SEEING the brand new playground with its blue climbing frame and shiny red slide, my two younger brothers and I raced to the gate.
It was 2009 and my summer holidays had just begun. Aged 13, my sense of freedom and excitement about the new park just round the corner from our house was palpable.
But just 30 minutes later, my childhood would be brutally ripped away from me in an attack which still haunts me to this day – and one for which no one was ever punished.
While the evening started no differently than any other that summer, when we arrived at the park in Riga, Latvia, I immediately noticed a lone man, in his 30s, wearing a bright orange cross-body bag roaming around by himself.
He had a deep scar under his left eye and a bald skinhead – but I didn’t pay much attention to him.
About half an hour after arriving, I realised I desperately needed the loo and nipped into the woods at the edge of the park – one I knew by heart and had cycled through so many times.
As I was getting up to leave, the man who had been watching us appeared out of nowhere.
I immediately sensed danger and my body froze. I could tell he was drunk by the smell of vodka as he pushed me onto the ground.
I screamed as loudly as I could. I hoped someone – my brothers, the other families – would hear me. But no one came.
At just 5ft 7, I was so much smaller and weaker than him, a fully grown man.
I laid there helpless, hearing the shrieks of my friends having fun in the playpark just 100 metres away.
He pulled at my clothes and ripped down my dark denim jeans and I knew what he was going to do.
Next he removed my knickers and sexually assaulted me in the most brutal way.
Although I begged him to stop – and promised the incident wouldn’t be reported – he wasn’t done.
”You have really nice breasts,” he said after ripping up my top and unclasping the neon green bra I was wearing.
I remember staring up at the leaves of the pine trees swinging above and thinking about my poor parents finding me here stabbed or strangled when he’d inevitably kill me afterwards.
When he’d finished, he whispered in my ear: “You can go if you keep your mouth shut. Forever.”
Terrified, I nodded, pulled my clothes back on and legged it.
Back home, I found my parents and told them that a man had just attacked me. All of us were shaking and crying.
My dad called 999 and the police arrived within 30 minutes. They put me in the police car with my dad and drove me back to the scene of the crime.
I recited the incident to the officers, pointing at the flattened grass where the thug had taken my innocence so mercilessly.
Amongst the bushes, I found my black Samsung flip phone which had fallen out when my attacker had ripped my jeans off.
That very phone, I learned years later, played a crucial part – not in the investigation process. But why my claim was never taken seriously.
An investigation was opened but it wasn’t until six months later that I was called into the local police station to try and identify my perpetrator by looking through mugshots of predators in the area.
The file, which felt never-ending, contained photos of men, women and even kids younger than me – something I struggle to digest up until this day.
But his mug – one I will never be able to erase from my memory – wasn’t there, and the police closed the case, dismissing me as a lying child who made up a story to cover up losing her phone.
Their child had just been raped – a situation no parents could ever be prepared for or would know how to react to.
Although it wasn’t like the assault was swept under the carpet and both my dad and mum were there for me, the rape was not something we’d talk about a lot.
Looking back at it now, perhaps they didn’t want the conversations to serve as a constant reminder that something so horrific had happened to me – or to prevent me from spiralling into depression.
They didn’t want to lose their bubbly little girl, always outgoing and smiling – and for years, my parents, a business owner and an ophthalmologist, didn’t.
Life seemingly returned back to normal – as normal as it could be – and I even found myself at the same playground a few weeks later, albeit under my parents’ supervision.
September, the new school year, arrived and none of my teachers or classmates, even the closest ones, could tell that a man had a man had assaulted me by penetration just months earlier.
My academic performance and everyday life hadn’t been affected – I was still one of the top students in class and would do things every normal teenager girl does, such as hanging out with my pals and hitting the clubs in the old town.
But it all changed ten or so years later when it happened again.
In 2019, aged 23, I had been living in London for four years after leaving Riga to pursue my journalism degree in the UK.
After suffering a brutal break up, I decided to join Tinder, and I matched with a man a few years older than me.
We enjoyed a lovely dinner at The Ivy in South Kensington and the pair of us headed for drinks at a nearby pub.
The booze kept on flowing and flowing – at some point I remember having come back from the loo and finding yet another round of gin and tonic on the table.
Although I’d been drinking since the unripe age of 13, even this amount of alcohol proved to be more than I could handle.
With no trains that could take me home, my date arranged an Uber – which I immediately passed out in.
”Kate, we’re here,” he said, before asking if he could stay the night as his home was quite a bit of a trek away.
At some point in the night, I’m awaken by my panties getting pulled down – he wanted to have sex.
Bleary-eyed and still intoxicated, I said no and pulled myself further away from him – but he didn’t take my ”no” for an answer.
Like an octopus, his hands were everywhere, desperately trying to initiate intercourse, whether I wanted it or not.
After what felt like half-an-hour of pestering, I stopped – and he took the silent ”no” as a ”yes”.
It wasn’t until I’d been recommended to watch the gripping BBC series I May Destroy You, written by Michaela Coel, that I realised what had happened to me that November wasn’t just a guy trying to have sex with me.
When talking about rape and other forms of sexual offences, there’s this common misconception that it’s always violent, by a stranger and in a dark alleyway.
The harsh reality is that the scope is much wider – there’s date rape, coercion into having sex, acquaintance rape, groping, forced kissing, to name a few.
If you've been sexually assaulted it's important to remember that it was not your fault. Sexual violence is a crime, no matter who commits it or where it happens. Don't be afraid to get help.
There are services that can help if you’ve been sexually assaulted, raped or abused.
You don’t have to report the assault to the police if you don’t want to. You may need time to think about what has happened to you.
But you should get medical help for any injuries and because you may be at risk of pregnancy or sexually transmitted infections (STIs). If you want the crime to be investigated, it’s best to have a forensic medical examination as soon as possible.
Try not to wash or change your clothes immediately after a sexual assault. This may destroy forensic evidence that could be important if you decide to report the assault to the police (although you can still go to the police even if you have washed).
Where to get help
Sexual assault referral centres (SARCs) offer medical, practical and emotional support to anyone who has been raped, sexually assaulted or abused. SARCs have specially trained doctors, nurses and support workers to care for you.
Other places you can get help include:
Similarly to what Michaela portrayed so well in the award-winning mini series, based on real-life events, I’d fallen victim to a date rapist.
Although I’m not sure whether he drugged my drinks whilst I nipped to the loo, I’m convinced he was trying to get me intoxicated.
The next morning, he left and I was shutting the doors I began to cry.
Several months had gone by and I decided to go the police station – whilst I knew it was my word against his and nothing probably won’t come out of it, I wanted to have his name on the record.
But after explaining everything to the staff, I was met with laughs – right in the face.
Whether it was about me or an inside joke they had going on, the two police officers behind the desk didn’t seem to take me seriously – and once again, just like the first time around, nothing came of my visit to the station.
Virtually all rape victims are denied justice.
According to data by Saunders, since 2016-2017, the number of rapes reported has increased by 67% from 42,059 up to 70,330.
In 2021-2022, only 3.2 % of those were prosecuted (2,223).
The total reports include ‘‘historical’’ allegations which are usually harder to prove.
But the broad indication is that, during 2021-2022, of the 70,330 rapes reported to police only 1,378 led to a conviction.
This is a conviction rate of less than 2%.
This is also the time when I decided to look into therapy – provided by Women and Girls’ Network charity that been recommended by one of the staff members at the police station.
It seemed like a promising start to hopefully figuring out my life and how to move forward after the horrific incidents – but somehow, it pushed me even deeper down into the deep abyss of psychological trauma.
Every session, 20 in total and all over Zoom as it was during Covid, felt like homework – I didn’t want to waste the free opportunity, so I’d spend every Monday trying to plan what to talk about this time, whether it was dissecting my intimate life, relationships, the disfigured image I had of myself and more.
I had violent nightmares about being raped that lasted for weeks and at some point, after finding myself mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted, I couldn’t take it anymore and started contemplating taking my own life.
I’d be stood on the platform and thought about jumping in front of a fast-approaching train. I’d be on the third floor of a shopping mall and wondered if the fall would be enough to end my suffering.
Although I had friends and a good support system, I had never felt more isolated – I was struggling with maintaining romantic relationships, I could no longer sleep and saw myself as nothing but a mere piece of meat.
By the age of 23, I had been raped, sexually assaulted and harassed on multiple occasions – there was even an incident where a man masturbated to the image of me, back then around 19, as I was sunbathing.
There was also another creep, a petite middle-aged man wearing a cheap cologne and an unbuttoned white shirt, who clasped my genitals as he was walking past me at a nightclub.
An object put here for men to harass and assault – that’s the reflection I saw of myself in the mirror.
Luckily, thanks to my best friend, I managed to escape the tight grip the thought of suicide had me in.
It wasn’t – and will never be – a linear journey for survivors of sexual assault.
In the UK alone, the data paints a bleak picture – according to Rape Crisis, one in four women have been sexually assaulted as an adult.
For men, the number is one in 18 – or 1.38million in total – and one in every six children have been subjected to sexual violence.
It might not be who you think...
According to the data by Rape Crisis, 1 in 2 rapes against women are carried out by their partner or ex-partner.
91% of people prosecuted for sexual offences are men aged 18+.
6 in 7 rapes against women are carried out by someone they know.
But most survivors don’t report it to the police.
Lots of these survivors tell someone else what happened. So, why don’t they tell the police?
40% said ‘’embarrassment’’,
38% said they didn’t think the police could help
34% said they thought it would be humiliating.
The journey towards some kind of healing sometimes feels like taking one step forward only to then move two back.
Years have passed and there are days when I struggle to get out of the bed and want to be left alone.
But there have also been plenty of moments where I’ve forgotten about what happened to me, the young girl in 2009 and 2019, and I’ve proven that I will not let these disgusting thugs win – not this time.
I’ve moved abroad – all by myself – completed my studies with a First, have travelled around the world, met amazing people who are always there for me and most importantly – have learnt to love myself once again.
