be valid, the purchaser needs to stamp it when they get on the train or street car or bus. Foreigners probably often make these mistakes or try to pretend it was a mistake to avoid purchasing more tickets.

With the adrenaline already rushing through my body and my fear and panic grossly exaggerated, that would have been hard to endure! I know I would have survived. But my bank card only worked in one of five cash machines we found near the Krakow main square. So it might have been very trying…

My sixth sense

As I end this post, another thought occurs to me. So many other situations which are similar to this one have occurred. I have often felt such fear and anxiety because of security or other authority figures. Going through airport security used to cause me great anxiety. Once, an usher caught me recording a concert back in 2007 or so when they still tried to control that. The sensations were so strong they almost enough to bring me off my feet. That tells me these exaggerated reactions are my hidden trauma, perhaps also related to my officially-diagnosed PTSD.

Still, it might not just be the trauma from the past that spurred my body into panic mode. I have also often been told I have a sixth sense. Perhaps it was this sixth sense I have which rightfully informed me of the upcoming great harrassment and trauma that we would experience if I did not get Cora and me off the train as soon as I could. I am hyper vigilant and intone to situations and to people, so this could have played a role as well…Who knows!

Addendum

My fear of the controller in 2020 is a normal expression of deep emotions that hide inside of me. The fear is rooted in crazy experiences I had as a young person traveling in eastern Europe, which the Soviets ruled at the time. The Stasi (East German secret police) was not a kind organization. Plus, it was one of the largest secret police organizations in the world at the time with a member for almost every ten citizens.

When I lived in the east, the Stasi watched and searched me. The police opened all of my mail before I received it. There were armed police literally everywhere. But I also traveled in other countries throughout the east in my teens and twenties. There, also, police with machine guns controlled long lines to for various controls where extremely rude officials were also seemingly omnipresent. I remember my friend and I laughing and talking to the guards outside of Buckingham Palace until one couldn’t help but smile just a little bit. They didn’t scare me. Instead, I was simply in awe of them and this spectacle I had never witnessed in all my seventeen years. But my fear of police in the east was different. That is why this close encounter with a controller brought up my fear.

Tram in Krakow. Street Car. Train...I never know what to call them. Sorry. But with the various languages, it gets confusing. This is where my fear of the controller rose! HAHAHA. :)
Polish trolley in Krakow.

Topographie des Terrors, Shame on You!

To raise awareness of sexual violence

It is 2017 and Germany still has not owned up to its widespread sexual violence during World War II, committed by German soldiers, members of both the Wehrmacht and the SS. The myth that only the Soviet soldiers in Berlin who committed mass rape continues to be in so many people’s thinking.

I was apprehensive after I read the sentence about how Red Army soldiers harrassed German women in Berlin as they entered Berlin. We entered the open air museum at the end of the exhibition and read chronologically backward. I could only suspect that they wouldn’t mention that German soldiers had also committed massive sexual crimes during the war.

Because we began reading at the end of the exhibition, it made sense the Red Army rapes would be mentioned first. But I had little hope the exhibition would mention the vast German system of sexual slavery. I had even less hope that the many German rapes of Jews, Slavs, and others during the war would be mentioned.

The Germans were as sexually bestial as were the Soviets

And sure enough, unless I missed it, I did not see any mention of German sexual crimes during the war. As usual, those behind the making of this museum only thought to include the crimes of the Slavs. They helped to further the stereotype that for some reason the Slavic men are more beastly than the Germans.

Of course, it mentioned other crimes the Germans committed, but not sexual crimes. If the authors thought to mention sexual crimes of one army, then they should also mention the sexual crimes of the other. The SS, Wehrmacht, and other Germans in the east were not innocent of sexual criminality.

The evidence is out there even from before my dissertation in 2004! And I clearly documented widespread rape and system sexual slavery committed and established by the Germans. In the years since my published research, other scholars have documented additional German sexual violence during the war.

Topographie des Terrors, Shame on You!

Come on, Germany! Own up to your sexual crimes as well! Stop pretending only the Soviet Army committed these on the eastern front.

If I am wrong and missed something and the historians and those responsible for the text of this exhibition did include something of the sexual crimes the Germans committed, let me know. We were unable to spend as much time as I would have liked at this outdoor museum, so it is possible I missed something. I actually hope that I have.

I do commend Berlin for having the open air museums it does have. Many of the stories and photographs are available to the general public. This is especially important to students and young persons who do not always have the financial means to enter the more expensive museums housed inside buildings.

Still, the general public deserves to know that the Germans forced thousands and thousands of women of all races to work in brothels. The SS, Wehrmacht, other soldiers, and concentration camp inmates visited the brothels to engage in sexual intercourse, in effect raping a woman each time.  No woman chose to work in one of these brothels. If the choice is between starvation and the slight chance of living, that is not a choice. Each man who visited the brothel is in effect a rapist.

German soldiers also raped before they murdered, outside of brothels. Scholars have documented this time and again. So why not, in Berlin, do the scholars in charge of this open air museum mention this and pretend the Germans committed no such crimes? The Germans even raped Jews, which was categorically and falsely denied for decades.

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Victims, Heroes, Survivors: Sexual Violence on the Eastern Front During World War II. PhD dissertation.

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Single Lane Cornish Hedgerow Streets

Driving in the UK is actually not as scary as I had imagined. By the third day, I skillfully and cheerfully manipulated the single-lane hedgerow streets. These really should be called paths. As my daughter said, these are as wide as the bike paths we use in Minnesota.

But everyone was friendly and smiling, and we never had any incident. I knew when to break and wait, and also took charge when it seemed it was I who needed to go first. After the pass, there was always this friendly wave from driver to driver.

Still, the second  day driving from Port Isaac to Padstow where we were staying, we had lost track of the handwritten map our hostess had written for us, so we temporarily were relying on Google offline maps. Of course, Google wanted us to get to Padstow as fast as we could. This meant driving these single car-width hedgerow streets. My daughter instructed me to turn left, and at first it seemed to be a fairly wide lane, in English terms. But having driven fifty yards or more the road turned and we saw it was tall hedges on either side and only room for one car.

* * * * *

I panicked. The adrenaline soared through my body, and I said, “I cannot do this.” A car appeared heading toward us. It was a Beamer. Veering to the left as far as possible, and sure enough, the lady was waving and smiling, and she made it past us without incident. I couldn’t believe it – there was absolutely no room!

I immediately started backing up. We reached the turn, which wasn’t far and I backed around the turn. I noticed a wider part of this street and thought I could turn around there.

As soon as I started turning a car appeared. Cora yelled out. Although I also panicked for a second, I figured they would just have to wait, which they did. I cheerfully waved them on and turned onto the main road.

We found the little handwritten map under my bum and made it home without having to drive these hedge streets until the next day when I felt ready.

After driving these, I felt like the other streets were wide highways.

Click here to see a video of one of our hedgerow drives. And here is one more.

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