Women must survive blind hate

At the age of 8, my father sat me down and taught me how to gouge someone's eye out.

It sounds dramatic, but he was a smart man with two young daughters in a time when one in three women are raped. Sure, he could have taught me how to punch and kick, but an 8-year-old hitting the knockout point is not a practical expectation. Instead, Dad taught me how to use my thumb to push into and then pull on someone's eyeball should they threaten my life.

Much of my childhood involved martial arts, as every member of my immediate family has had some training. Regardless, all of the tae-kwon-do patterns and pressure-point techniques seemed more like a sporting move than a way to kick ass.

All that changed over winter break.

Twelve years after my father's demonstration, I am walking to a bathroom in a German airport when a man grabs me by the mouth and by the throat and pulls me into the family restroom.

I had seen him before.

He followed me from caf‚ to caf‚ throughout the terminal with his friends, pursuing me with no shame. I suppose that when the option of a consensual romp in the airport bathroom was ruled out, he was determined to get what he wanted regardless.

I struggled.

I fought hard, kicking, biting and flailing with every inch of my strength. It served little purpose, as I am not much larger than I was at age 8 at a mighty 5 feet tall and 100 pounds. Before I knew it, my head was bashed against the tile wall of the locked single-stall restroom and I was begging for mercy.

"Please, please stop. Do not touch me. You are making a huge mistake."

To no avail: My attacker continued smacking my head into the wall and ripped at my clothes.

I began to get dizzy.

I had been in tiny scuffles before where a push or a well-placed backhand got me out of trouble. My punches were not fazing this psycho. This time I had to think big. I thought of my father, what he would do without pepper spray, a knife or an advantageous position for busting heads.

I spun with the weight of my miniature trembling stature, thrusting one hand around his throat and the other, with a pointed thumb, went straight for his right eye. It was both the most disgusting and disturbing thing I have ever felt. He dropped, yelling, and I made a fast one for the door, struggling with the lock he somehow managed to flip.

Inflicting pain on another being, not to mention potentially perrmanent injury, was incredibly traumatizing, not to mention the attack itself. Since that date I have yet to be capable of sleeping without nightmares or panicking whenever I am left alone with strange men. I jump at loud noises and cry spontaneously.

Rape culture is very real.

Look anywhere in the world, and we can find sickening rates of sexual assault and rape. Rape culture is there when a woman tries to walk down the street and is harassed. We can see it when a woman is fondled at a concert or when drugs are slipped into her drink at bars. It is alive and strong when our own personal relationships become arenas for abuse and manipulation. It is there when a girl traveling to do human rights work across the globe is dragged into the bathroom by a man she wouldn't pay attention to.

I'll be the first to tell you that the individuals responsible for rape are the rapists and their apologists; to be more general, men. I believe that until men quit committing, supporting and ignoring rape, we will forever be plagued by such incidents as my bathroom attack.

Nevertheless, we, as potential victims, allies, security forces or just women in general have the ability to give ourselves personal strength when we go out in this world in which it seems inevitable that we will get attacked. It won't stop rape culture and it won't prevent us from being attacked, but militant defense of our lives and our bodies just may protect us from a bad situation getting worse.

In a 10-minute break between drinking a beer and boarding a plane, a man was willing to cause me a lifetime of pain.

That's the mentality of a rapist, a quick in and out to show their power and get their kicks, and then move on with their lives. My attacker may have won partially there - I am by no means recovered from the incident - but while my scars make me stronger, his will leave him a wretch without depth perception and a forever-altered appearance.

Now, tell me, who is the victim and who is the survivor?