Empirical evidence indeed clearly shows that men only report sexual violence when they really have no other option, most often because physical pain has become unbearable. Because what they have gone through is taboo not just for themselves, but also for the wider society, they won’t talk about it and seek help. While there are places where raped women can go and get some psychological help—though it is well documented that many of them don’t or can’t take advantage of these facilities—nothing of that sort exists for men. But even if there was, it is likely that many of them would still be too ashamed to ask for help. Most of the male survivors with whom I spoke had the feeling of having been deprived of their masculinity, or that their masculine status had somehow been damaged. And many of them found it impossible to report the assault they have been victims of, as complaining would symbolically reinforce their feminization by adopting the status of victim that is usually reserved to women:
I don’t need help. I don’t want to speak about it. (…) [In response to my mentioning clinics and some local and international NGOs helping survivors of sexual violence:] They are treating only women over there. They do a good job, but this is not a place for me. (Aimable 2010, interview)
Such findings are consistent with existing research on post-traumatic stress disorder in armies and armed groups, showing a strong reluctance of combatants to recognize that they have been traumatized. Recognizing that one is in need of psychological support is considered as feminizing and goes against the ideal of militarized masculinity (Whitworth 2008). Anxiety and other types of psychological suffering are, therefore, repressed by male survivors, possibly precipitating the occurrence of mental illness. The feminization intended through sexual violence induces “gender trouble” and confusion, to borrow from Butler (1990), leading many survivors to question their gender and/or sexual orientation. Most of the survivors I have met in Burundi and in the Congo were wondering whether they could still be fully considered as men (especially following episodes of partial or total castration), or as women in men’s bodies, as lesser men, or something else, neither entirely male nor female:
I don’t think I can have a family now. Of course I would prefer not to be alone, but I am not sure I can marry. I don’t know what to do. I am not sure of what I want, of who I want to be…. I mean what is there for someone like me? I don’t know what God’s plans are for me. (Dionise 2011, interview)
Some survivors also think that they have somehow been turned into homosexuals, especially when they have had an erection or when they have ejaculated while being raped—which are mechanical reactions and not an expression of desire (Sivakumaran 2005). As a consequence, some experience confusion with regard to their sexual orientation, which proves particularly complicated to handle in societies where homosexuality is strongly penalized, at the social if not also at the judicial level. It also leads them to question the very core of their identity, to feel abjected and rejected from society, as they have the feeling that they do not belong anymore to either of the two genders and sexual identities that are deemed socially acceptable. As argued by Clark (2014), sexual violence attacks the victim’s sense of self, and can, therefore, be considered as a “crime of identity”. Sexual violence against men not only attacks the victim’s bodily integrity, but also his gender and sexual identity. Male survivors consider that they have failed to abide by heterosexual norms, and that they, therefore, stand outside of the national, religious, ethnic, political or cultural community. It prevents them from relating to others, and explains why wartime sexual violence against men is unspeakable. It has a strong isolationist effect on survivors:
Sometimes I don’t know who I am anymore. What am I supposed to do? How can I go on and live after that? I can’t sleep at night, I always think about who I was before, the family I had, and now what? No one is here with me, and I can’t trust anybody. I barely have enough money to survive, I can’t be the man I was before. (Jean-Claude 2011, interview)
It is also worth underscoring the fact notably highlighted by Goldstein (2004, 358) that the fear of sexual violence, and especially the fear of castration, has long been a major source of anxiety among male combatants. It was, for instance, a common theme of the post–World War I literature, and of the literature on the Vietnam War. Often seen as the soldier’s greatest fear, it is, therefore, no surprise that when it turns into a reality, sexual violence generates considerable levels of trauma among survivors, be they combatants or civilians, especially in contexts where models of militarized masculinity are valorized and influential. Such contexts render the feminization that is enacted through sexual violence especially difficult to cope with (Seidler 2006). Armies take this risk very seriously. For instance, after the first Gulf War during which several US military personnel were captured and sexually assaulted by Iraqis, the US army decided in 1993 to implement a “sexual exploitation training program”, “designed to prepare recruits for what could happen to them if they should ever be captured as prisoners of war and subjected to sexual violence” (Scarce 1997, 48).
Survivors of sexual violence thus struggle against feelings of emasculation, of shame, of guilt, and they also fear retaliation by perpetrators, if not a repetition of their ordeal. This seems to leave many survivors angry with themselves:
Happiness has left me. I always feel angry, so I don’t see my family and friends as I used to. They don’t know what happened to me. They don’t understand why I am angry all the time. I used to go out and have drinks with my friends, but not anymore. I have too much anger in me. (Vincent 2014, interview)
They often blame themselves for what happened, and fear that they no longer will be able to function as men, that is, as men are expected to behave in their societies of origin. In many patriarchal cultures of the developing world, a man is indeed defined by his ability to cope with what befalls him. Male victims of sexual violence often think that they have to bear the mental and psychological suffering just as they have coped with the physical pain. Seeking help and speaking out would be another acknowledgement of the fact that they cannot act anymore as requested by dominant models of masculinity.
Suffering is obvious at the social level too, although it is likely to be influenced by the type of environment in which the survivor finds himself. In particular, survivors are likely to face different kinds of difficulties whether they live in a refugee camp, in their country of origin or abroad, in a city or in the countryside. Male survivors who flee and find shelter in refugee camps, located either in their own or a foreign country, can hope to escape the stigma attached to their sexual victimization. But if their “experience” is known or even just suspected, they can face negative reactions such as ostracism and discrimination on top of racism and hostility for being an outsider. Bernard, a Congolese refugee who fled the Congo after being detained by an armed group and sexually assaulted, explains:
Bernard: When I left the Congo I stayed for a while in Musasa [a refugee camp located in the north of Burundi]. Things were hard for me there. I tried to earn a bit of money here and there, but it was difficult because I was so tired, I was still bleeding from my wounds from time to time. My smell was bad. I was alone, and nobody wanted to give me work. I think they could tell that something was wrong with me, they could smell it. People did not trust me.