Preface to Next Blog

The detective sat across from the woman with his lips pressed together, as if in disapproval.  It was the third time in a month he had to generate a report for the assault of a woman by an asylum seeker.  Having discussed this with fellow officers, they now complained, "We are reduced to running a bloody rape crisis center."

Glancing at his watch, he asked if it would be o.k. if he wrote, as she gave her account.  She was in agreement because the very act of reliving her attack was causing nausea and a compelling need to vomit. Breathing in slowly, she began to speak. The assault had occurred returning home from market. She had been pulled into an alley, choked and attacked.  Yes, she was married.  Yes, she had two small children at home. Yes, the man spoke Arabic and he was of a dark pigmentation.  No, she had never seen him in her neighborhood.

Thanking the woman for coming in, the detective asked her to please not share her story, as this would be an active investigation.  "And please do not mention the pigmentation of the male.  You might be cast as a racist... charged with a hate crime."

Glancing at his report, he read it quickly:

"Married Caucasian female gives report of a rape, after admitting to leaving local pub having consumed two pints of Lager and a shot of whiskey.  She cannot provide sufficient details, but believes her attacker was a Caucasian male.  A follow-up visit is recommended with a social worker."

Checking his watch again, he realized it was the end of his shift.   Placing his badge in his desk, he headed to his favorite pub to share a drink with his fellow officers.