Why do some scenes stop us in mid-thought, mid-sentence?

It is twilight, just getting dark, and Waikiki is crowded. As I drive along busy streets, I see a bicycle moving fast. The man is pumping steadily, moving swiftly, hunched intently, like an acrobat on a high wire. One mistake is all it would take in this traffic. There is no room for error. He is all attention, lips closed, arms firm.

Perched behind him on a bar that runs through the rear axle, stands a woman. She stands straight, still, and tall. Her hands grasp his shoulders lightly. Not even her head moves. They are one balance, their bodies tight and light with precision. It is ballet: he is Baryshnikov, she his ballerina. They move as one through the darkening streets, past swift and darting cars. They are intent, concentrated. As he turns the corner fast, they lean as one into the turn, and then they are gone.

There are no frills here. They wear pants and shirts of no description, neutral and unimportant; there are no flapping clothes or mouths. They do not speak; they do not smile. They are intent; it is precision work. Perhaps the thrill comes from riding death’s edge. It comes from calling forth skills one has meticulously honed. It comes from knowing that one’s life sometimes depends on oneself alone.

In society today, we don’t very often get this feeling of depending solely on ourselves. Most of us work in situations where we make decision about ideas, about paperwork, or about the work that other people do. Rarely do these decisions make a critical difference to our own, or to anyone’s life or death.

There are many jobs that are always potentially life threatening: working construction 30 stories high on the skeletal framework of a building, handling the cooling mechanism in a nuclear power plant, racing a thoroughbred horse down a fairway. Even in many of these, our safety depends in part on the skill and diligence of those around us. Rarely do we think to ourselves: if I get this wrong, I may die.

One hundred years ago, many of our lives depended on the work of our own hands. Over the years, increasing technology has separated us from the reality of our own effort, our own survival. Today a computer screen is our reality, refashioning us into some new vision of what we once were. Sometimes we feel like we are wheeling out of control; sometimes we have no control at all over our own lives or our survival.

When I was sailing across the Pacific in small boats, thousands of miles from any land, I was often afraid. As I lay in my bunk at night listening to the pounding and the whoosh of the ocean three centimeters from my ear through the skin of the boat, I made my mental plans for escape. I imagined the boat dark, with water pouring in, and feeling and fighting my way up to the deck, grabbing survival gear if I could, if I had time.

It is astonishing how a few moments can change a person’s life forever. I am going to tell you about one of those moments. It is a very personal experience, but I feel that sharing it may help others in the same situation. And there are more of us than you would think.

It was early, about 2:30 in the morning, Dec. 9, 1997. I was walking home from a party in Stockholm, Sweden. It was dark and cold and I knew that I should not be walking alone so late, but I never thought that something would happen to me, and I had to get home.

Where I live, several 10-story buildings with a maze of small gardens and playgrounds have been built around a mall. To get to my home, I have to walk through a garden near my house. I’ve done this hundreds of times, but this time different.

Because I had been to a party, I was wearing a short black dress, long black boots, and a white cardigan. When it first happened, I couldn’t stop thinking that it was my fault, and that if I had been wearing more clothes it would never have happened. I know now that this is not true; it is never the victim’s fault.

As I was getting close to my house, I heard something behind me. I stopped to look, but I could not see anything. I tried to ignore the feeling that somebody was pursuing me, and keep on going, but I couldn’t ignore it.

About 200 feet from my door, someone grabbed my arm. I tried to turn around, but he held me so hard that I could not move. I panicked. My heart was racing, and I couldn’t breathe. He was whispering in my ear, telling me to keep quiet, repeating how cute I was. "You are so cute, I just want to hold you," he whispered. "Ooh, you’re so cute."

He held his hand hard over my mouth, and I can still remember the strong smell, as if he hadn’t bathed in weeks. It made my eyes water. His hand was cold and strong. He was trying to get me down on the ground. All I could do was try scream and try to get away. I struggled for my life!

He felt much bigger than I was. I was so afraid I could not think. I felt as if I was suffocating.

While he was trying to open his pants, I managed to get away. I did not know what to do or where to go. It was as if I had forgotten where I lived. I have never been so terrified.

I just ran and ran and ran. I do not really remember how I found my way home, but I did, finally. And then I could not explain what had happened. I just cried.

My mother was really frightened when she saw that my dress was torn and that I had blue hand marks on my arms. She was yelling at me and shaking me, trying to get me to tell her what had happened. And she was crying just as hysterically as I was.

We stayed up all night. My mother did not know what to do. She felt helpless, but I am so glad that she was there for me. Just having her arms around me made me feel secure.

My aunt took my little brothers to her place; we did not want them to be upset when the police came to talk to me.

The police were no help at all. My mother talked to them for hours; all they said was, "We are really sorry. There is nothing we can do, since he did not complete the rape."

I still cannot believe it; they would not help me because I was not raped! I was assaulted, but because I escaped my attacker and was not raped, they would not take action! I still do not know if they were incompetent, or if Sweden just has inadequate laws!

My mother forced me to get help. I did not want to. I felt that I was okay. However, I am really glad that I did, because I felt so much better after talking about it.

Now I know that it was not my fault. I also know that if you are in pain, then you just have to talk about it, and not keep it inside you, because that makes it so much harder.

I went to a therapist twice a week for three months, and I still go sometimes when I need to talk to someone.

As I said at the start, I choose to tell about this because I feel that knowing my experience can help others who have been attacked. It is important to know that you are not alone. There are others who have been through the same thing, and it helps to talk with them.

I know who it was; he is a known rapist. He was convicted of rape two months ago and sent to prison for 6 years.

This is not his first time in prison; he has several convictions for rape. This time he raped a girl just a few blocks from my house. She is my age. If the police had done something when I first reported my assault, maybe this would not have happened. I can’t stop thinking that it could have been me.

There are lots of myths about rape. For example: many men, and women too, feel that it is the victim’s fault if she wears sexy clothes. That was what I thought. The truth is no one, ever, deserves to be raped. Men and women dress up in different ways for different occasions, but that doesn’t mean that they want to be attacked or assaulted. Rape is NOT an act of sexual passion; it is a crime of violence.

The statistics on rapes and assaults are sobering. Studies claims that one in eight college women is a victim of rape during her college years. Of these, 84 percent know the man who raped them, and 57 percent of these cases are date rape.

Rape happens to women of all ages, and the crime often goes unreported, because the victim or her family is embarrassed, or because they buy into the myth that the victim is guilty.