The popular BBC One soap Eastenders has, over nearly two years, portrayed a story surrounding the serial rape or attempted rape of women living in the fictional Albert Square. The narrative began when Dean Wicks raped his sister-in-law Linda, the local pub landlady, in her kitchen in October 2014. In November 2015, Dean attempted to rape Roxy Mitchell, his girlfriend. She was saved from the attack by the timely arrival of Shirley Carter, Dean’s mother. Apologies if this description sounds like painting by numbers but adjectives such as ‘brutal’ or ‘violent’, which might dress up the prose, are redundant in this context: let’s take it as a given that rape is always brutal and always violent.
 
The soap worked with Rape Crisis to ensure that the storyline accurately reflected women’s experiences of rape, reporting, and living through the aftermath of the attack. You can read about their collaboration here. The soap's commitment to the two-year storyline, and consistent attention to Linda and Roxy’s responses, ensured that the narrative felt like more than mere sensationalism. The show afforded the characters space to explore the complex range of emotions that can follow an attack and gave them time to communicate to viewers that feelings do not just disappear after experiencing trauma – they stay with you, and do not just vanish into yesterday’s storyline land. Moreover, the plot busted a number of dangerous, yet pervasive, rape myths. Dean Wicks was a charming, good-looking man who did not ‘need’ to rape women to have sex but was a misogynist and a rapist nonetheless. Both men and women disbelieved Linda and found it easier to assume that she was guilty rather than her male attacker. The police were sympathetic yet ultimately unable to bring Dean to trial through lack of evidence in Linda’s case. And in Roxy’s, Dean’s barrister used her past relationships and perceived promiscuity as evidence against her to secure his freedom.
 
From beginning to end (or at least, as far as we have journeyed through the story so far), EastEnders has provided a lesson for viewers in the politics and injustices surrounding rape. The episode that aired on Friday, 19 August 2016 was a particularly important one in that it gave a number of women characters in the show the chance to speak out and make their voices heard. Watching the show, I had shivers as Linda, Roxy, Ronnie and Kathy discussed their experiences. In a culture that frequently ignores or suppresses women’s accounts of rape, in which only 15% of people who experience rape report it to the police, and in which only 5.7% of reports result in conviction, this was a victory for survivors. Each of those women’s voices helped break down barriers, and, who knows? Perhaps they will inspire actual survivors to share their stories or report rape. As the Albert Square women sat waiting for the call to come through from the police giving the jury’s decision in Dean's attempted-rape trial, Linda assured viewers that: ‘We did the only thing we could. We spoke out. And no verdict of guilty or not guilty is going to change that, is it?’ So far, so empowering.
 
But… and this is a big BUT. But, the only rape survivors represented as having voices in this episode were white women. Blonde, white women. Cis, straight, able-bodied, blonde, white women. Which is a big problem. Not only because it completely ignores the experiences of women of colour, men, trans, and non-binary people, but also because it perpetuates the myth that white women’s bodies, and blonde ones in particular, are somehow more innocent and more worthy of protection and redemption than others. That is not to suggest that the four women in question are generally depicted as more morally upstanding than other characters in the show (although it should be noted that the only rape represented onscreen was Linda's, and she alone of the four had not been convicted of a crime, had multiple sexual partners, or been seen to engage in illegal behaviour). Ronnie was convicted for swapping babies when her own died of sudden infant death syndrome, and is known to have killed a man who attempted to rape her. Roxy both took and dealt cocaine. Cathy faked her own death and was convicted for perjury. That these women could have casual sex, be imperfect, or even have criminal records, and yet also be rape survivors is a positive thing in demythologising notions about who can, and cannot, be raped.
 
However, while their characterisation is perhaps progressive, their whiteness and blondeness entrenches tropes about Western women’s bodies that are ultimately damaging. As Jennifer Loubriel writes for Everyday Feminism, ‘while all women are objectified under patriarchy, the concept of white womanhood has a very different connotation than Black womanhood does.’ Essentially, in patriarchal Western cultures white women’s bodies are deemed purer (and, by extension, worthy of defence against rape) than those of women of colour. Additionally, as Tessa Perkins argues, blondeness, while signifying a range of meanings in Western cultures, is ‘the ultimate sign of whiteness, being racially unambiguous. Hence blondes often embody Western cultural associations of whiteness and purity, as against blackness and evil’ (1990, 47). Thus the whiteness and Aryan blondeness of the four women characters sharing their stories has a disturbing racial and political dimension.
 
Interestingly, the four women survivors featured in the August 19 episode were not the only characters in the show to have been raped. Where was dark-haired Whitney, who was abused by her stepfather and later raped and forced into prostitution by a boyfriend (and who was downstairs in the pub where the episode largely took place)? And how about dark-haired Stacey (possibly a character who would identify as disabled owing to her bi-polar disorder) who was raped by Ronnie’s father? Expanding the scope of women’s experiences as survivors, wouldn’t Denise— a black woman who helped to bring up Dean—have added something to the conversation having experienced violence and kidnap at the hands of a violent ex-husband? The absence of these women’s stories was palpable, especially given each of the excluded characters had a connection either to Dean or to Linda. It left a bad taste in the mouth; for all the suggestion that any woman can be raped and survive, the message was clear that only the stories of blonde, white cis women matter.

The charity Rape Crisis reports that in cases where race was recorded, 27% of attendees at their centres in 2014-2015 identified as BAME. The most recent government figures (2011) show that 14% of the UK’s population identify as BAME, suggesting that people of colour are actually more likely to experience, or at least report, rape than white people. Another startling statistic from Rape Crisis is that 23% of attendees at the charity's centres identify as disabled – countering the myth of the able-bodied and physically ‘perfect’ women featured on EastEnders. Of course, even in the fictional world of soap-land it is impossible to want any character to be raped. That would be perverse. But somehow until survivors are cast as anything other than the innocent blonde-white-straight-cis-woman stereotype, the representation of rape survivors in EastEnders will continue to ring hollow.

When I read about the Lee Salter case at the University of Sussex yesterday I found it difficult to get back to work in the afternoon. For me, reading about violence against women is a trigger that leaves me tense, taut and in knots for hours, sometimes days at a time. I have suffered violence and aggression from men in many situations: in my home, at friends’ houses, in the street, on the tube, in a taxi, in the bars and cafes in which I’ve worked. Violent men are everywhere and our culture enables men to be violent with few, if any, repercussions. But I never expected a man to intimidate me at the university where I lecture. And I never expected my manager to collude in it. Call me naïve, but when I started working as a lecturer I thought systematic patriarchy and all-male conference panels were the last bastions of misogyny in academia. After all, I work in Film Studies. We’re all intersectional feminists here, right?!
 
How wrong I was.
 
I should apologise, at this point, for turning a horrific and brutal attack against a young woman into something all about me. However, I want to address the belittling of male aggression and violence, and women’s experiences of misogyny, in academia by sharing my story because I am convinced that through speaking out we can make things better.
 
Also, in case you missed it, I am angry.
 
During my first seminar teaching on a module one male student arrived late. He had not watched the set film or looked at the set reading. With hindsight, I should have asked him to leave, but I’m not keen on excluding people without knowing their circumstances. The student, who I had not met before, sat next to me and tried to make conversation on various topics while the rest of the class carried out exercises.
 
Eventually, during a class discussion, the student interjected. He insisted on talking about minstrelsy in 30s America, which he was unable to link back to the class topic. He began making irrelevant and factually wrong claims about Irish slavery (for a brilliant dissection of the racism embedded in myths about white slavery, see Liam Hogan's blog) and was denying the history of racism against black people in the United States. Throughout his racist monologue, I politely asked that he rethink his position, that he reconsider his approach, that he be more critical of sources, and that he reframe his argument. Anything other than being accused of ‘shutting down’ a student, because I know how that plays out with management in an institutional culture motivated by student feedback scores (TEF, eat your heart out).
 
Shaken by the exchange, during which the student was incredibly disrespectful, I continued teaching. Then, during another group activity, the student began raising his voice at his classmates. When I intervened, he became increasingly aggressive, demanding that he be allowed to continue his one-man show. At this point, I snapped. I told him he could speak to me in office hours and I would recommend literature to help him better understand the problems with his argument (his response: ‘I could recommend some stuff for you to read’). I told him he would not be allowed any more time to speak in the class and that his derailment ended there.
 
At this point, I was worried. I’ve experienced enough violence and aggression at the hands of men to know when it’s coming my way. How? It’s a feeling. Of course it’s a ‘feeling’. I’m a woman. We haven’t yet invented a language that enables us to describe situations like this without using the syntax of emotion. Men like it that way.
 
Sure enough, the student proceeded to stalk me across campus, walking right behind me and never attempting to speak to me. I was immensely grateful to another student who walked with me back to my office and made me feel safer (and to the many students from the class who wrote to me or passed on messages of support afterward). Within half an hour, the aggressive student wrote me an email that was roughly 700-800 words in length that attacked me over again and made a veiled threat to report me for my behaviour towards him. Shaken and scared to see the student again on campus—yes, this kind of encounter is a massive trigger for me and brings up all kinds of issues beyond my immediate safety—I reported the incident to senior colleagues.
 
My colleagues, mostly women, some men, were wonderful. I got total support from them and they gave up an enormous amount of time to listen to what I had to say and consider how to address the problem. If anything, being new to the department, the incident brought me closer to many people whom I know regard as good friends. Having a close network of brilliant women got me through the weekends spent crying later on in the saga. Because my manager got wind of the report and that’s when things got worse.
 
My manager decided he should be solely responsible for dealing with the student. To start things off, he invited me to his office where he mansplained me about how to deal with aggressive male students (basically everything about my teaching, not the student, was wrong). He implied I wasn’t thick-skinned enough to deal with smart men in the classroom. He told me I should arrange to have a colleague PICK ME UP FROM CLASSES to ensure I felt safe on campus. He also said the only issue he could see with the student’s behaviour was his ‘disrespect’ for me. Because the student HADN’T SAID ANYTHING RACIST. No, definitely not. There was nothing troubling about his attitude to race. And of course, the WHITE PROFESSOR should know – he has a poster outside his door all about micro-aggressions and racism.
 
During the meeting he did not take notes. Following the meeting, I sent a full written report to him and told him that I was unhappy with his response thus far. I was being victim-blamed and made to alter my behaviour. Racism was something that had to be addressed.
 
Following my manager's meeting with the student, I received an email from a senior colleague saying that she would be observing my next seminar with the class. Not asking: telling. When I asked why, she said she didn’t know and to speak to my manager. I wrote to him asking what the outcome of the student meeting was and why my class was being observed. I explained that I felt I was being treated as though I had done something wrong. I asked for an explanation THREE TIMES by email. Each time he refused to clarify the situation because he didn’t want to put anything in writing. He set up another meeting with me and eventually told me ‘not to worry’. Yeah right. I spent two weeks tearing my hair out with anxiety.
 
In an attempt to find out more about my position I wrote to HR and gave them all the details. I explained that I felt unsupported and victim-blamed. HR didn’t respond to my concerns other than to tell me my manager had already invited them to the forthcoming meeting – so I was being ambushed. I spoke briefly to a union rep, however was told by others not to take the union to the meeting because that would ‘make things worse’. My head of department kindly agreed to attend in support.
 
At the meeting, I felt bullied into dropping the matter. HR and my manager repeatedly told me that making a formal complaint would be time consuming, require further formal statements, and might make things worse for the student. As my manager so eloquently reminded me, it was, after all, my behaviour that was the issue; ‘the student won’t come to class any more because he has a problem with you.’ Well, I figured that much. Yet despite me being the problem and the student just being ‘bright’ and not liking authoritative women, I had to have a teaching observation during my next class to ensure my safety. Even though I was safe because the student wasn’t really threatening. Even though it was all down to me.
 
Did I mention my manager lied twice during that meeting? He claimed he didn’t know the student had stalked me across campus (it was in the written report I sent him that he acknowledged by return email). He also claimed he didn’t know about other students showing support for me – or perhaps he conveniently forgot, given that he didn’t bother taking notes. Did I also mention that during all of this someone suggested I should go easy on the student because they had mental health issues? Of course, I was too scared to mention my own mental health issues—anxiety that is often brought on by aggressive behaviour—to such totally unsympathetic superiors. And, once again, there’s a dangerous narrative emerging that mental health problems excuse, or are synonymous with, violence in men, which undermines every person suffering mental health issues and creates damaging stereotypes.
 
So that’s my story. I was harassed by a misogynistic and racist student who faced no consequences for his actions because my manager ultimately ignored my complaint and covered the whole thing up – why risk a dissatisfied student when an anxious lecturer will carry on as normal? In fact, I was in no uncertain terms made to feel like the culprit rather than the victim because, as Sara Ahmed so succinctly points out, BY SPEAKING OUT I BECAME THE PROBLEM. I upset the status quo and that was not OK. I was asking for action and I got none, because even in academia men will often act only when it’s in their interests and to protect their own. Acknowledging that the university had a problem with racism and sexism was too hard to bear. So the university, as represented by management and HR, instead colluded in racist and sexist discourse, telling all the students in that classroom that discriminatory and intimidating behaviour was ALRIGHT, NOTHING TO SEE HERE.
 
I wrote recently (see ‘No Place in Higher Education’ on this site) about the racist and sexist discussions I had been party to at a conference. I refer again to Sara Ahmed, who resigned from Goldsmith’s University because of allegations that the institution ignores and covers up reports of sexual harassment. I’m going to come full circle back to the University of Sussex, who claim that they have ‘supported’ Allison Smith and yet failed to sack Lee Salter after his conviction for his barbaric assault on her.
 
To all these institutions, and to the men who perpetuate fear and violence in universities against not just women, but people of colour, LGBT communities and the differently abled by saying nothing, doing nothing, bullying, covering up or even being the perpetrators: know that we will NOT BE SILENT. We will SPEAK OUT. We will MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE. And we will not stop until you understand that it is you, not us, who are the problem.
 
To protect the student’s identity I have not included any details about the modules or levels that I was teaching.