#JusticeForZinedine reveals how Botswana institutions fail victims of sexual violence

#JusticeForZinedine, #JusticeForThemAll

TW: Sexual violence, rape, date rape, victim-blaming, police

Just seven days into 2019, Zinedine Gioia sparked a social media wildfire, when she went public about being drugged and raped by a former friend. Gioia reported the rape to the police the next day, but said nothing had come of it, even five months later. In a change.org petition, she lobbied for the Botswana government to take her case against the accused man – who she named on social media – to trial. Prominent figures such as Sasa Klaas and Emma Wareus were quick to show their support to Gioia, and within hours, the petition had garnered thousands of signatures.

Feminists on Twitter were especially active in pushing the hashtag #JusticeForZinedine, as they decried the widespread silence and complicity around rape culture in Botswana. As an offshoot of the campaign, several women detailed their own experiences with the accused (hence the hashtag #JusticeForThemAll), whilst many others disclosed their experiences of sexual violence perpetrated by men recognized in Gaborone’s social circles.

Reporting for Justice: The necessity of writing against the grain of rape culture

Since Zinedine’s petition was created, the #JusticeForZinedine campaign has been covered by several media outlets. Some have used the campaign’s momentum positively, opening up discussions on rape culture in Botswana, highlighting the usefulness of social media advocacy, and questioning why men rape. Other coverage, however, exemplified how media institutions fail to do justice to victims of sexual violence.

In The Midweek Sun, I was initially pleased to see coverage of an incident where a woman was raped by another woman. This, I thought, would start to push the conversation forward: bringing to light that women can also perpetrate sexual harm. Whilst this article itself seemed progressive, I was quickly led to question the editorial team’s commitment to countering rape culture, when I read a section of the paper called “Under the sun”. Here, an unknown author was given license to recklessly undo a lot of the important messaging that had surfaced during the #JusticeForZinedine campaign. In a gossipy tone, the author referred to the broad impact of Zinedine’s disclosure, reverting back to all the harmful stereotypes in the book: that men should be fearful, that women “cry rape”, that claiming to have been raped was “fashionable”, and that many who claimed to have been raped were merely regretful about consensual sex or seeking revenge after being rejected. The fact that, in the year 2019, the editor of a national newspaper approved and published this is nothing short of deplorable. It would not even qualify as edgy commentary, if that was the aim, because all of those victim-blaming stereotypes are played out. To publish such toxicity suggests to me that the people at the helm of our publications either do not understand the power of their platforms or do not take their responsibility (or their readers) seriously.

Image of a confused-looking man, squinting, looking unimpressed. Text at the bottom of the frame reads "Am I a joke to you?"
Me, reading the paper like:

Generally, the language used by some journalists/columnists left much to be desired. For one, there was Sunday Standard’s headline, “Wave of Rape Cases Has Batswana Women’s Knickers In A Twist”, which betrayed an otherwise appropriately written article. The phrase getting your “knickers in a twist” means to be upset but is usually used mockingly, to imply the aggrieved party is unreasonable. This use of language here is especially harmful given the subject matter, as women’s reports of rape are often dismissed as overreactions or framed as hysterical misunderstandings on the victim’s part.

I also recall another article, which was in support of Gioia, where the author said Zinedine took to social media to detail “the violence and injustice she believes herself to have suffered” (emphasis mine). This use of passive language was disappointing; framing the “violence and injustice” as Zinedine’s belief, rather than as her reality. It may seem pedantic to point out such a small part of an article, but we have to remember that in our social climate, believing rape survivors is a vital part of supporting them. In that process, the language we use is part of the action we take. Language matters, so the media need to be clear and bold with their words. Editors and sub-editors, in particular, need to be more critical when it comes to this kind of reporting. In both of the examples I’ve given, quick, sharp editorial intervention could have helped to communicate a firm stance in support of the victim.

For victims who consider naming and shaming/is law enforcement enuf?

A second issue highlighted through Gioia’s case is the failure of law enforcement, which translates to a scarcity of justice in cases of sexual violence. According to Gioia, when she reported the rape to the police, she was told that, because she “was drugged and had no clear story… it was unlikely he would be charged”. On top of this, Gioia says that the forensic evidence collected when she laid her complaint went missing.

The failure of law enforcement is central to understanding the necessity of Zinedine’s decision to name and shame the accused. When rape victims are believed, which sometimes happens when certain kinds of sexual violence cases make the headlines, society seems to acknowledge that rape is a scourge, and that the rates of sexual violence are too high. Unfortunately, society struggles to keep that same energy when a woman publicly names and shames her perpetrator/abuser. In such situations, a loud chorus of “the law must take its course” emerges, followed by spirited campaigns to “protect the rights” of the accused all.

Our collective trust in the failing/failed justice system means that victims of sexual violence are often expected to have reported their cases to the police before they can be believed. The frequent calls for victims to report rape completely ignore that there are valid reasons not to do so. Not only are rape cases difficult to prosecute, but victims are too often treated insensitively by the police. As The Botswana Gazette reported, even when successful, the whole process of seeking legal recourse can take years. For some, the cost of being re-traumatized is too high a price to pay.

Before we can insist that people report rape, we need to ensure that the police are adequately trained to handle such reports. At the moment, evidence suggests this is not the case. Recently, the Botswana Police Service noted an alarming increase in cases of rape, particularly date rape, after recording 109 cases in a matter of weeks. In a Mmegi newspaper report, the Botswana Police Service’s public relations officer, superintendent Jayson Chabota was quoted saying, “Women should know that being in the company of a stranger at night or walking alone at night puts them in danger as they are vulnerable.” What makes this sort of victim-blaming advice even more bizarre is that in the same interview, Chabota acknowledges that in cases of date rape, perpetrators are “often casual friends or an individual that victims are familiar with.”  Despite this, Chabota still calls on women “to take precautions on how they entertain themselves”.

4 pictures of a Caucasian woman, with a questioning look on her face. There are some mathematical equations pictured on three out of the four tiled images. A meme.
Make it make sense

Chabota, it appears, is not alone in espousing such views.  According to another Mmegi report, following the arrest of several men who publicly sexually assaulted a woman at the Gaborone Bus Rank in 2017, Borakanelo Police station commander, superintendent Mothusi Phadi “called on women to consider wearing clothes that will appear appropriate in other people’s eyes, despite having the right to wear what they want” in order to help curb instances of sexual violence. If such views are widely held within the police service, it is unsurprising that Zinedine was told that nothing could be done about her case. These utterances suggest that the Botswana Police are not adequately prepared to assist victims who are assaulted whilst intoxicated/drugged, or scantily dressed, given that they place so much emphasis on the behaviour of victims, rather than the actions of perpetrators.

It must be understood that it was in this context that Zinedine, as a last resort, outed the accused. While it remains a controversial tactic, when a victim/survivor publicly names a perpetrator, it could provide some protection to others who may encounter that individual. Perpetrators who have powerful families, wealth, social capital, or other forms of privilege, are easily able to wield their power to silence their victims. In some cases, they may use tools supposedly created to ensure justice – such as defamation law and interdicts – in order to clear their names.

I don’t know how this will help or what it will change, but I pray that this will protect someone in the ways I wasn’t.— TheRealZinedine (@ZinedineGioia) January 7, 2019

In of itself, naming and shaming cannot prevent sexual violence. However, it may create a dent in the perpetrator’s reputation, taking away some of the social power which allows them to harm others without facing consequences. As Annalise Keating (the lead character in How To Get Away With Murder), says,

“When a woman says she was raped, the law rarely takes our side…so we take other actions, protect ourselves in a way we know the system never will.”

(re-)view: feeling and ugly by danai mupotsa

The other day, a friend posted a picture of her copy of feeling and ugly on Instagram, with the caption “Companion”. I thought it was uncanny that hours earlier, I had thought about posting a picture of my copy with the exact same caption.


feeling and ugly is the first poetry book I have ever owned. I keep it by my bed, just in case. I don’t know what the emergency will be but I want to be prepared.


Whilst I think about what this collection means to me, there’s an image in my head of a white blonde child clutching a teddy bear. The invisible parent in the scene lets the child take the teddy bear everywhere. Without it, the child feels destabilized; cries violently. It feels like an image I’ve seen in a movie or something.

I do not think of or see myself as this child. I don’t remember having such a relation to any of my toys when I was young. But I can relate to the image, because finally, I have something that I can hold (onto) when being in the world makes me want to cry. A soft anchor. A companion.

It’s disappointingly easy for me to conjure up an image of a vulnerable white child.  I’ve consumed so much media where white people of every age get to be emotionally complex. I grew up without getting to see myself reflected like this, despite the ocean of feelings within me. It was as if we couldn’t be spared this luxury, despite the fact that what black girls feel and think and know could flood a small universe.

In this light, feeling and ugly reveals a depth of emotion that is not usually afforded to us. It gently pushes me towards me but also helps me articulate a “we”. Reading it, I can recognize what is shared without needing it to look the same in each of us.


Danai writes about love in its different forms: sees it through its difficulty. Like her,

I want to dream of love that is tempestuous

– (p. 61)


Danai also writes about sex. About pleasure and shamelessness. About wanting to climb people. This is very important political work.


There are poems in this collection which are difficult to read, uncomfortable in that they know too much. They are not judging you, but they’ve seen what you have spent your life hiding (from). Not only have they seen it, but they have seen just how much of it there is. To be so exposed in your shame feels like each of your pores is a blister.

Maybe if you just sit with the poems and with the shame – focus less on concealing – you can catch your breath.



together like this

fills me to pieces

– (p. 56)




feeling and ugly is published by impepho press and available at African Flavour Books.

On Submission: Reflections about my Master’s research & my mixed feelings about the academy

Much to my own surprise, the day after I submitted my Master’s research paper, I woke up with a lot to say. Here goes:

My research report is titled An exploration of Black women students’ sexual experiences. This is (I think) a very misleading title, based on what I thought my research was about 8 months ago (and what I came up with, while in a rush to hand in my proposal).

At the same time, it’s also hard to say what would have been a more fitting name, because my research paper is about a lot of things. My research paper is about the gravity of emotion in our intimate lives. About how “consent” doesn’t always fully capture what takes place in private. About how we experience complicated feelings sometimes. About things that aren’t black and white. It’s also about how we know things. About how sometimes we know something with our body and we can’t necessarily express it in words. About how that kind of knowledge is just as important as the knowledge we can express verbally.

My research paper is this academic thing where I talk about theories on sexual violence and sex and gender and and and. And just like the title doesn’t capture the essence of the paper, the paper doesn’t capture the essence of the interviews I did.

I interviewed 8 women about their life experiences. We talked about sex, sexual violence, being Black, girlhood, womanhood, confusing things, love, dating, insecurity, heartbreak, sexiness, the pressure to play netball, crushing, clubbing and other stuff like that. In every interview, there was a moment where I thought: “Woaah, you felt that way in childhood/high school/your first relationship? I felt the exact same way.”

I wished we could have more of these types of conversations. Maybe we’d feel less alone.

The interviews were rich in a way I’ll never be able to represent in an academic paper. On one hand, it’s a little frustrating that what I write about in the ‘Results’ section is just the tip of the iceberg. Frustrating because I like sharing knowledge. It’s what makes things like tutoring, lecturing, tweeting, blogging, journalism, etc meaningful for me.

On the other hand, I’m glad that there are things I will never be able to give to the academy. The academy doesn’t love us and it doesn’t deserve the life-saving knowledge we’re sharing. To be a Black person and a woman in the academy is to basically be in an exploitative relationship. It’s to be expected to give receipts for your brilliance all the time, translated and peppered with jargon, and then, when you ask to be treated like a person, issa no. You get painted as ungrateful, as disruptive, as a problem. You get painted with that same paint that washed away the stories of your ancestors.

A black woman in the academy is a fierce lil human library but somehow, it feels like we’re being done some kind of favour for being allowed in. The academy wants our amazing ideas but doesn’t want to acknowledge that it hurt to arrive at that knowledge. Our pain becomes an inconvenience. “Valid knowledge” is defined as that which is communicated through words and numbers in research papers; leaving no room for that which we express in our “first” languages, in tears or struggle songs. I digress… but basically, I’m just happy the academy doesn’t get to keep all our stuff. Not the time of #Fallism and #RhodesWar.

Degree-holder status is given a lot of value in our society. The impression is that those of us with degrees worked hard, that we’re smart and that our ideas have the potential to change the world. While all of this is technically true, it’s not only true for us. Having a degree is not a simple result of work + intelligence. It more likely means that you were lucky to:

  • survive a basic education system where the majority of the country’s youth were shortchanged
  • have had enough funding somehow to apply, pay an acceptance fee and register (whether paid for upfront or acquired through a bank/nsfas loan)
  • have had enough (financial & other) resources to manage any mental illness or physical disability you have (likely with great difficulty) long enough to complete your courses.

There are lots of people who cannot jump over these hurdles, at no fault of their own.

I struggle with the way a lot of people’s knowledge and labour are dismissed because of the value we place on tertiary education. I think of my aunt who was not afforded a high school education, despite her yearning for it. She is one of the best teachers of kindness and generosity I know (summa cum laude levels). The knowledge she’s given me is the backbone of any knowledge I’ve produced. And unlike the schooling system, she always taught me I was valuable – I never had to jump through hoops for her to recognize that. She takes sentience seriously and responds to it with live-giving sensitivity. Trust me when I say, your alma mater could never. The academy does not have that kind of r.a.n.g.e.

I fundamentally don’t believe in universities. Academic institutions have broken my heart into pieces (see: #RhodesWar). I tread anxiously in their big, concrete buildings:  trying not to get too attached. I still have heart though because of those who never reduced me to just my mind. I still have heart because in crevices of libraries, people who share this kind of sensitivity have left me lifelines. Focusing on my work on intersectional & feminist theory has been like a treasure hunt: the treasure being the solace of finding bits of yourself that were stolen before you could even blink. It doesn’t take away the pain of being dispossessed, but still.

I don’t know how much longer I will stick to academic pursuits, but for as long as I do, what will nourish me is the network of people who are using the academy to reclaim our stuff. Kunzima mara sisonke.

Let me end off with an excerpt from the Acknowledgements page of my research report:

My intentions with this research report are closely connected to the greater feminist, womanist, queer, blackity-black legacy of activism/life-giving that has brought me here. I am indebted to all the people who have struggled for my breath and who have ensured the survival of the knowledges that have saved my life. I give thanks to all of you: my ancestors, my grandmothers, the One in Nine campaigners, the Fallists, the reference-list-ers, the healers, the journalists, scientists, teachers, tweeters, etc; basically all the people who are my people, despite (constructed) time and distance separations.

With love,


Re apara se re se batang

Senepe ka Thalefang Charles, Mmegi


Ngwaga oo fetiling, go ne ga nna le tiragalo ya kgokgontsho ko mapalamelong a dibese mo Gaborone. Mosadi mongwe o ne a rogwa, godimo ga moo, a apolwa fa gare ga batho, ke banna bangwe ka ntata ya gore ba ne ba akanya gore gaa apara ‘sentle’. Mogwanto wa I Wear What I Want (Re apara se re se batang) o ne wa simollwa ke bomme bangwe, go lwantsha ditiragalo tsa kgogontsho ya basadi mo sechabeng sa rona.

Mo mogwantong wa I wear what I want, ko Gaborone, basadi ba ne ba tla ka dipalo, ba apere jaaka ba batla, go tsamaelana le molaetsa wa mogwanto o. Fa dinepe tsa mogwanto o di pegwa mo Facebook, di ne tsa tlogela bangwe ba sa itumela tota. Mo pegong e, ke tla tlhalosa mabaka a batho ba, a go sa itumela, le go tlhalosa mabaka a me, le a balwela dishwanelo tsa basadi ka nna, a go tswelela go apara se re se batang.

A ruri boleng jwa mosadi bo bonwa ka kapari?

Kgang ya ntlha e ne go buisangwa ka yone mo Facebook ke gore mosadi o tshwanetse go apara sentle gore a tlotliwe. Mo dipuisanong tse, go ne go na le bangwe ba ba dumelang gore mosadi (wa nnete) ke mongwe yoo ikapesang ka mokgwa oo rileng; gore fa o apere bokhutswane bo bo riling, ga o sa thole o le mosadi sentle.  Go ne gotwe ba ba neng ba apere bokhutshwane jo be feteletseng ko mogwantong o, ga se basadi ba itlhaloganyang, godimo ga moo go twe go supa dikarolo tse di riling tsa mmele (dirope, marago), go diga boleng jwa gago.

Tumelo e ya gore boleng le bontle jwa motho mosadi bo bonwa mo diaparong tsa gagwe e supa tsholofelo mo basading, gore re tshele matshelo a rona otlhe re akantse gore ba batho ba tla re akanyetsa jang.  Jaaka mme mongwe ko mogwantong a buile, kgang e ya gore ga re apara e bo re akantse gore batho baa gore akanyetsa jang, ga se kgang ee siameng. Fa e le gore sechaba sa rona se a go tlotla ditshwanelo tsa basadi, go tlhokega gore basadi re letelelwe go apara se re se batang, le fa go sa ratwe kapari e re itlhophetseng.

A diaparo tsa basadi di baka dipetelelo?

Ditiragalo tsa petelelo le kgokgontsho ya basadi mo mafatsheng ka bophara di tswelela go oketsega ka palo ee sa letelesegeng . Mo Facebook, bangwe be rile go apara bokhutshwane (ga basadi) go diphatsa ka go ka gogomosa banna kana go ba rokotsa mathe.  Go na le ba ba dumelang gore fa re batla go emisa kgokgontsho, re tshwanetse go dira melao ee laolang kapari ya bo mme, ka go akangwa gore go laolela basadi kapari go ka thusa go emisa dipetelelo .

Mathata a leng teng fa, ke tumelo ee reng kapari ya basadi e baka kgokgontsho.  Se ga se boammaruri. Le fa e ka bo e le nnete, go rokotswa mathe ga go lete motho monna go kgokgontsha kana go betelela mosadi. Go thoka fela gore banna ba itshware sentle, ka gore kapari ya motho ga e ka ke ya beelwa molato wa ditiro tsa batho banna. Go dumela gore kapari ee riling e ka emisa dipetelelo, ke go baa molato wa ditiragalo tsa petelelo mo basading. Go bothokwa gore mo dipuisanong tsa rona ka kgokgontsho le dipetelelo mo basading, re gakologelwe gore ka nako tsothle, mo ditiragalong tse, molato ga se wa basadi.

Mosadi sidirisiwa

Dipuisano tse di supa fa mosadi a sa tlotliwe, e le sidirisiwa. Mongwe o ne a tshwantshanya kgang e ya kapari ya basadi, le kgang ya burukuthi, a botsa gore ke eng batho ba na le mabotana go kata matlo a bone. Molaetsa yoo fithilweng fa, ke gore basadi ba tshwaneletswe ke go apara ba fithile mmele, e seng jalo, ba laletsa kotsi kana kgokgontsho. Se se supa tumelo e e reng basadi ba ba sa apareng sentle ke bone fela ba ba kgokgontshiwang.

Mathata aa leng teng fa, ke gore batho basadi (le bana, le banna bangwe) ba kgokgontshiwa ba apere ka go farologana. Ga gona diaparo tse re ka reng di ka laletsa kgokgontsho. Se se bakang kgokgontsho ya basadi, ke batho ba ba palelwang ke go itaola le go itshwara sentle, ba ba ipaang godimo ga basadi, ba ba sa tlotleng basadi.  Batho ba ba kgokgontshang le ba ba thubetsang ba dira jalo ka gore ba bona basadi e le didirisiwa, e seng batho.

Fa e le gore, ruri, re dumela gore kgokgontso le petelelo ke ditiragalo tse di maswe, re tshwanetse go tshwara tumelo eo ka nako tsothle, e seng gore re e latllhe ka di nako tse dingwe. Fa re batla go emisa ditiragalo tsa kgokgontsho le dipetelelo, re tshwanetse gore re emise mekgwa ya go tshwaya phoso mo basading. Go lwantsha ditiragalo tsa kgokgontsho mo Botswana, re tshwanetse go lwantsha kgokgontsho ya basadi botlhe, re sa ba farologanye ka kapari ya bone kana ka boitshwaro jwa bone. Re tshwanetse go tlotla mosadi mongwe le mongwe go tshwana, aa ke mma moruti kana ke mogwebi ka mmele. Re tshwanetse go tlotla basadi ka gore ke batho, re emise go ba tsaa jaaka didirisiwa.

A ruri sechaba se wela tlase ga re apara se re se batang?

Mo dipuisanong tse ke di boneng mo Facebook, go ne go na le ba ba akanyang gore molaetsa wa mogwanto wa #iwearwhatiwant, o tla isa lefatshe tlase. Bangwe ba ne ba supa gore fa basadi ba ka tswelela go apera jaaka ba ne ba direle ko mogwantong, go supa gore “lefatshe le a hela”. Ba bangwe ba ne ba re molaetsa oo, o diphatsa, ka gore fa o ka utliwa ke banana mo dikolong, “tlhakanelo dikobo ya bana” e ka ya magoletsa. (Mmua lebe, le fa a boditswe, o paletswe go tlhalosa gore kapari ya basadi e amana jang le tlhakanelo dikobo ya bana).

Tota ga kea dumalana le molaetsa o, oo reng kapari ya basadi e ka wetsa sechaba tlase. Tiragalo e diragetseng ko mapalamelong a dibese, jaaka go setse go builwe, ke sekai sa gore basadi ga ba tlotliwe mo sechabeng sa rona.  Se ke sengwe se se tshwenyang. Mo go nna, fa go na le sesupi sa gore re mo diphatseng re le sechaba, ke kgang ya gore mosetsana o ne a apolwa ke banna fa gare ga batho: banna ba teng ba sa tshabe sepe, ba sa tlhabiwe ke ditlhong, ba kgokgontsha ngwana wa batho hela ba sa mo itse.  Mo go nna, se se ka re emisang go tlhabologa – go nna sechaba se se nang le boikarabelo ke ga re ka palelwa ke go reetsa le go amogela melaetsa wa #IwearwhatIwant: mo go tla bo go raya gore re paletswe go tlhaloganya gore tsotlhe ditiragalo tsa kgokgontso ya bomme di busetsa sechaba sa rona ko morago.



*I’d like to thank Pontsho Pilane and Lorato Palesa Modongo for writing the setswana-feminist dictionary which inspired me to write this piece and to write, for the first time in many years, ka setswana.

** I am well aware that golo fa, ke kwadile ka setswana se se robegileng. I really tried, like, ke lekile ka bojotlhe jwa me, ne? but like I said, I haven’t written in setswana in years (and even then, I struggled because my school really didn’t prioritize my setswana education (a story for another day)). Anyway, I’m not as practiced as I’d like to be and my sense of sentence/word construction is in the struggle. I therefore invite anyone who wants to to suggest edits and corrections to this piece to do so. I would really appreciate it.


Words like these: reflections on writing & thinking about sexual violence

TW: sexual violence

I write about sexual violence a lot. This is a post about the experience of dedicating so many words to rape and other forms of violation. This is a home for the unfinished/unfinishable thoughts I have between writing.

A dark cloud of words
The first and heaviest difficulty of writing about sexual violence is that it hurts people. My words can be reminders of things people don’t want to remember. I understand why. I’m sorry.
For some, my words are an inconvenience. Press release upon press release. Lawyers and PR machines. They use all the words they have to cling to their power. I use mine as memorials for the resistances I’ve known.
My silence has never protected me. My words are vulnerable too. I’m reminded of this whenever I use the word ‘allegedly’ to describe something I know to be true.
Wordless feelings
I’ve been interviewing women about sex and consent for my Master’s research. A lot of this has been hard because, while rape and sex are not the same thing, many of our introductions to sexuality involve violation. It’s a really confusing space to work in, conceptually, because there’s a myriad of ways to be violated and so many of those do not immediately lead us to the words: #MeToo. Sometimes, all we have is confusion or shame or feeling like everything is out of control. Some things are difficult to name. Some feelings have no words. Labels like ‘rape’, ‘abuse’ and ‘sexual assault’ get stuck at the back of our throats.
Or words that don’t feel quite right
Another challenge I’ve faced when writing about sexual violence is figuring how to write about people who’ve been violated in a way which doesn’t reproduce the ‘spectacle’ narrative. Part of the stigma of sexual violence is the idea that something about your identity is changed and that you’re damaged forever. The labels ‘survivor’ and ‘victim’ reproduce this. The word ‘survivor’ has so much pressure of being resilient attached to it – it’s like saying you were supposed to be destroyed by this thing but you overcame it. ‘Victim’ on the other hand, has connotation of weakness – you are allowing this thing to destroy you or this thing destroyed you and now you’re not as valuable. I respect everyone’s choice to identify as one or the other, but what happens when you don’t want to identify as either? There should be a space for that somewhere. Why should we have to define ourselves based on someone else’s actions anyway? Writing about victims, survivors, victim-survivors and victims/survivors feels like reducing a person to that experience. I’m still looking for words that don’t have this effect.
Words coming up short
Sometimes it feels like one’s value for speaking out about experiencing sexual violence is based on the strength projected onto them. When people speak about horrible things they’ve experienced, and others respond commending their strength, it feels shallow: like a non-engagement with the reality of the person’s experience. It feels like people can just post “Wow, you’re so strong” and go – but speaking up about a violation doesn’t mean the pain is over, or that you no longer need support.
A lot of times, to get to the admirable strength stage, there have been many weeks/months of terror, anxiety, shame, self-blame where you weren’t strong and there was no support. It would be so radical if we could create cultures where people who are violated struggle to blame themselves, rather than being so ashamed they are terrified to speak honestly about the pain. People shouldn’t only be recognized when they post a status, especially when the grieving stage of violation is so everyday. A commitment to supporting each other offline is super important. We need to be prepared to be the first person someone opens up to. We need to be a culture that is a safe landing space for people with unfathomable pain.
On Rage
“I have tried to learn my anger’s usefulness to me as well as its limitations” – Audre Lorde
In my writing, I have learned to negotiate with my anger, especially so that the people whose stories I am trying to amplify aren’t drowned out by my feelings. This is usually hard, because there’s a lot of rage, because there’s a lot of injustice. Ultimately, the responsibility of the writing weighs more than the rage.
Sometimes, seeing people angry about sexual violence has been affirming. Other times, it’s felt disempowering – especially when it seems like the violation become a spectacle. It is sometimes tiring to hear the chorus: “How could this happen?”. When do we stop asking how, and answering the question? What do we do with all of this rage?