Jacqueline Marris and Tamara Brooks are my new heroines. These two brave Southern California teenagers not only acted to survive their ordeal but also made an important decision to speak out on national television after their kidnapping and rape Aug. 1.

With the loving support of their families, they performed a great service to rape survivors everywhere by refusing to be shamed into silence.

Their act of courage, of course, does not mean that the stigma surrounding rape is fading.

Media pundits revictimize these young women when they say that the teenagers came forward merely to claim their "15 minutes of fame." Brooks told reporters that they spoke because "We want to get the message across to everybody to never give up on anything. Whatever obstacles you have, you've got to fight your way through it."

One of those obstacles is the societal stigma. My experiences, and those of hundreds of other rape survivors I have met, is that the stigma is alive and well.

Justice Department figures tell us that one in six women have experienced an attempted or completed sexual assault. Maybe people feel that if they can distance themselves from the victims of rape by finding a reason to blame them, they and their loved ones won't be as vulnerable.

Some examples of victim blaming I have heard from family, friends, neighbors, TV reporters, law officers, prosecutors and strangers include:

"What were you wearing?"

"What were you doing out so late?"

"Be grateful you weren't hurt."

"If you had only taken kickboxing, this never would have happened to you."

"Why would your boyfriend want to stay with you?"

Why go public, then, as more women are choosing to do? Their motivations may include changing antiquated laws, preventing rapes by the same perpetrator or helping others by putting a face to rape statistics and sharing their experiences of recovery.

We can identify with a mother who speaks out after a drunk driver kills her child. Who would question why she would want to share her private grief and anger?

Rape survivors who choose to speak publicly rarely have the support of their families, and too often don't have the support of rape crisis centers, which are concerned about the confidentiality of their critical counseling services.

Jeri Elster, my friend and a fellow advocate of speaking out, was devastated when she discovered that her rapist, who was identified by DNA, could not be prosecuted because prosecutors ordered the testing after the then-six-year statute of limitations lapsed.

Jeri says telling her story in front of TV cameras during state Assembly hearings was the best thing she ever did. Like a lot of survivors, Jeri felt completely disempowered by the rapist. It was a "much-needed emotional boost" to her when she helped change California law to effectively eliminate the statute of limitations on rape cases with DNA evidence.

On Aug. 27, the 10th anniversary of Jeri's assault, she will lead a march in downtown L.A. to protest the disposal of DNA evidence by local law enforcement.

Something unexpected happened after my own first interview on national TV about my rape. Women I knew and complete strangers came up to me and thanked me, whispering that they too had been raped. Most of them had never told anyone, not even their mothers and husbands.

They are members of what I call the Secret Sorority, women silently burdened by the long-term effects of the trauma of rape. Rapists frequently threaten their victims: "Shut up!" and "If you tell anyone, I will come back and kill you!" When we decide to go public, we break their power over us.

No one aspires to be a poster girl for rape. We come out in spite of the risks, because we can and for our sisters who are scared silent.

Karen R. Pomer is a founding member of the Rainbow Sisters Project, a Los Angeles-based group that lobbies and educates on behalf of rape survivors. E-mail: Rbsistersproject@aol.com.

Copyright 2002 Los Angeles Times

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