The question has been raised that this student should have known what she
was in for. In fact she had been to india before, spoke some hindi, and
was a s. asian major. Also her university had a preperation course that
included indians about what to expect. What she experienced is a recent
trend of women single or in groups, such as was this student, being the
subject of severe sexual abuse and even assult.
The question seems now more about blaming the victim.
The below is her account of her time in india, what happened to her after
returning can be followed at the link:
'India: the Story You Never Wanted to Hear'
http://ireport.cnn.com/docs/DOC-1023053
When people ask me about my experience studying abroad in India, I
always face the same dilemma. How does one convey the contradiction
that over the past few months has torn my life apart, and convey it in
a single succinct sentence?
"India was wonderful," I go with, "but extremely dangerous for women."
Part of me dreads the follow-up questions, and part of me hopes for
more. I'm torn between believing in the efficacy of truth, and being
wary of how much truth people want.
Because, how do I describe my three months in the University of Chicago
Indian civilizations program when it was half dream, half nightmare?
Which half do I give
Do I tell them about our first night in the city of Pune, when we
danced in the Ganesha festival, and leave it at that? Or do I go on and
tell them how the festival actually stopped when the American women
started dancing, so that we looked around to see a circle of men
filming our every move?
Do I tell them about bargaining at the bazaar for beautiful saris
costing a few dollars a piece, and not mention the men who stood
watching us, who would push by us, clawing at our breasts and groins?
When people compliment me on my Indian sandals, do I talk about the man
who stalked me for forty-five minutes after I purchased them, until I
yelled in his face in a busy crowd?
Do I describe the lovely hotel in Goa when my strongest memory of it
was lying hunched in a fetal position, holding a pair of scissors with
the door bolted shut, while the staff member of the hotel who had tried
to rape my roommate called me over and over, and breathing into the
phone?
How, I ask, was I supposed to tell these stories at a Christmas party?
But how could I talk about anything else when the image of the smiling
man who masturbated at me on a bus was more real to me than my friends,
my family, or our Christmas tree? All those nice people were asking the
questions that demanded answers for which they just weren't prepared.
When I went to India, nearly a year ago, I thought I was prepared. I
had been to India before; I was a South Asian Studies major; I spoke
some Hindi. I knew that as a white woman I would be seen as a
promiscuous being and a sexual prize. I was prepared to follow the
University of Chicago's advice to women, to dress conservatively, to
not smile in the streets. And I was prepared for the curiosity my red
hair, fair skin and blue eyes would arouse.
But I wasn't prepared.
There was no way to prepare for the eyes, the eyes that every day
stared with such entitlement at my body, with no change of expression
whether I met their gaze or not. Walking to the fruit seller's or the
tailer's I got stares so sharp that they sliced away bits of me piece
by piece. I was prepared for my actions to be taken as sex signals; I
was not prepared to understand that there were no sex signals, only
women's bodies to be taken, or hidden away.
I covered up, but I did not hide. And so I was taken, by eye after eye,
picture after picture. Who knows how many photos there are of me in
India, or on the internet: photos of me walking, cursing, flipping
people off. Who knows how many strangers have used my image as
pornography, and those of my friends. I deleted my fair share, but it
was a drop in the ocean-- I had no chance of taking back everything
they took
For three months I lived this way, in a traveler's heaven and a woman's
hell. I was stalked, groped, masturbated at; and yet I had adventures
beyond my imagination. I hoped that my nightmare would end at the
tarmac, but that was just the beginning. Back home Christmas red seemed
faded after vermillion, and food tasted spiceless and bland. Friends,
and family, and classes, and therapy, and everything at all was so much
less real than the pain, the rage that was coursing through my blood,
screaming so loud it deafened me to all other sounds. And after months
of elation at living in freedom, months of running from the memories
breathing down my neck, I woke up on April Fool's Day and found I
wanted to be dead.