Inadequate rage: How we fail violated women

BY OKEOGHENE ABOBISE

Because we may have more than a few contrarians in the room, I somehow feel the need to preface what I’m about to say by stating this: I love men. However, this does not blind me from the reality that violence against women is overwhelmingly likely to be perpetuated by men. I’ll spare you the numbers. Google is your friend and can provide you with all the statistical evidence you may require.

Before I continue, please save the whataboutism for another day. This, I promise you, is not an all-lives matter moment. Do us all a collective favour and keep your focus on the topic at hand. Also…yes, not all men, but clearly, one too many. Thank you.

In the last few weeks, I have been inundated with news about violence against women. Dr Moumita Debnath, a trainee doctor at R. G. Kar Medical College in Kolkata, West Bengal, India, was raped and murdered in a college building. According to multiple reports, her lifeless body was found in a seminar room on campus, with bloody injuries consistent with a violent sexual assault, but before the public backlash, that was somehow magically ruled as a suicide. In France, Giséle Pélicot was raped by over 70 men over the course of 10 years, thanks to her now ex-husband, who drugged her into unconsciousness and invited the men via an online platform to take advantage of her.

A little closer to home: Ugandan Olympian Rebecca Cheptegei was doused in gasoline and set on fire by her fiancé after a dispute and is now deceased. Christiana Idowu, a FUUNAAB student, sought refuge from the rain at a friend’s house, where she was murdered after refusing to engage in sexual intercourse with him. In Ebonyi state, Mercy Vangervihi is fighting for her life after being bludgeoned with a pestle while asleep and raped by a neighbour who snuck into her house.

Perhaps more shocking than the stories themselves is the discourse surrounding these stories. While overwhelmingly the reaction has been horror, there are large enough pockets of seeming defenders of the perpetrators to raise one’s ire. Also, our collective tendency is to centre the perpetrators and speak about how they ruined their lives with “foolish” acts, leaving no room to discuss in detail, the effects on the victims; The mother who will never speak about the horrific things done to her but instead stares in mute silence at a spot forever marked by the horror of the experience. The child who would be forever altered and damaged by the experience. The unspoken code of silence when violence is perpetrated within families.

One is forced to ask: Who is really being protected when we stay silent? Are we really protecting the victims, the perpetrators, or are we simply afraid to look closely at how we might have raised individuals who would commit such vicious and unprovoked acts? Are families attempting to escape their own feelings of guilt or shame that may not have been theirs to bear in the first place, perhaps out of fear of the larger society asking, ‘Who raised these monsters?’

A lot of women I hold dear have been, at some point in their lives, sexually harassed or molested. Most of the stories are the same. It was almost never the stranger lurking in the dark. It was a friend, family, acquaintance. Someone with whom a basic sense of familiarity, comfort even, had been established. And then shattered. Little wonder women navigate the world in a constant state of fear. Most women would never speak of the horrors they have endured. And why would they?

What is the incentive in a society that makes the crime about the perpetrator, not the victim? That expends more time asking the victim why they didn’t spend more time protecting themselves than ensuring that they have no reason to take such precautions in the first place. That places the blame squarely on the shoulders of the oppressed, not the oppressor. That blames them for being harmed while simultaneously mocking them for being overly cautious on an everyday basis? “How could you be so stupid as not to recognize the danger you were placing yourself in?”

The guilt of knowing better. The regret of not having done something different that would have spared them the horrific fate. The shattered illusion of safety. The hyper-alertness. The suspicion of strangers. The fear of family. The shattered peace. The constant emotional turmoil. The pain, confusion, and sometimes frustration of other loved ones and acquaintances who now have to navigate issues they may lack the knowledge of or experience to handle.

Somehow, I suspect if we expended half the effort we spend pontificating and lecturing women on what they could have done to avoid being raped and focused on advocating for systems that protect victims and punish offenders, we’d be further along. As a reminder to everyone, your comments on what a woman should have done differently after the fact, however well-intentioned, come off emotionally daft. Do better.

There are issues we must confront as a society. Conversations that need to be had. Why is the hate against women so brutal and vicious? What made the monster? Are there societal norms and expectations affecting the interactions between both genders that are playing a factor? Have we collectively created a society where a lot of men do not value women beyond sexual gratification? In extreme situations, does this show up as violence against women? How can men show up as allies in these conversations about why women are terrified? How do we create safe spaces for women?

We must acknowledge the victims. Their stories cannot be somehow too distasteful for our sensibilities that we centre the perpetrators, albeit unintentionally, and sideline the victims. The onus is on us to have the courage to look at the damage done, the havoc wrecked by senseless acts of violence and collectively decide: Enough!

I’m usually reticent about passing judgment on who gets to live or die. I identify as a Christian. But even on the journey to being Christ-like and having grace for everyone, I find myself recoiling at crimes that upend one’s moral compass. Ultimately, it’s not my grace to give. Justice can sometimes taste a lot like revenge. And maybe it should.

Abobise is a development M&E specialist and social critic.