Why I Didn’t Report My Rape
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The Weekend Read
/ January 24, 2026
Why I Didn’t Report My Rape
In 2021, six men sexually assaulted me in a Las Vegas hotel room. Something more than abolitionism prevented me from reporting the crime.
Anna Krauthamer
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Rays from the setting sun break through storm clouds west of the Mandalay Bay Resort and Casino.
(Ethan Miller / Getty Images)
In the heart of Las Vegas, there’s a hotel with a phone that never rings. It’s been silent for over four years. The hotel, a huge casino resort, is busy. Guests check in and check out; gamblers come in the early evenings and stumble out the next morning; and hundreds of rooms are endlessly dirtied and then made clean again by hotel workers. But the phone remains silent. I like to think that the rotating check-in staff are always alert and prepared even for the call that they don’t know is coming. Meanwhile, all the way across the country in New York, I wake up every day and wonder if today is the day that I’ll finally make the hotel phone ring.
Of course, I know that isn’t true. The phone has rung countless times since that morning in June of 2021 that I checked out of that hotel, and nobody is waiting for my call. But to me, it’s frozen in time.
There in that hotel, a little over four years ago, I was raped by a group of men during a three-day trip I took to Las Vegas with two of my best friends. Of the rape, which lasted all night, I remember both too much and too little. I never did anything about it. I didn’t tell anyone who could have done something about it, either, such as the hotel staff or th…
We're watching the same failure loop.
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Why I Didn’t Report My Rape
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Current Issue
The Weekend Read
/ January 24, 2026
Why I Didn’t Report My Rape
In 2021, six men sexually assaulted me in a Las Vegas hotel room. Something more than abolitionism prevented me from reporting the crime.
Anna Krauthamer
Share
Copy Link
X (Twitter)
Bluesky Pocket
Ad Policy
Rays from the setting sun break through storm clouds west of the Mandalay Bay Resort and Casino.
(Ethan Miller / Getty Images)
In the heart of Las Vegas, there’s a hotel with a phone that never rings. It’s been silent for over four years. The hotel, a huge casino resort, is busy. Guests check in and check out; gamblers come in the early evenings and stumble out the next morning; and hundreds of rooms are endlessly dirtied and then made clean again by hotel workers. But the phone remains silent. I like to think that the rotating check-in staff are always alert and prepared even for the call that they don’t know is coming. Meanwhile, all the way across the country in New York, I wake up every day and wonder if today is the day that I’ll finally make the hotel phone ring.
Of course, I know that isn’t true. The phone has rung countless times since that morning in June of 2021 that I checked out of that hotel, and nobody is waiting for my call. But to me, it’s frozen in time.
There in that hotel, a little over four years ago, I was raped by a group of men during a three-day trip I took to Las Vegas with two of my best friends. Of the rape, which lasted all night, I remember both too much and too little. I never did anything about it. I didn’t tell anyone who could have done something about it, either, such as the hotel staff or th…
Why I Didn’t Report My Rape
We're watching the same failure loop.
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Why I Didn’t Report My Rape
Magazine
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Log In
Search
Subscribe
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Magazine
Latest
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Politics
World
Economy
Culture
Books & the Arts
The Nation
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Current Issue
The Weekend Read
/ January 24, 2026
Why I Didn’t Report My Rape
In 2021, six men sexually assaulted me in a Las Vegas hotel room. Something more than abolitionism prevented me from reporting the crime.
Anna Krauthamer
Share
Copy Link
Facebook
X (Twitter)
Bluesky Pocket
Email
Ad Policy
Rays from the setting sun break through storm clouds west of the Mandalay Bay Resort and Casino.
(Ethan Miller / Getty Images)
In the heart of Las Vegas, there’s a hotel with a phone that never rings. It’s been silent for over four years. The hotel, a huge casino resort, is busy. Guests check in and check out; gamblers come in the early evenings and stumble out the next morning; and hundreds of rooms are endlessly dirtied and then made clean again by hotel workers. But the phone remains silent. I like to think that the rotating check-in staff are always alert and prepared even for the call that they don’t know is coming. Meanwhile, all the way across the country in New York, I wake up every day and wonder if today is the day that I’ll finally make the hotel phone ring.
Of course, I know that isn’t true. The phone has rung countless times since that morning in June of 2021 that I checked out of that hotel, and nobody is waiting for my call. But to me, it’s frozen in time.
There in that hotel, a little over four years ago, I was raped by a group of men during a three-day trip I took to Las Vegas with two of my best friends. Of the rape, which lasted all night, I remember both too much and too little. I never did anything about it. I didn’t tell anyone who could have done something about it, either, such as the hotel staff or th…
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