The pervasive nature of this trauma could translate into an increased risk for Black women and girls to experience depression, PTSD and addiction, common symptoms experienced by many survivors of rape.
The Department of Justice estimates that for every white woman that reports her rape, at least 5 white women do not report theirs; and yet, for every African-American woman that reports her rape, at least 15 African-American women do not report theirs.
There are many reasons why Black women may choose not to report incidences of sexual assault. Survivors of all races often fear that they will not be believed or will be blamed for their attack, but Black women face unique challenges.
Historically, law enforcement has been used to control African-American communities through brutality and racial profiling. It may be difficult for a Black woman to seek help if she feels it could be at the expense of African-American men or her community. The history of racial injustice (particularly the stereotype of the Black male as a sexual predator) and the need to protect her community from further attack might persuade a survivor to remain silent.
We need more research to fully understand the scope of violence against Black women and the barriers they face to receiving support services. This requires both the political will and funding to make their lives a priority. Unfortunately, due to a long history of systemic racism and classism in the United States, the violation of Black women’s bodies is often rendered invisible.
“No race, ethnic group, or economic class is spared from sexual violence or the myths and misinformation that complicate the healing process for survivors. But in addition to our higher victimization rate, African Americans are less likely to get the help we need to heal,” says Lori S. Robinson, author of I Will Survive: The African-American Guide to Healing From Sexual Assault and Abuse.
Robinson points out that in studies of Black women's sexuality conducted by psychologist Dr. Gail Elizabeth Wyatt, half of the women who had experienced childhood sexual abuse never told anyone and less than 5 percent ever got counseling. “African-American women are raped at a higher rate than White women, and are less likely to report it. We have suffered in silence far too long,” she says.
The movement to end sexual violence in the lives of Black women in the U.S. is inextricably connected to the Civil Rights movement. We cannot effectively discuss the issue of sexual assault in Black communities without acknowledging the direct war that was waged against Black women through rape during slavery and the Jim Crow era.
We must also honor the legacy of anti-rape activism.
Although Rosa Parks is remembered as the NAACP organizer who sparked the 1955 bus boycott and helped give birth to the Civil Rights Movement, she was an anti-rape activist long before the boycott. “Decades before radical feminists in the Women’s Movement urged rape survivors to ‘speak out,’ African American women’s public protests galvanized local, national and even international outrage and sparked larger campaigns for racial justice and human dignity,” says Dr. Danielle L. McGuire, author of At the Dark End of the Street: Black Women, Rape and Resistance (A New History of the Civil Rights Movement from Rosa Parks to the Rise of Black Power).
Continuing this legacy of creative resistance, filmmaker and activist, Aishah Shahidah Simmons, speaks out on the issue of sexual violence. Her ground-breaking film, NO! The Rape Documentary was a part of her own healing process as a survivor of sexual assault.
When I ask her about the relationship between activism and inner healing she says, “It’s mandatory. NO! saved my life. I have my own stories of child sexual abuse and rape. NO! was my cultural activism. In NO! the women’s stories were different, and yet similar to my own. Getting involved in this movement has healed me.”
In addition to her anti-rape activism, Simmons recommends the tools she uses on her healing journey, which include therapy with a licensed clinical psychologist (or a licensed social worker), Vipassana meditation and the Buddhist practice of loving-kindness “so you don’t become the very entity that you are trying to fight.” She also emphasizes the importance of community, “Find community that will not re-victimize you. Connect online to survivors who are doing this work. Faith communities are important, but they are not a substitution for therapy.”
Simmons acknowledges that African-American women face barriers to finding the healing resources they need. “Because of the history of racism and sexism in America, in many instances, you are already presumed guilty. It is assumed that we are always wanting, willing, and able. Sometimes women call the police and the police decide a rape didn’t occur because of their race. You wonder if you will you be treated with respect. If your community is held hostage by the police, how can you trust the police? Where do you go?”
Through the filmmaking process, she discovered that racism played a significant role in survivors’ reactions to rape. “There was a level of trust with perpetrators because (as in the majority of all rape cases, regardless of race/ethnicity), the women I interviewed were raped by acquaintances. They would ask, ‘How do I come forward?’ because they were advocating against racism in their communities and didn’t want to send another Black man to jail. We are trained as women not to betray the Black race.”
“This country has a virulent history of racist violence perpetuated against Black Women, yet we have tried to protect Black men from racism. Like Black men, Black women have been horribly impacted by white supremacy. Yet, there is often not the same outcry in our communities when a Black woman is raped,” Simmons explains.
Dr. Charlotte Pierce-Baker, a featured interviewee in NO! and the author of Surviving the Silence: Black Women’s Stories of Rape , says in both her book and in the film that “We are taught that we are first Black, then women. Our families have taught us this, and society in its harsh racial lessons reinforces it. Black women have survived by keeping quiet not solely out of shame, but out of a need to preserve the race and its image. In our attempts to preserve racial pride, we Black women have sacrificed our own souls.”
When I ask Simmons about the unique challenges of Black LGBT individuals, she points out that if a queer-identified survivor shares their story they are often told, “'Oh that’s why you’re gay!' Rather than provide healing to victim-survivors, that question pathologizes our sexuality. We can look at the global statistics of violence against women and know that if rape made women gay, most women would be gay! Also, if you are sexually assaulted in a same gender relationship, people have to confront stereotypes about who is a perpetrator. It’s a silencing mechanism and that becomes a deterrent to ending sexual violence.”
This is why Simmons is passionately devoted to eradicating sexual violence by addressing the intersections of race, gender, and sexuality in her work. Subtitled in Spanish, French, and Portuguese, NO! also examines how rape is used as a weapon of homophobia. We cannot effectively help survivors to heal or implement transformative violence prevention campaigns if we do not illuminate a whole spectrum discrimination issues, including racism, economic inequality, gender bias and heterosexist assumptions.
Through her powerful film, writing and activism, Aishah Shahidah Simmons reminds us that Black women’s bodies deserve to be honored and the work to end violence must begin with the most marginalized among us.
