Chapter 6
Columnist Writes of Daughter's Rape
By Michael Kelly, Omaha World-Herald

Now you don't have to read between the lines and wonder: My daughter was raped.

Since she was attacked June 21 by a stranger who kicked in her locked apartment door, World-Herald news stories and two of my columns have said that she was abducted, robbed, shot and left for dead.

That's in keeping with this newspaper's long-standing policy not to name rape victims. It's a good policy, grounded in the notion that much of society still attaches a stigma to rape victims and that printing names might discourage victims from going to the police.

The policy remains, and victims need not fear that their names will be printed in the paper. They should report a crime that is believed to be the most underreported of crimes.

My daughter's attack in Texas made news in Omaha because of its horrible nature – she was shot in the back with 9 mm bullets – and because she grew up in Omaha. Editors say an additional factor, and one causing Bridget's name to be published initially, was that she is the daughter of a longtime columnist.

A grand jury in Bell County, Texas, indicted a man Wednesday on five counts, including attempted murder and aggravated sexual assault. Because Bridget's name had already been reported in connection with the shooting, the sexual-assault charge created a policy dilemma for editors, who decided – with the concurrence of my daughter, my wife and me – to make a rare exception and report it.

In the hospital more than a month ago at Fort Hood, Texas, unable to speak at first, Bridget wrote that in news coverage of her case, "It's OK if they say rape."

She says she wasn't speaking for others or suggesting how they should feel. But she adds: "Why is it more shameful to be a rape victim than a gunshot victim?"

Surely, it is not. But there is shame in rape, and it rests squarely with the attacker, not the victim.

Historically, though, society unfairly has made many rape victims feel either that they contributed to the attacks or that they are somehow diminished – stigmatized – merely by being victims.

The stigma from this awful crime should be on the predator, not on the prey.

In conversation, our family has spoken openly about our daughter's ordeal. We honor her courage in not only surviving her attack but also in not being ashamed.

To be sure, she has wept. So have my wife and I. So have our daughter's grandmas and brothers and sister and aunts and uncles and cousins and friends and colleagues and, in some cases, kind people we haven't met. The circle of anguish spreads widely.

Our 25-year-old daughter has endured extreme physical pain from her brutal attack as well as mental pain – post-traumatic stress and anxiety, which will continue. She has benefited from physical and psychological care, and is determined to return to a full life and her career as a first-grade teacher.
But there have been moments of near despair.

"This should never have happened to you," I said painfully at her bedside that first weekend. Crying, she replied: "This should never happen to anybody."
But it does. And the silence about rape may add to the feelings of victimization.

Geneva Overholser, then editor of the Des Moines Register, made that point in 1989. "I believe that we will not break down the stigma," she wrote, "until more and more women take public stands. ... Rape is an American shame. Our society needs to see that and attend to it, not hide it or hush it up."

Sexual violation is not sex, it's violence. It's not love, it's hate. It's not so much an act of lust as of power and control.

Because rape is such a personal and despicable act, it is natural for victims and their families not to talk. But perhaps, in the long run, that works to the advantage of the attacker and to the detriment of the victim.

Justice Department figures indicate that one woman in three is a victim of some form of sexual assault during her lifetime. Since our daughter's attack, that statistic is no longer static – it has come alive, all around us.

Dear friends of ours for 20 or 30 years, several of them, have revealed that they were raped. We had no idea. Some never told police, counselors or even family members.

"If you or your daughter ever need someone to talk to," an Omaha colleague told me quietly, "I'd be happy to do so. A man broke into my home 11 years ago and raped me."

People we met in Texas told us painful and harrowing stories – a 9-year-old daughter, now 23, beaten nearly to death in an attempted rape; a wife, now in her 40s, abducted in her 20s, chained to a pig sty and raped; an airline supervisor's daughter, now 15, raped by a stranger when she was 12.

The news reports of my daughter's abduction and shooting, and of her 200-yard trek to a subdivision seeking help, produced a comforting wave of sympathy and encouragement. The cards, e-mails and prayers had a tangible result for us and for her – they are helping us all get better.

We are so grateful. But at the same time I hold feelings bordering almost on guilt. Why? Because most rape victims must go it alone. They don't get all that moral support.

The walking wounded from the crime of rape try to move on. They rebuild their lives, return to their jobs, rejoin society, caress their children and try to smile – hiding the horror they experienced.

Some victims suffer for years. Some families break up.

And all of that is in addition to the immediate fear of impregnation, HIV or other diseases. (My daughter is not pregnant, and her first HIV test was negative; more are needed.)

Because my daughter's attacker had a gun and was a criminal, he made her feel helpless. But not hopeless.

She tried to talk with him, saying she was a teacher and didn't he remember his teachers? He reacted coldly, telling her to shut up.

Her strong religious faith strengthened her spirit. As he was about to rape her, she told him: "God doesn't want you to do this."

He ignored her. Even as she feared for her life, knowing what might come next, she offered her suffering up to God.

When the man was finished with her, he got dressed and told her to turn around. He shot her in the back, and she fell. He shot her twice more.

He thought she was dead and left in her car.

The Catholic faith, which Bridget practices, honors a saint named Maria Goretti. A century ago this month, Maria was stabbed 14 times in an attempted rape and died the next day.

By coincidence, according to an account I read, she had used words almost identical to my daughter's. Trying to rebuff the man, Maria said: "No! It is a sin! God does not want it."

God does not want rape, and neither does our society. And yet it continues, and we rarely talk about it.