As a woman who survived being raped and who spent over twenty years in the anti-violence movement, I have read nearly every book about sexual assault. Most have been either heart-wrenching accounts of the horrors of rape or dry, feminist analyses; all have helped educate and inform me. But The Story of Jane Doe: A Book About Rape, to be released by Random House tonight in Toronto, provided me with an unexpected and much-welcomed gift: an empathic reflection of my own experiences, both as a raped woman and a feminist activist.

I know Jane Doe. She has been my friend and ally, colleague and sister in the struggle for a number of years. I know how well she writes and expected her to produce a great book. But I wasn’t prepared for the impact The Story of Jane Doe would have on me emotionally. As I read her exceptional manuscript, it felt like she was speaking directly to me — and about me; her successes, were my successes.

Nearly five years to the day after I was raped by a sorry excuse of a man, an unknown intruder attacked Jane Doe while she slept in her bed. Later, quite inadvertently, she discovered the police already had her name on a list of potential victims of a man who was stalking and raping women in her Toronto neighbourhood during the summer of 1986. They deliberately chose not to warn women for fear they would become “hysterical” and chase the bad man away. The repeat sex offender was only apprehended after Doe and her supporters broke the silence and began postering the downtown area where the attacks were occurring.

A year later, Doe sued the cops after they continued to deny that sexism was a systemic problem within the police force, and, in 1998, in an unprecedented decision, she won.

Jane Doe tells the story of her often-lonely journey by using various voices and a “coffee-table book style” that is easy to read. The author describes the illustrations of Winnipeg artist Shary Boyle as “freakish and vulnerable.” The drawings accompanying each chapter help the reader “untangle and solve the cryptic puzzle of rape,” Doe says.

In the text, Doe alternates between bravely using direct quotes from the journals she kept during her trials and using fictionalized dialogue of the three key police officers involved in the “Balcony Rapist” investigation giving them an unexpected humanness.

The author intimately documents her experiences after being raped as she created her “after self.” She also provides highlights from the massive media coverage over her relentless twelve-year court battle. This multi-levelled approach to the issue encourages the reader to remain engaged in the learning process, shedding a spotlight of understanding on why ninety per cent of women still never report rape to the police.

Though our activism took on different forms after we were raped, Doe and I agree our work saved our lives. “Only when resisting, when fighting back politically and with others, could I see a clear reflection of myself. A strong steely me,” she explains. The 363 pages of brilliance helped me to understand the urgency of my own need to find some sort of justice in the world.

“This book is meant to be a reflection of rage,” Doe writes, “that is focused and smart, an expression of subversion and joy; it is supposed to shake us up, to help us think in new ways.” She told me the old ways aren’t working. After we — the anti-violence movement — accepted government funding, we implicitly agreed to the “un-gendering” of rape and played along with a law-and-order agenda that has done little to promote women’s equality or women’s safety.

Doe’s critics have often questioned her reasons for not using her given name during her court challenges and her media appearances. Describing her commitment to remaining anonymous as a “testament” to the world we live in, Doe believes she could not have done the work if she was forced to identify herself. There is a court order preventing media from using her name or image.

Becoming Jane Doe,” the fiery activist says, “was the only thing I did not have to fight the courts for.” (When I was raped in 1981, the right to remain anonymous was not yet granted to sexual assault survivors.) “It will be a cold day in hell before I relinquish the favour,” she says. “It is simply not safe to be identified as a raped woman.”

The book gave me a more compassionate view of myself as she painted an image of her wounds and recovery. I no longer feel that I must be “fucked up” or “weak” because I still sometimes have the same nightmare twenty-two years later. I have a deeper appreciation for my compliance, for doing what I had to do to survive being raped. (Doe never names her rapist, referring to him only as “buddy” throughout.)

The Story of Jane Doe documents almost thirty years of social action by feminists. It speaks of meetings and coalitions I was part of leaving me feeling proud of the small but significant piece of history I witnessed. One can feel Doe’s discomfort with the conclusion — her work is not yet completed and the “movements” are so paralyzed given the current political climate both in government and police agencies. She says we must begin looking at the police as a “political body” — a force determined to punish activists who dare to speak out.

The recent activities of the peace movement have given her “hope and heart,” though, as Doe begins the next chapter of her life. “It feels like a revolution of the mind globally, a time to re-energize and find solutions together.”

I laughed and cried as I devoured every word of this brilliant, honest and revolutionary piece of art. Though its feminism makes it way too uncomfortable to ever be a best seller, the book is destined for a prominent place on our history shelves.