Strange and surreal…

It’s a strange and surreal thing that happened to me that day, endemic as home invasions are in South Africa. Strange and surreal, I guess, mainly just because it was my turn to become a statistic. Strange and surreal that it wasn’t happening to someone else... 

I knew I wouldn’t write about it when IN South African borders... I knew I’d have better perspective from outside the country. And maybe when some time had passed... And so here I sit, deep in the heart of a very different republic (Iran), with so, so many problems of its own, but violent crime not featuring on that list. 

And thus, it’s time to tell the story of my armed robbery. 

A Sidebar, Before I Proceed…

Why speak about it at all? It’s not pleasant… It doesn’t bring anyone joy or consolation. I’m struck, even on this family holiday in Iran, by how my husband and the South African branch of his diaspora have chosen not to share my ordeal with their Middle Eastern compatriots. My instinctive response to this silence is hurt. It mattered! It was a significant event in my life, much like the traumatic loss of my father years earlier, during which my in-laws rallied around me and offered so much love. 

But, on deeper reflection, I understood the withholding on several levels, and I apply zero value judgement to any level. The Iranians view South Africa as The Land of Milk and Honey. Why shatter that ideal for them? The Iranians have no frame of reference whatsoeverfor the kinds of challenges we, as South Africans, experience collectively on a daily basis. They do not possess the ‘balancing and recalibration’ ability that wedo through our nuanced, complex (and mostly very beautiful and fulfilling) lived experiences… They may worry excessively about something they have zero agency over. They may campaign and motivate for our immediate emigration. They wouldn’t succeedin this objective, as we have no intention whatsoever of departing as a result of this event, or even more generally. But it would complicate matters if they did adopt such a perspective.

But when it comes to me telling my story on my online platform, to a largely South African audience, I take a different view. Sharing raises awareness… Not that any South African is unaware of crime… But awareness that such things can be overcome and integrated… Awareness that it doesn’t necessarily have to changemuch, or have us ‘Packing for Perth’… Awareness that, awful as it is in the moment, life can return to normal in the very early aftermath. And awareness of the range of psychological responses that are possible,and that exist in such scenarios. It helps people unpack their ownexperiences, and make sense of them – both for similarities in responses, as well as in differences… And because crime really is part of our collective consciousness, in South Africa, let alone collective unconscious. We need to tell our stories. To keep it real. To not detach. Because we are human. 

But Back To My Story:

I was having a notably good day, that day. I had quite a big gap in my diary, which is rare. This was welcome as I had a lot to do. I created a bit of content for my online business. I walked to the local shops to run some errands. I strolled back, consciously enjoying the summer sun, the takeaway cappuccino I’d ordered, and the 80’s music beating in my ears.

At around midday, I found myself in the kitchen preparing a light lunch before my afternoon of consulting. Khanyi, my housekeeper, had just left with Munya, our driver, to collect the kids from school. Only they hadn’t actually made it out the gate. With Air Pods delivering Alice Cooper’s “Poison” to me at an auditory level probably unhealthy, I reached down to get a cheese grater. For some reason I looked over my shoulder, and into the face of a man I didn’t know. 

Confusion. That was the first reaction. 

Politeness.My second reaction. I motioned to my Air Pods, letting him know it would take me a moment to present him with my full attention. I was still confused, about what he was needing in my home on that random Thursday afternoon. I popped the pods on the kitchen counter, and basically asked him how I could be of assistance.

He was exceptionally quiet at that stage. But I think it was the slow-motionness of trauma kicking in, where human defense mechanisms become activated and start their protective work.

For what felt like an age, I stared into his face. It was a wide, open face, and he made no attempt at all to hide it. He was black, but of light complexion. “Yellow bone”, I think is the colloquial descriptor. He was deadpan, but not really scary. He had broad shoulders and was shortish and stocky. That’s my “look”. My “type”. And I’m not for a second suggesting that I was attracted to him. But that build is familiar to me... My husband... My late father... It’s never been the hallmark of danger. 

And Then He Pointed A Gun At Me…

My first particularly abnormal response: it felt like the barrel of the gun sucked my entire face into it. If I had any talent as a cartoonist, I would draw that feeling of being literally pulled by the forehead into the stealthy eye of that weapon. 

I then looked back at his face, the dawning realisation of what was happening. And how inconvenient it was. I had a conscious thought that I really didn’t need to be derailed by PTSD, just then. My life had been going so well; I was in such a good space, emotionally, physically, professionally. PTSD would be such a drag, at this point. And so unfair. 

My attacker was somewhat smug. 

Like “Ja, bitch”. 

Then over his shoulder, I saw my wonderful and much beloved housekeeper, Khanyi, in the clutches of a second thug, gun also to her head. She was motioning an apology to me; can you believe it?! She felt responsible for not succeeding at keeping them out... (Something I was told, later, that she had attempted to do. Which humbled and angered me. Why did she decide her life mattered less than mine...? I loved and scolded her for that. I noticed, throughout the robbery, that they were particularly harsh and aggressive with her, and I thought it odd - what was she but collateral damage in this...? But her attempts at self-sacrifice had obviously pissed them off). 

Enter the Narrator… The Voice.

And then “the voice” started speaking. A narrator, a commentator, in my head. “Ok, so this is happening. This is happening NOW. It’s your turn”, it said. “Let’s do what needs to be done and get these guys out of here”. (My husband had always said, prior to this, how, for the most part, these people don’t actually want to inflict harm. They just want stuff.  It’s a job. Unless it’s a hit or an overt hate crime, their goals really are guns, cars, cash and cellphones. But they are panicking too, in the moment… So the calmerthese things can be cooperatively provided, the more likely a benign outcome will be). 

The narrating voice was clear and distinct. And not familiar to me, in my world of inner speech.

My assailant became more aggressive and started to push and shove me in the direction he thought I should be going. “I want da MUH-NEE” he spat furiously. “Da muh-nee and da safe”. 

Angry. Entitled. Criminal. Informed.

They Shot At The Dog…

And then, from nowhere, our 18-month old boerboel, Hugo, awoke from his slumber in some far-flung part of the home, and his instinct kicked in. He thundered into the room, in full beast mode, barking and growling furiously at Khanyi’s attacker. He raised himself onto his back legs and tore at the guy, with the full weight of his 90 kilogram might.

And then they shot at him. Can you believe it?! They actually just shot at him. 

It didn’t seem especially loud. I would have expected a gunshot in such close proximity to be louder. It was like a firecracker. And it sparked a little, from the weapon, even in broad daylight. 

Hugo whimpered. Cowered. And sprinted off. 

To die, I thought. (But they’d missed him completely, and he re-emerged later). 

“Oh, ok”, said the voice. “That’s how that works. They just shoot the dog. What’s the point then of having a big fierce dog? They just shoot the dog. And that gun is real”. 

(On later reflection, I realised that this was actually a godsend. They had discharged a weapon within their first minute in our home, ostensibly alerting the suburb to the fact that something was amiss. I realised later that THEY were now panicking, and aware that they needed to be as quick as possible. No time for theatrics. No time for further trauma to us. But in the moment, I just thought “they shot Hugo. Hugo is dead”. I also, later, reasoned that this was not an act of particular cruelty; it was an act of survival. Who, armed with a gun, wouldn’t fire it when attacked by a savage beast who wants you dead...?). 

And my bully sprung back to work.

He had an incorrect concept of our home and kept pushing me to a part of the premises where the things he wanted weren’t. So I led the way to where the safe was. But I knew he was going to be sorely disappointed and angry; there really wasn’t much cash in there - R1500 at most (maybe 100 USD). But I opened the safe and handed him the feeble notes.

And they became enraged. No! No! No! “This is not da muh-nee! Where is da muh-neee?”. I did start to panic a little at this point, as I knew I had nothing of which he was referring to. They were furious and incredulous. 

Khanyi told me later that she thought at that point they were going to shoot me, at best, and her too, at worst. I didn’t experience these guys that way. They weren’t friendly, for sure. But they were on a mission, and single-minded in that mission. These were seasoned criminals, and this was CERTAINLY not their first rodeo. I actually felt, whether as a personal defense mechanism or an objective appraisal, that the whole thing was a bit theatrical and staged. 

But then I recalled another loose stash of cash in my consulting room. Not a dramatic amount. Certainly not enough to make anyone rich or poor. But MORE. And relatively significant, depending on which side of the gun you are on. I said so and led the way down the passage to my office. Opened the cupboard. Grabbed the stash and handed it to him. 

I think they realized then that that was as good as it was going to get, and it probably was enough to appease. (Also, they had fired a weapon, and really needed to go). They tried to find more, as though I was lying. But they seemed then to surrender to the loot being the loot. 

I had a ridiculous little wooden box with a baby face painted on it. A little repository for milk-teeth. It was a dud business idea I’d had several years earlier and had imported a few from China. It’s become a dinner party story of the time Debbie thought something so repulsive and abhorrent would sell. The one guy grabbed that little box like he’d found something magnificent. I tried to explain. “LOL”, I actually wanted to tell him the story. He obviously didn’t want to hear it. 

They did a quick audit of my jewelry as a last-ditch attempt and took all I was wearing (the sad part was that a lot of it had been gifted to me just that day, for my imminent birthday). 

And then my attacker punched me in the face.

“Oh, ok, now he’s punching me in the face”, said the voice. “Well that is wholly unnecessary”.

It’s a strange response. No pain. No panic. No fear. Just a sort of clinical summation of the situation. 

And then he did it again.

Then he told Khanyi and I to kneel down. That he was going to shoot us. This all happened in very, very slow motion, and it felt like it took a good 5 minutes to actually kneel, execution style. My body felt awkward and clumsy. I felt the steel of the gun at the top of my spine, just below my nape, pointing down its length. 

Am I Going to Die Today?

And then I asked the voice, “Am I going to die today?”, and the voice’s answer, “No. Absolutely not. Today is not your day”. 

It was completely resolute. It didn’t feel like hope or wishful thinking. Just a clear statement of fact. I believed the voice and felt little fear.

And no sooner had we kneeled than they were gone. Fled. Left.

It Was Finished…

We sounded alarms, called husbands, dealt with security companies and police, etc. We kept people in business, in the crime and security industry in South Africa.

Dissociation in Trauma… I’m A Shrink; I Know This Is A “Thing” …

Trauma psychology asserts that mostly we dissociate in such a dangerous and life-threatening event. And I can relate to that. There was submissive go-through-the-motions automaton Debbie. And there was the observing narrator. But there was no emotion at all. The idea, psychologically, I guess, is that it’s like incurring a really deep wound, that is so injurious it doesn’t bleed immediately. And then, the theory goes on to say, in days and weeks following, the dissociation normalises and the full impact and consequence of the event is experienced. 

That this is when things fall apart. When the emotions feel safe enough to come back. And they do so in technicolour.

I was so mindful of this, when telling people the story and feeling absolutely fine. “I’m ok now”, I’d say, “but I suspect it won’t stay this way”. But it’s been months, and that ‘falling apart’ just never happened... A wise, older Psychologist mentor who I spoke it through with attributed it to a few facts... That I am quite healthy, emotionally... That no one was badly hurt. And that I never felt terribly at risk of death or dying. Khanyi, on the other hand, has suffered TERRIBLY. It appears that she truly believed that her number was up, and that was her dying day... It appears to make a difference to psychological outcome, and it’s based purely on a subjective summation of the situation. And that subjectivity is probably informed by how safe our world is already... (Two of Khanyi’s immediate family members, a sister and a nephew, have been murdered – shot - in the time she has worked for me).

Irritability On Steroids…

What I DID experience, for a few weeks after, was IRRITABILITY. On steroids, to speak colloquially. My fuse was so short it wouldn’t even have been visible to the naked eye. I was snappy and short and bitchy. And, what didn’t help, was that my husband, who hadn’t been there during the attack, was having a similar reaction. His rationale, later, was “if someone holds a gun to your head, they hold a gun to my head”. And I get that. 

This event in our home disempowered and angered him. We had a few Big Stupid Fights About Nothing. I think he just so wanted ‘things’ to be instantly normal. So that we could forget. But as much as I wasn’t clinically traumatised, nothing was normal and there was indeed a lot of unconscious processing underway. And he resented that, as it shone a light on what had happened when he was naturally trying to shove it back into darkness. 

It’s easier to do that when you were a first responder and not a victim. 

Thankfully we’ve been together long enough to know how we are going to get it wrong, when we get it wrong... And so we were able to metabolise that rather quickly. But instant heated quarreling with him was definitely a noteworthy symptom of what we had incurred. I know, from my years of working clinically with traumatised people, that this is an extremely common experience. “I’m kinda fine, but I’m angry with everyone” is a very common phrase in my consulting room!

Security: Rushing To Restore A Fragile Feeling of Personal Safety…

The other instant reaction was to upgrade security. It always is... It’s such a South African thing. If you see a security installation company busy at any home, you can often bet your bottom dollar that this is an after-the-fact attempt to control what can be controlled. So we immediately installed 16 CCTV cameras around the length and breadth of our property, and even a couple inside. Had we possessed active CCTV infrastructure, this would not likely have happened. Or it would have been more difficult for them. We now have screens all around our home, giving us full sight of the property at all times. We can also check these cameras from our mobile devices, no matter where we are in the world.

I also put panic buttons onto lanyards and distributed to all of our staff, and now wear one religiously around my own neck. I call it my “African diamond”. I had, actually, in the past, done so, but had been mocked as neurotic by friends and family and had become complacent.  

And I purchased a power inverter which keeps our WIFI, CCTV cameras, armed response and lights on when the power fails - a regular occurrence in South Africa. 

Safety, In This World, Can Actually Only Ever Be A Feeling…

As a South African, I’ve long-since realised that safety is a FEELING. It’s not a truth or a reality. I FEEL safe but I’m NOT necessarily safe. I will only know on my deathbed whether I was ever objectively ‘safe’. But I do things to enhance this FEELING of safety, because without it I cannot get through the day. Irvin Yalom, a wonderful deceased Russian psychotherapist, says a similar thing about death. That we are all going to die, and none of us know when that will happen. But that, to be mentally stable, we need to somehow repress this reality, and ignore it for the most part. Or we would never leave home. Never drive in a car. Never explore. Never live. He speaks of how our defense against death gets disrupted when we have a life-threatening scare – a medical event or a trauma, for example – and that part of our unconscious psychological work is to reestablish our ignorance of death. So that we can keep living. But we will still eventually die!

I think that we South Africans do the same thing with our feelings of personal safety. I by no means live in a security-compromised home. My husband and I have spent sinful money over the years securing and upgrading security. We cannot live in this country if we don’t FEEL safe, and so we do what we need to to create that sentiment. Grounded in reality as it isn’t really. And even after this incident, we acted immediately to reestablish that FEELING.

Preyed on and Hunted…

I really, REALLY wanted our robbery to have been random. I really, REALLY wanted it to have been opportunistic. I didn’t want to accept that I had been preyed upon or hunted. My particular assailant was wearing clothing much like what the garbage collectors do. Grey-ish overalls, with green reflective strips. And it was rubbish collection day. And rationally or irrationally, my hope was that they’d just popped in for an armed robbery between hurling black bags into their truck. 

Not that we had specifically been targeted.

But we had been targeted. 

Security camera footage within the suburb indicates how the criminals’ vehicle entered the area and drove directly to our home. And parked on the verge. Can you believe it? They just chilled there for 10 or 15 minutes, knowing more than they could know without an informant. They knew I wasn’t with a client (I work from home). They knew that this was the exact time, daily, when Khanyi leaves the property to collect the children (which is what they were waiting for). They knew that my kids weren’t home, and if I have one ounce of faith and hope in people, it’s that they chose not to include the children. They knew that we had a safe. And they expected a significant amount of cash to be in it (which there wasn’t). 

I’d dismissed a casual Saturday-only employee 3 weeks prior, after she’d stolen R5000 from me (about 350 USD). So, it’s mostly a no-brainer, right? These were her thugs, and this was her revenge. It seems to make sense.

How Others Judge… (So That They Can Stay ‘Feeling Safe’)…

I also noticed a lot of subtle blaming and explanation-creation amongst people I shared my experience with. And I understood and felt compassion for them. I know what they were doing. I’ve done the same thing in the past too. Like the day after the event was my birthday, and I’d allocated the afternoon to have my hair treated at a local salon. The story flowed, and the lady to my left set about unconsciously entrenching her personal safety feeling in response to what she was hearing: she was well satisfied that I live in a free-standing home, and that I live in Sunninghill. I could literally see her exhale with these two pieces of information. I saw, and I understood. I’ve been her. I’ve been the person sifting through a traumatic narrative for a reason why I won’t be “that victim”.

But safety is a feeling, lady. I know that now. I’m pleased I still feel safe (in the main). But that’s an inner sense of ‘ok-ness” that has taken me decades to master. And I’m pleased that she was able to re-establish her feeling of safety, too, by attributing my fate to something specific in my life or lifestyle. Not to one of the inherent risks of living in South Africa. No matter where you live or in what type of dwelling. 

I learnt a few things from that event, and safety just being a feeling is one of them. 

The Arrogant Badass-ness of Survival… (I know next time may be worse…)

Another is that there is an instinctive ‘bad-ass’ badge that we award to ourselves when we survive such a thing. Stupidly, perhaps. Arrogantly, certainly. But it’s there. I was quietly quite self-congratulatory after the event, for having seen myself through it so well.

Life Shocks and Traumas Can Build Resilience and Hardiness…

And thirdly, I realised that very little could ever rival the trauma I incurred when my father died several years ago. I’ve learnt that that was The Big One. That experience certainly toughened me against too much affectedness by something like this... 

There’s a cynical, jaundiced-eye version of trauma that ‘what doesn’t kill you wrecks your life’. I’ve learnt that this doesn’t have to be the case. There is no doubt in my mind that the traumatic loss of my father, and the near-death of my daughter (from an epileptic fit) a few months later, increased my capacity to tolerate horror. Had those things not happen, this may well have been my Big One. Moreover, had I perhaps not fought as hard as I did to healfrom those things, I might have been depleted rather than developed by them.

Not A Lot Has Changed…

It’s been 3 months since that man interrupted my Thursday lunch. I have my CCTV cameras and use them. I have my African Diamond permanently around my neck, as do my staff. We test them weekly. My fragile feeling of safety has been restored. And beyond this, not a hell of a lot else has changed…

About The Author:

Debbie is a psychologist and marriage therapist, with 15 years’ experience in a busy private practice. She also owns and runs this online platform called “THE SHRINK ON YOUR COUCH”. The aim of this is to make psychological principles meaningful for people,without necessarily needing to attend traditional psychotherapy.

Debbie creates and sells transformational digital programs for couples in crisis, and those wanting to enhance their connection. She also provides online coaching, counselling and relationship therapy. She also has a range of solutions available for bariatric patients, under the "Bariatric Mind Masters" banner.

You can access all of these services by booking time using this link – https://meetme.so/DebbieRahimi or by emailing info@theshrinkonyourcouch.com