By Awget
Note: this post may contain triggering content.
I have studied and read about violence against women for years. I have read the theory, the explanations for how it can be that women and girls (and transpeople) are subject to so much hurt, betrayal and fear, mostly from the other half of the global population. It seems like no one can escape victimhood when a dangerous person, a family member, a friend, or a stranger on the street comes to the idea that you will be the one he will target.
Why? Because of power, control, to inflate their sense of selves, out of sheer entitlement?
I understand the historical reasons, the complex nature of gender and race and class and how they affect peoples’ choices. I have not quite fully wrapped my head around rape culture, this idea that an entire society, a system, is based on the subjugation of women and girls; that it is a given or commonplace that violence happens to women and that there’s nothing anyone can do about it. I am of course not of the mindset – that rape is inevitable.
This focus, this curiosity in the ways in which a woman is in danger of serious harm everywhere she goes just for being who she is, continued on without my first-hand knowledge. I didn’t personally know of a woman who was raped or assaulted or a woman who was a victim of incest. Rape made and continues to make me angry, as it should make all of us in the world, enough to finally say, “NO, this can’t be allowed to happen anymore”. But it never personally touched my life until recently.
Coincidentally or not, given that the statistics say that every other second a woman is raped in the world, young women whom I am very, very close to had this happen to them. This violent act, this horrifying event, just happened to women I love.
I can’t even describe how I feel. Possibly empty, at a loss for words (of what to tell them). Definitely angry. I want to curse in the street, I want to yell at every person who thinks a woman would ever bring this huge violation of her personhood on herself. I want to be violent myself to the rapists who thought it was okay, that it was somehow possible for them to mess with the people I care most about. Beautiful, vivacious, intelligent, admirable, funny, women I love, whom I never tell enough that I love. I want to take a bat to their evil heads and scream, “Why did you think it was okay to do this? Did you really think you could get away with it?!” I am all about vengeance and taking sweet revenge on criminals.
But it is not my choice. Even with all the reading I’ve done, I didn’t understand how victims of rape will not all deal with what happened the same way, or what I’d consider the “right” way. In the cases in my life, these women have decided not to call the police, not to talk to a counselor for help, not deal with it right now or at all. How can my response and theirs be so different?
So I made a call to the Toronto Rape Crisis Centre/Multicultural Women Against Rape. I found myself immediately at ease speaking to the counselor who was patient, who listened to my agonized frustration and really understood and empathized with the place I was in. She told me it was their choice; that every woman would have to deal with the injustice in her own way. All I could do was be supportive, listen when they want to talk and give advice when they ask for it. I thought the only feminist action to be taken was to accompany the women in my life in marching down to the closest police station and reporting the crime to try to throw rapists in prison and remove them from civilization, to try to stop them from ever doing this again. But that is not my choice and not my decision and at this moment. I have to be okay with that.







