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Warning!, adult content.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Guest writer, M Hel, on Stigmatism

 One of the features of legal cases concerning rape is the anonymity of the ‘survivor’ (a platitude coined by rape councillors to positively redefine the person who experienced the crime). But why does the person who has experienced this feel they have to remain anonymous? Someone who is the victim of other serous violent crimes will not hide it.

This is down to not wanting to be defined, but is there something more to this heavy silence; the victim of this type of crime will may forever feel a sense of something irrecoverably broken.

Violated, dirtied,..have we still traces of the village honour code lurking deep down near the lizard part of our brains as women?

So why rape is a crime were you undergo the punishment of the need of anonymity?

Anonymity that protects you from what? The whispered comment in the shop, the grandmother’s tutting. Shame shame..

To who? Shame to fucking who?

Is there culture in women’s perception that, deep down, subconsciously, thinks that women who are raped are in some way responsible?

‘Did you see what she was wearing?’ Cut to W. H. Smith’s and the military cemetery of women’s magazines.

From the bingo halls to the coffee shops on the hill, they all feel sympathy to the person they know has been assaulted but they have become something other, a bit further away. Less safe, certainly less - And here’s the women’s word - clean.

Yes that brighter than bright, fresh new feeling of clean.

That battle of the ages from disease and illness swallowing up our children, on the hovel floor, from the microbes and parasites. Rubbish and shit pile up around our offspring and we trudge on in this monotonous domestic battle till the lid comes down.

That sense of clean as women that is hardwired into us like fear of lightning.

From the dancing, singing housewife in the perfect black and white soap powder life we have ‘clean’ rammed down our throats as women. The ‘dirt’ from our female bodies attended to by a multi-national industry. Scented tanga panty liners… Jesus.

More tutting, and the pointing of a granny’s finger. She has a dirty house…
You know what they used to call women like that?