Military ‘won’t change’
Alison Mau speaks to three brave women who hope to save others from what they went through.
Tracey Topp remembers witnessing the moments before her sister was raped by their father the first time.
Tracey was eight, Karina, 11; it was just them and their dad in a motel spa pool the night before a family trip to Singapore. When he told the girls to take off their togs, Tracey started to complain. ‘‘I’m tired, I want to get out,’’ she whinged, until he reluctantly let her put on her wet togs and go back to their room.
As she closed the door, Tracey saw him pull Karina onto his lap. Tracey says she’ll never be able to scrub her memory of the look on her sister’s face in that moment. She has what she calls ‘‘significant survivor’s guilt’’, although she knows in her rational mind she was not to blame. None of the girls abused by Robert Roper was to blame and, since 2015, he has been in jail for the evil he did to them, and to others.
This is the first time Tracey has spoken publicly about the abuse that took place over a dozen years in the 70s and 80s, mostly on the Air Force base at Whenuapai where her father worked in the transport division. She testified at his trial under name suppression, but has now chosen to have that lifted. The report that will show how the Defence Force intends to change its handling of sex assault cases is due out in a matter of weeks and so it’s time to help others, Tracey says. The trial destroyed her, she was suicidal for a time, but now she’s considering signing up for a diploma in psychology. It’s time to step into the light.
Her sister Karina Andrews was the first to make that decision, lifting her own name suppression after the trial two years ago. When Roper was convicted, the Defence Force
tried to back away from responsibility, saying the matter had been ‘‘investigated by police and dealt with by the courts, and the NZ Defence Force has no further comment’’. How galling that must have been for Karina and Tracey, who as children were interviewed several times by military police about the allegations – twice, incredibly, with their father in the room.
And then nothing was done. The sisters’ story is hard to hear, hard to tell. As they talk about how Karina tried to shield her baby sister from the worst of her father’s abuse, about how the fight for justice has brought them closer together, I flash back for an instant to a moment in my own past.
About 15 years ago, at home in Melbourne for a family Christmas, my mother mentions in passing that a former neighbour has paid a surprise visit. Instantly at the mention of his name my hackles rise – good thing I wasn’t here to answer the door, I spit, or he’d be out cold on the doorstep. My mother is nonplussed; but my older sister is looking at me with an odd intensity. In that moment we both realise the other was subject to the same abuse at his hands. I was 10, she would have been 12 or 13.
Now Karina’s sister Tracey has joined her in the sunlight, along with another Roper survivor, Cherie Ham; another who has bravely asked for name suppression to be lifted. I spoke to them all on separate occasions this week, and found them remarkably united in their feelings towards the Defence Force; their hopes for change; and their determination to save this from happening to any other person, male or female.
The three women have a meeting with the Defence Force scheduled for mid-January to see, they hope, the report in full for the first time. Survivor advocate Louise Nicholas will be with them.
All three say they’d never met Nicholas before 2015, but all had heard of her story, and took strength from her strength throughout Roper’s trial. After he was convicted, they sought Nicholas’ help to push for a full inquiry.
That report, by Frances Joychild QC, has been completed, and has been with the Defence Force for almost a year now. The women have glimpsed it once – Tracey tells me they were given eight hours with it in November last year – although much of it redacted.
Tracey lives in Perth now and says she won’t be getting on a plane for the meeting without seeing the thing in full. She says one of the women’s biggest challenges is getting access to parts of the report that would prove her father was protected by the Defence Force 30 years ago.
Karina, Tracey and Cherie are united in their gratitude and admiration for Nicholas.
‘‘She’s been a guardian angel,’’ Karina tells me. ‘‘The NZDF are afraid of Louise, because she gets s... done. We bring her along because they know she’s serious.’’
Cherie and Tracey agree, Nicholas has been their rock. While adamant every woman has the right to her own truth, her own story, they’re surprised by recent complaints from survivors who’ve questioned her commitment.
Tracey wonders if traumatised victims built her up to be something she’s not. But she doubts Defence would have taken the women as seriously without her.
An important note in Cherie, Karina and Tracey’s story is the exemplary way they say police handled their complaints from the moment Karina came forward in 2012.
‘‘I rang Pukekohe police station and instead of making me come down to make a statement, they came to me at home,’’ Karina says. ‘‘That initial contact, where I was able to talk in a place where I felt safest, was the most positive experience. That initial decision kept me going through all of it.’’
Karina credits one officer, Detective Bryony Brown, for taking her through the arduous process from start to finish. That’s the kind of consistency she says is needed in any Defence Force overhaul.
‘‘It was so important that one person stays there with you all the way through, so you don’t have to repeat your story again and again.’’
As their January meeting approaches, I ask all three what they think of the Defence Force’s willingness to change. They’re hopeful, but cautious. ‘‘If it really does change, I’ll be very surprised,’’ Cherie says.
‘‘My gut feeling is that, no, it won’t really change. They’re too ‘old school’ – they’re still back in the 70s and 80s. I’m looking forward to the briefing because for all of us, it could be the beginning of the end of all of this.’’
For a moment I’m overwhelmed by the bravery of these three women. A little timidly, I ask Tracey why she keeps up the fight, when this could cast a shadow over her whole life.
‘‘I could let it go, but how’s that going to help anyone? The last thing we all want is for some other person’s son or daughter to experience what we’ve experienced. If we step back, what was it all for?’’