Unheard

Rexford had just turned 21 in June 2018 when she went out to a bar with friends in Anchorage. That night, she was sexually assaulted by an older man she did not know. After she drove herself to the emergency room, police were called to help her file a report and to take her for a forensic examination. In the aftermath of the assault, Rexford quit her job in Anchorage and moved back to Fairbanks for a few months. There, she said, she unsuccessfully tried to get help from several agencies. She was devastated to learn there was a one-year wait to see a therapist through a local clinic, and ultimately did not add her name to the waitlist. When she told her friends and family what had happened, many of them shared stories of their own assaults. Rexford said that as a result of a backlog in processing rape kits, her forensic exam was not tested until the end of 2019. The Anchorage Police Department said its investigation remains open.

Arthofer was so young when she was abused by an older man, she didn’t understand what he was doing when he would hold her in his lap. She recognized it as molestation only years later, when she learned about sex for the first time. In her mid-20s, she began seeing a psychologist and started to share what happened with people close to her. By talking about it, she said, she learned the abuse was not her fault. She then decided to make a report to Alaska State Troopers. Arthofer said making that report was the single most important step she took to change her life. The investigation of her case stalled when investigators asked her to obtain a recorded confession from the perpetrator. Arthofer did not feel ready to confront him, and did not attempt to make the recording. Instead she began a dialogue about the abuse with her family. Still, Arthofer said, until she filed the report, she had been “a prisoner” of her mind. She continues to work on reframing her past trauma in order to be stronger in the present.

Mendenhall was raised in Dutch Harbor in the Aleutian Islands. When she was 15 and visiting her father in Wasilla, she said, a boy she met through friends raped her, causing extreme pain and ignoring her pleas to stop. She had never had sex before. Mendenhall says she told a few friends the next day, but never reported it to law enforcement because she feared getting in trouble for underage drinking. After the rape, she felt like sex could never be special, and for several years, she said, she behaved “promiscuously.” She said realizing that the assault was not her fault allowed her to encourage others to report rape.

Fisher moved to Alaska from Washington state in 1993, at 7 years old. In Bethel that first year, he said, he was befriended and then sexually abused by an older boy over the course of several months. Saddled with feelings of guilt and confusion, he never told anyone until he was a young adult. Now a business professional and a devout Christian, Fisher makes a point of sharing his story with others. “It’s tough to admit, as a man, that you were a victim,” he said. “I hope that my openness can be a sign to others that healing is possible, but I don’t want to give the wrong impression that my healing is complete.”

The first boy to sexually abuse Sakar during her childhood in the Western Alaska village of Chuathbaluk issued a frightening warning: If she told, her parents would hate her and blame her. She believed him. Sakar went on to be abused by other boys and men in her village, abuse that followed her into adulthood. She became a mother and earned a college degree, but drank heavily to cope with the abuse. A turning point came when she heard someone say silence only served to protect abusers. She began to confront men who she said had abused her, got sober and began telling her story openly. A few years ago, she moved back to Chuathbaluk — her home as well as a place freighted with memories of childhood abuse. Now, as a teacher at the village school, she wants to be a trusted adult for children to confide in.

In March 2013, B.B. reported to police that she had been raped by a man she met online. A grand jury handed up 11 felony charges against the alleged perpetrator: four counts of first-degree sexual assault, five counts of second-degree sexual assault, and one count each of third-degree assault and theft. Everything except the theft charge was dropped as part of a plea deal. The defendant was required by the court to write a letter of apology to B.B. In it, he said, “In closing I would like to note the remorse I feel in being a contributor to a situation where sexual boundaries may have been pushed. Any wishes you had that were not respected is not ok- I apologize for any part I may have played in that.” In December 2017, the same defendant pleaded guilty to an attempted sexual assault charge in the second degree, after another victim reported him. He is now serving eight years in prison.

In 1973, a year after Royston moved to Alaska, she was attacked at knifepoint by a stranger who broke in through her bathroom window. Nearly half a century before #MeToo, in an era before rape kits were developed, Royston decided to fight for justice. She said her prosecutor warned her that her name would be all over the papers, that she’d lose her job, and that her daughter, entering second grade in the fall, would be bullied at school. Over the next two years, Royston said, she faced doubt and dismissal from the police, the prosecutor, and a neighbor whom she had looked to for support. Ultimately Royston’s assailant faced charges and pleaded guilty, but the hurtful exchanges still affect her to this day.

When Wilson was 17 years old, she reported being raped by multiple young men at a house party while heavily intoxicated. At first, Wilson said, she felt reluctant to speak to law enforcement. But when her mother — who said she is also a survivor of sexual assault — found out what had happened several days later, she insisted on driving Wilson to the police station. Alaska State Troopers investigated. One of the men admitted that he had sex with Wilson, but said it was consensual. As an Alaska Native teenager faced with the prospect of being cross-examined before a jury, Wilson ultimately decided not to participate in a criminal case. Today, Wilson works at the Tanana Chiefs Conference, a Native nonprofit serving Alaska’s vast interior. She has been sober for more than eight years. Wilson first shared her story on Facebook, and since then, she’s spoken publicly about sexual assault and trauma to audiences in Alaska and New York.

When Beatus heard that several men had sexually assaulted her daughter Jessica Wilson at a house party, she wanted them brought to justice. She drove her daughter to the police station to report the rape. That had not been an option for Beatus when she was a teenager in the 1970s. She had grown up in the village of Allakaket, an “idyllic” childhood, she said, until she moved to Fairbanks at 14 to attend high school. During the summer when she was 16 and back home in the village, Beatus and a female relative were out walking one night when a local man invited them into his home for a drink. Beatus said she had only a sip of the drink he gave her and quickly lost consciousness; she believes they were drugged. She woke up the next morning without her clothes. At the time, the only option seemed to be to run away and try to forget.

Bond said she is the victim of multiple sexual assaults. In the aftermath, she struggled with substance abuse. In November 2016, Bond joined Alcoholics Anonymous and has collected an AA coin commemorating her sobriety each year since. The second anniversary gave her renewed motivation to remain clean. She said of her eldest daughter, “My baby told me how scary I was. … She told me how proud she is of me [now] and how she’s not scared of me anymore. That she feels safe, loved and protected.” In addition to AA, getting back to her Native culture helped her heal and “be present,” Bond said. Sobriety also led her to work with survivors of sexual assault at a Dillingham agency. She now coordinates a Sexual Assault Response Team (SART), a group of first responders who help victims make reports and collect evidence.

Paraoan said she is a survivor of child sexual abuse. She spent years working through that trauma in therapy. Then, in her mid-20s, she experienced another assault by someone she knew through work. Paraoan didn’t hesitate to report it: She called a car and asked her best friend to meet her at the Alaska Native Medical Center emergency room. From there, she was taken for a forensic exam and an interview with police. She remained hopeful that her case would be investigated. Every few months, she called the detective assigned to her case to ask for updates. After nine months with no news, she stopped calling. The Anchorage Police Department said its investigation is suspended unless additional evidence or leads surface. No arrests have been made. It’s been nearly three years.

Nearly 40 years passed before S.S. found trauma care that felt welcoming and made sense for him. A survivor of child sexual abuse by a priest listed as credibly accused by the Catholic Church and by a neighbor (both have since died), he grew up in silent turmoil that affected every part of his life. Still, he pushed on toward the hallmarks of adulthood, becoming an accomplished professional and dedicated father. But there were points when he thought he wouldn’t make it another year. “I sat for decades in a vicious loop … never coming forward, never dealing with it,” he said. In his early 20s, S.S. considered seeking help, but he found few spaces that appeared to welcome survivors like him — a man, grappling with the cycle of anger, shame and guilt. After a particularly dark episode in early 2019, he picked up the phone, dialed Standing Together Against Rape (STAR) and asked for care. This time he was connected to a therapist who is helping him make sense of the trauma. He said it was the start of the healing process that he’s long been searching for.

On Jan. 13, Gamache sat in a courtroom and told a judge some of what her ex-husband had done to her. He was being sentenced that day for two felony charges of sexual assault of a minor, and Gamache was giving a victim impact statement. Gamache said that in 2011 she had reported her husband to police for raping her and had helped police tape a confession from him. But he was not charged. Alaska’s state law at the time allowed a “marriage defense” in some cases where one spouse sexually assaulted the other. The law was changed in July 2019. Gamache’s ex-husband pleaded guilty to the charges of sexually assaulting minors, and that day in January, he was sentenced to a total of 36 years in prison. He is currently incarcerated. When he was offered the chance to speak in court, he said, “Everything that she said is completely accurate. Everything is true. There’s so much more she could have put in there that I have done.”

Smith is known by many in her community as “Dr. Sonya.” A community advocate for Alaska Native survivors of sexual assault, especially missing and murdered indigenous women, Smith intimately knows the scars of child sexual abuse. She said a now-deceased uncle sexually abused her from the time she could walk into her teenage years. She believes she was first raped at age 4. The day after she graduated from high school, Smith left her family home, moving to Juneau, Anchorage and Seattle before settling in Sitka in 2008. There she became a certified nurse assistant. She now takes pride in looking out for younger generations. “I think it takes more guts as I age and come into our matriarchal experience,” she said. “I am responsible for them all. … it’s my turn.”

Ash, who asked that her last name not be used, said she always wanted to become a police officer, and she believes her personal experience of sexual assault will make her more effective in that role. She has been in therapy since age 9 to treat the trauma of childhood sexual molestation, she said. Seven years ago, during her first year of college, she said, she was raped at a party. Afraid she wouldn’t have a strong legal case, she never reported it to police. In college, Ash majored in criminal justice with a particular interest in public service work around sexual assault prosecution. Soon, she hopes to prepare for the police entrance exam. She said every day continues to get better.

From her childhood in Kotzebue into her adulthood in Anchorage, Wakolee said, she was molested, raped or stalked nearly 30 times. She never reported the incidents to law enforcement. The act of reporting assumes you know you were wronged. But from a very early age, Wakolee said she blamed herself. She traces the pattern of self-blame to a single instance when she was about 7. Her grandmother walked in on her husband, Wakolee’s grandfather, molesting her behind the garage doors. (Both have since died.) “My pants were down, and she ripped me off of his lap and took me into the house, about halfway into the house. She threw me up against the stairs and disowned me. … I didn’t understand what ‘disowned’ meant, but I took complete blame of what had happened, like I did something wrong, and it just built on that.” That child’s sense of guilt silenced her as an adult.

On Sept. 27, 2018, Ford went to see a doctor for symptoms of vertigo. In the exam room, she said, the elderly physician touched her breast and exposed her nipple while using his stethoscope. He also pressed his crotch against her leg and made a series of disturbing comments, she said. Ford left in shock. She initially did not want to report. But her appointment took place the same day Christine Blasey Ford testified in Congress during the confirmation hearings of Brett Kavanaugh to be a Supreme Court justice. It reminded her of the “shitty things women go through when they don’t say something right away, or sometimes even when they do.” That evening, she wrote down every detail she could remember. She then reported the incident to Anchorage police and the Alaska State Medical Board. In January 2019, the municipal prosecutor filed charges against the doctor for first degree sexual harassment, a misdemeanor, but dropped them six months later. Ford said no one notified her; she only found out by searching online. Then in mid-October, the medical board concluded “there was not sufficient evidence of any violations to the Alaska State Medical Board statutes and regulations.” They closed their case as well, and the doctor faced no sanctions. A prosecutor cited “evidentiary issues,” and the doctor denied the claims.

Savage was walking to her Anchorage apartment one summer night when a young stranger blocked her path. When she tried to walk away, he attacked, punching her in the head, groping her and dragging her by her waist-long hair toward nearby bushes. Police arrested the assailant on the spot. The criminal case rested on Savage’s willingness to testify in court. She was reluctant but agreed, motivated by knowing she could stop her attacker from hurting other women. Testifying wasn’t easy: Cross-examination made it feel as if she were the one on trial. Jurors heard about her sex life and her past drug use. During one particularly brutal moment, Savage vomited on the witness stand. Savage’s attacker was convicted, and is not scheduled to be released from prison until 2034.

When Loomis was growing up in Haines during the 1960s, it was an open secret that school superintendent Karl Ward sexually abused boys. Ward volunteered with the high school basketball team, and players would be invited to his house for liquor-soaked parties that often wound up in the basement, where Ward would make sexual advances. Loomis says that he escaped the worst of the abuse, but that at one party Ward touched him inappropriately and tried to kiss him. Ward maintained his status as a revered community leader until his death in 1997. The high school gymnasium was even named after him. Then, in 2018, a former Haines High School student named Rick Martin named Ward as his rapist in a cellphone video recorded shortly before he killed himself. It was then that Loomis and several other Haines men decided it was time to go public, talking about the years of abuse with the local newspaper. Loomis has offered to organize support groups for others in Haines abused by Ward, but few have taken him up on the offer. The “Karl Ward Gymnasium” sign has come down, and the gym has been renamed.

Cathleen, who asked to be identified by her middle name for fear of retribution, got to know the captain of a small fishing boat while working as a barista one summer in Southcentral Alaska. He seemed nice enough, and she knew other women who had worked with the man, so when he offered her a well-paying deckhand job she agreed. A few hours into the multiday fishing trip the captain forced open her sleeping bag, wrested a knife from her hand and raped her, she said. She reported the attack to state troopers, who said the only way the man would be charged with a crime was if Cathleen got him to admit to the assault while wearing a wire. She tried to do what they asked, but the evidence wasn’t strong enough, she was told, and the man continues to work in Alaska today. He denies assaulting her.