Me, the Man, and the Bear

I climbed into the attic a few days ago, looking for an old photograph. I know it exists. It’s up there somewhere, but I couldn’t find it.

I’m glad. I don’t really want to see it again.

Thirty-nine years ago, I was a foreign student in Turkey. I was living with a Turkish family and one day, my Turkish “sister” Mine (Mee-nay) took me to the European side of Istanbul to shop and sightsee.

As we were walking down a street, we encountered a short, ragged-looking street man who was encouraging tourists to take a photo with him and his trained bear. Yes, he had a real bear on a leash. I gave my camera to Mine and happily walked over to pose for a photo.

I remember what I was wearing. It was a brown floral cotton print sheath dress with a belt tied around my waist. I had sewn it myself. The man gestured for me to stand between him and the bear. As soon as I did, he reached under my dress and molested me. I was so shocked, I jumped away.

Mine didn’t realize what had happened, nor did any of the other tourists and passersby on the street. Because the man was short and standing slightly behind me, he was able to effectively hide what he was doing. I had either jumped away before Mine took the photo, or she wanted to get another shot because she told me to pose again. The man, who knew that Mine didn’t see anything, was saying “ok, ok, ok” to me in English, gesturing for me to come back.

I was 16 years old and so naïve and innocent, I didn’t know how to process this experience. Mine wanted to take another picture. The man was telling me it was “ok.” For a split second, I actually wondered if it had really happened. I was afraid to make a scene. I didn’t know what to do, so I stupidly convinced myself it wouldn’t happen again. I hesitantly stepped over to stand between him and the bear again. Once more, he reached under my dress and inappropriately touched me. This time I whirled around and glared at him. I don’t remember if I said anything, but I stormed off. I can’t remember if I had already paid him the few lira he was expecting.

Mine wasn’t sure why I was upset. When I told her what had happened, I asked if we should call the police.

“No!” she quickly replied.

It was not the first time she had warned me that Turkish police were dangerous and couldn’t be trusted.

So I did nothing, but feel sick and angry. I cried myself to sleep that night.

When that roll of photos was developed, I felt sick and angry again when I saw the photo of me, the man and the bear. From a distance, it just looked like a cute touristy picture of me on the streets of Istanbul. But when I looked more closely, I realized that the expression of shock, fear and confusion on my face showed that Mine had captured on film the exact moment the pervert molested me.

That was 39 years ago. I am not a naïve, sheltered young girl anymore. I’m certain I would handle myself very differently if something like that happened to me today. I feel angry when people react with instant suspicion when a woman “remembers” being sexually molested or attacked many years later, as if the fact that she hasn’t harped on it for the rest of her life is reason enough to discount her story and her memory.

Unless you prove to me that a women has something to gain from publicly revealing her experience of sexual abuse, my instinct is to believe her, because for every woman who speaks up, I believe there are millions of other women who don’t.

You can believe my story or not. But somewhere up in my attic, I have a picture to prove it.

***