Shame of Spitalfields

Pride of Spitalfields is the name of the pub where Meow Meet – a gathering of like-minded individuals’ crazy about communism and cats – took place. There was a planned pub crawl but as the night went on, we settled and occupied the back quarter of the pub. Being with kindred spirits aside, I felt myself on full alert having clocked the various leering geezers dotted around the bar. Very early on in the evening a large skinhead attempted to woo me with his American accent all the while slurring how much he liked the cat on my dress, his eyes fixated on my breasts. After we’d done a good job of ignoring him, he sloped off.

I felt safe. A mixed group, I was friends with many of them and since we’d been out together and tackled patriarchy effectively before, I felt reassured I could just be. With these righteous men and women I felt free. Except patriarchy was more brazen that night. I caught the bald American through the corner of my eye, as he left his table to walk past me for the loo. He stroked my shoulders and back whilst I was sat on a stool between two of my friends. Shocked and utterly grossed out, I told the group what had just happened. When he came out of the toilet, one of my beautiful sisters pointed at him and said “how dare you touch her? Don’t fucking do it again?” Far from being embarrassed he’d been caught out, he leant in to her and asked her to slap him. In an attempt to distract him, I asked if he was American. When he replied yes, I said “figures”. Well, then he called me a “fucking cunt”. When the rest of our group stood up, he crawled off, mumbling expletives.

Shaken but proud and empowered, I told one of the barmaids what had happened. I was happy when she immediately said she would not serve him anymore. She also said he had been aggressive but they couldn’t throw them out because there were only three women behind the bar. However, I was just pleased that she’d acknowledged what had happened. Shortly after, the man and his friends left. One of them even apologised to one of the men in our group. We were able to enjoy a few more drinks before the second incident of the evening.

Sat on my stool at the side of the table, somebody grabbed the back of my neck and pushed me down. Alarming and distressing, yes, but I also have a spinal injury. I’ve been told never to attempt to touch my toes. I have to think of my every movement before I make it. I am having an MRI in three days. Livid, I shot up and shouted at the man. I can’t remember what I said; I was too frightened and angry. Other people in the bar started shouting at me, how it was funny it was always the same girl complaining, how our stools were in the way of the path to the toilet and my blood ran cold. I asked the older landlady whether they were saying I was making it up and she matter of factly nodded yes. I didn’t exactly want to burst into tears and start rolling off all the other times I hadn’t been believed but that’s what happened. Like a collage of all the other times I’d been violated but made to feel like the evil scheming temptress I must be. All of it poured out as the mascara gushed down my cheeks. I’d had a drink but the pain is always the same and I react in exactly the same way. Triggers, emotions so strong and so embedded because of careless caretakers and patriarchy; that I try and keep a lid on. For years, I slapped a smile on it until the corners of my mouth hurt so much from smiling, they’d quiver. Now, I cannot.

One of the things said to me by the patrons of that pub was that we should just accept it. Accept what? Being groped? Being leered at? My body does not belong to the public. It is mine and it is fragile. If anyone touches me without my consent, I will shout and scream blue murder.

When I finally calmed down I learnt the man who’d grabbed my neck had also groped one of our teenage comrades (her account). The guy was in his 50s. One of my friends hugged me as she said she’d challenged one of the younger barmaids as to whether she’d been harassed more than a coupla times in one evening and she said yes. The landlady responded there was little they could do with their customers of old. And there, patriarchy is atoned. Capitalism is what makes the misogo man’s world go round.

I can’t keep it in any more. And I know there are many others like me. I’m not going to get quieter as time goes on; I’m going to get louder. And if aggression is what they understand, I might have to do what is required of me.

I think if someone touches you without consent, you should be allowed to hurt them back without theirs. That seems a fair exchange.

He Said (TW)

HE accused my 16 year old virginal mother of maliciously impregnating herself.

HE demanded she abort but changed his mind on hearing two heartbeats instead of one.

HE read the Azaan into my ears and shaved the baby bird down on my head.

HE said to speak against my elders meant I was evil and a slap on my 3 year old face would rectify this.

HE said I couldn’t wear shorts cos my five year old legs were too tempting.

HE said I could not play sport cos the shape of my vulva was on display.

HE said a bike would damage my virginity.

HE said to speak to boys was confirmation I was a slag

HE said I mustn’t speak to the white kids cos then I was just as bad as them.

HE said I must learn this alien language and chant with perfect enunciation and THEN God would love me.

HE said if I refused I would burn in Hell’s eternal fires.

HE said the angels on my shoulders would weigh my heart against my deeds and then I would be judged.

HE said I was mother’s daughter which of course was proof that I was a slag.

HE said that I purposely lost the £5 I was supposed to give to the mosque.

HE watched in delight as my family slapped me in front of him.

HE said I was the best in my Arabic class. Maybe that’s why HE would slap me across my developing chest. Maybe that’s why HE would run his hand along the length of my thigh.

HE said I wasn’t the pretty twin but more academic instead. My puppy fat was confirmation of this.

HE said I was an ‘earthquake’ a ‘bulldozer’ and ‘the Himalayas’ when my body went through the first change.

HE said I was hairy and ugly and a bit mannish with my deep husky voice.

HE said I would burn in Hell-fire for wearing my fashionable cross.

HE said someone ought to teach me a lesson for eating the wrong kind of meat.

HE gave me a glare when I ordered my alcopop and the look that said he’d see me later when I questioned the pint in his hand.

HE responded he ‘didn’t remember’ when I said I would make him pay for what he had done to me.

HE blamed it all on my fantastical teenage head.

HE laughed as he fought us children off and away from our mother.

HE thought it was funny when we sprang to her defence.

HE said I would burn in hell when I challenged God and spat that he really didn’t exist.

HE said he’d have to teach me a lesson, I said “come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough”.

HE yelped in pain when I bit him on the nose and it hurt when the punches rained down but inside I was smiling because I had finally hurt HIM. HE was getting weaker.

Or I was getting stronger.

HE tried to knock down the door to my safe place and I called the police on him instead. HE was told to leave or HE would be going to jail so HE did but HE never let me forget this.

HE tried to kiss me when I was just 15. HE told me no one would believe me if I ever told the truth.

HE said he’d heard I was a slag so HE thought HE’d give it a go.

HE found me with some of my innocence intact and proceeded to chip away at what was left.

HE would cry and beg forgiveness for attempting to penetrate me without my consent.

HE used me, pushed me around, and turned all my friends against me.

HE told me I wasn’t pretty enough to be his main girl. HE said it was my own entire fault.

HE said his mother was a ‘vessel’.

HE would ‘share’ me one day with his friend. HE didn’t even deny it when I said that it was rape.

HE knew I was broken and that’s the only reason HE made any impact at all. If I saw HIM now, I would laugh in his face.

HE would promise the world but never deliver.

HE would tell me I was the prettiest girl in the room but at home he’d treat me like shit.

HE said I was mediocre and I’d never be anything but a girl from The Rock.

HE said work was more important, his friends were too and I would just have to like it or lump it.

HE said I was a slag, a whore and all the other things too.

HE said I was only good for a shag.

HE said my illness was all in my head. The mind being a powerful tool.

HE said he wouldn’t pander to me any more (there was pandering?)

HE would let his friends intimidate me.

HE didn’t bat an eyelid when some of them rubbed up against me, at full mast.

HE said I was lying when I disclosed advances from one of his other freak friends.

HE made me feel unsafe and uncared for.

HE denies it to this day. (There’s a pattern emerging here)

HE said he loved me but that wasn’t enough. HE said God’s love meant more.

HE said I was alright now I was on the ‘white side’.

HE said now he’d tried Asian, he’d never go back.

HE said he was only joking when he called me a slag and would apologise every time he’d say it but this wouldn’t stop him from saying it again.

HE tried to force me to do a job he thought would be good for me. A nursery nurse to his SAC.

HE said I was silly for thinking I was a feminist because I didn’t hate men.

HE said for us to be together, I’d have to follow him wherever his career took him.

HE didn’t like it when I said no.

HE would snarl and shout and make me feel small.

HE would scan my entire body for rogue solitary hairs and grimace as if they were the most disgusting thing he’d ever seen.

HE kept company with people who thought of me as nothing more than a Paki.

HE didn’t like being challenged. One day HE simply refused to pick up the phone.

I sold the diamond ring HE gave me.

HE said I wasn’t in any physical pain, despite the two operations I’d had on my back.

HE said I should think before I speak, my life’s woes were none of his business. HE just didn’t want to know.

HE said he understood my request for an open relationship but then changed his mind.

HE was either my lover exclusively or a therapist shagging some random girl.

HE has been standing over my shoulder, breathing down my neck before I was even born.

HE defines my role, my character, my options and my path.

HE’s not allowed into my life anymore but still, he lingers.

HE’s on my TV, on my street, in my dreams.

HE is always the same; it doesn’t matter what colour he is or how tall he might be.

HE is patriarchy and HE oppresses me.

Violence against women is pandemic (TW)

Whilst Sunny Hundal points his finger at the whole of India for its burgeoning rape epidemic, Jim Davidson has been arrested for sexual offences. In what seems to be a never ending spectacle of horror, Britain’s ‘National Treasures’ are being outed one by one for their abuse of women and children. The lead singer of The Lost Prophets has been charged with conspiracy to rape a child under 13, conspiracy to engage in sexual activity with a child under 13 and making, possessing and distributing indecent images of children. Rape Crisis Scotland responded to 12000 calls in the space of 12 months. End Violence Against Women revealed 41% of women aged 18-34 have experienced unwanted sexual attention. Meanwhile a New York police officer is accused of plotting to kidnap, rape and EAT women.

On doing a Google news search for rape, I went as far back as the 20^th December only to discover that rape seems to have vanished from our streets. There were a couple of local reports of women being attacked by strangers in parks but the first 12 pages speak of India’s fall from grace. The whole world is rightfully appalled at the horrific way our sister met her end. But it seems to have had a magic effect on rapists the world over. Have they stopped raping?

I would love nothing more than for this to be true. But I feel it is unlikely when, on New Year’s Eve I stood waiting for a friend to collect me from Aldgate East station. It was 2am, I’d left one set of friends to meet another. As it drizzled, I stood under the canopy of the entrance, rolling myself a cigarette, hoping I wouldn’t be noticed. A group of lads exited the station and immediately gravitated towards me. I braced myself, angry that they would dare to do so. The leader of the pack stood in my personal space, less than a foot between us and stared at me square in the eyes. He had a sick cocksure smile planted on his face and leaned towards me. “Happy new year” he sneered. Of course all hell broke loose and I told him to fuck off in as many ways I could muster but he stood fast, my words barely making an impact. His friends were either side, all staring at me as they thought things and I felt sick. I remembered the woman from Delhi and I thought of whether she’d felt the same, did she think the approaching group of men were ‘just being a nuisance’? Did she know what they would do to her? Who could predict such a thing? It felt like they were there forever but then a male friend showed up. He saw me shouting at them and rushed over. I babbled at him, and he turned to them “if a girl tells you she doesn’t want to speak to you, you fuck off!” The whole party started shouting their excuses, denying their part, with no intention of backing down. A man passing by joined us and stood shoulder to shoulder with my friend. He threatened the other boys. So they skulked off.

I was shaken by this. I am no match for a group of men. My friend wasn’t much of a threat to them either. It was only as my situation drew attention they appeared to lose some of their power. Later that evening another group of strange men would surround my young friend and tell her she was a slut and should cover up with one of them stating Allah had granted him the right to put her in her place for being an apostate. This man was white with a ginger beard. Crowds of people stood around as they threatened us. Nobody spoke up.

Patriarchy is controlling each and every one of us right now. It’s telling us that the Indian rapist is a new breed of perpetrator, so horrific in his methods that we need to focus our attentions on sorting THAT country out. An epidemic suggests a rash of incidents, as if it’s a new problem or that somehow it has gotten much worse. That’s what patriarchy wants you to believe. India has always had a problem with rape. Just like the UK has always had a problem with rape. That’s how patriarchy works. And it keeps you battling the very same problems because it tells you it happened elsewhere. By pointing the finger at India and referring to the woman from Delhi as the Indian girl, it has become someone else’s problem. Instead of the global virus that it is. Rape is very widespread in India. But it’s widespread here too.

Damini’s rape will change India. It already has. Women are taking to the streets in solidarity. Global pressure and bad press will force Indian to review its penal code. If the mobs are successful, rapists will die. We hope. But when this happened to Mary Anne, what did we do?

It was 2006. Mary Anne was 16. She and a friend were abducted and then raped and tortured for several hours. The perpetrators had forced them to take drugs and they were repeatedly told they were going to die. Mary Anne eventually died from her numerous stab wounds. Her friend miraculously survived a bullet to the head. Where was the outrage for Mary Anne? Why are we not still angry?

Patriarchy minimises rape: “Do you honestly think a woman is treated the same in India as in the UK? REALLY?”. It defines it for you. When something like this happens to a woman, the menz trip over themselves to mansplain it to us. Instead of thinking, fuck those Indians need a telling off, why not think, fuck, rape is an evil thing and rapists need taking out? And then do something about it. Make it unacceptable to laugh or joke about rape lest the rapist thinks he’s got a friend in you. Raise your boys and girls with a clear understanding of consent. For a start, reason with your children why they must brush their teeth instead of forcing the brush into their mouth. Show them why it’s good to ask for permission.

Smash male privilege.

Smash the patriarchy.

Don’t feed the trolls.

This is not a race issue (which is one of patriarchy’s more evil inventions); this is about power and control of women by men. The only way to change things is to highlight them and keep the pressure on ALL governments. Let the rapist know we’re watching.

We’re watching the Indian ones right now.

Who’s watching ours?

A victim confronts her rapists – MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNING

With the world frantically apologising for rapist Assange, it goes without saying that rape victims everywhere will be feeling traumatised and hesitant to report. The past few weeks have triggered old feelings for many as teh menz go about explaining to those being raped what constitutes a ‘legitimate’ rape. It leaves us feeling like we shouldn’t bother reporting, even when we know we didn’t consent.

The following is a description of what many rape victims go through, in trying to reconcile the trauma with fact.

We need to believe victims, we need to support them. Rape is rape.

(X was raped by two men; M being her ‘first love’ and A, his best friend. Two years after she was raped, X received an unsolicited email)

Message from a rapist

“I just wanted to say I’m so sorry for what happened never should have. I wish one day we can talk. Do think about you sometimes and just wonder what going on in your life. Take care. M”

A couple of years pass without any correspondence and then..

On FB, A wrote:

“Never cared for an explanation before this”

Traumatised, a friend responds on X’s behalf:

“You don’t know me and I have little interest in knowing any of you, but as someone that cares for X deeply, and seeing as you’ve all tried to make contact with her recently, I’m going to take this opportunity to point a few things out to you.

Yes, she was drunk that night. Yes, a part of her wanted to have sex with you M. No, she did not want to have sex with you A. Yes, it was rape.

M’s sister, I’m sure you’re upset by what happened, but your suggestion that she asked for it by getting drunk and not listening to your advice to stay away from your brother, is just the kind of told-you-so quip a girl who has suffered so horrifically doesn’t need to hear.

No girl asks to get raped.

New laws have been passed to protect girls in exactly the same situation: if a girl is drunk and says no, it’s rape.

I think it’s pretty sick that you keep images of her torment on your laptop M.

Please don’t try to contact her. That night changed her. She’s not the meek eager-to-please little girl you all once knew. She’s tough as nails is our X.

If you pursue harassing her, she will contact the police.

Just let it go. You could have destroyed her life, but you didn’t. Be thankful for that. I hope this disgusting ordeal has taught you not to do this to another girl ever again. I wish you all peace. S”

A responds to S’ email:

“I’d like to say thank you for responding to me.  I’ll respect yours and X’s wishes to not contact her – this was the only time I tried in two years but only because I never had a way of contacting her until now.  If I did, I would have tried long ago, but I realize now that it might not have made a difference.

I don’t wish to rehash that night – the way you described it is disturbing and very hurtful, and I don’t agree with it, but this isn’t about me.  I feel absolutely terrible that it made X feel that way.  I hated not knowing all this time, but your email made me realize that things ended badly.

I don’t blame you if you don’t share this message with X – you sound like a caring friend and I can appreciate that.  If you do, please tell her that I am truly sorry for being part of something that caused her pain.  I know this sounds crazy, but I felt a strong connection with her from the moment I met her.  Things happened the way they did, but it was never my intention.
I hoped that I might see her again when in London, but I know that will never happen.

Again, please tell her I’m sorry.”

A proceeds to send X an email anyway:

“Not sure what to say.  I never had the chance to talk to you after that night but I really wanted to.  I asked M about you 100 times.  I guess now I understand a little better.

I know you probably don’t want to believe anything I say, but the impression it seems you have of me and the person I really am are very different.  Look, I respect your feelings and I want to try and see things from your side if you’ll share that with me.  I remember that night and I want to share my feelings too.  They are not what you expect…”

X responds:

“It’s taken me a long time to make sense of things and face my demons and now I have nothing but curiosity, but its taken a long time to get to this. That night, before you’d even turned up, I’d drunk so much my judgement was already way off. I keep thinking back to my behaviour, silly things that I’d done, how I’d brought it on myself.

I really enjoyed being at the club, dancing, getting drunk. For the first time, I didn’t feel uncomfortable around M, didn’t feel like the sap he’d always made me feel. Ironic really, it was the first time I’d trusted him. When we were in bed, I was a fool for letting him touch me and for getting carried away. The enormity of the situation didn’t strike home until you were asked to join in. I said no (admittedley I didn’t scream it) a fair few times and in the end I gave myself two choices; scream and make it more harrowing or lie back and play numb. M, the twat who always insisted on using contraception mocked me with ‘wouldn’t it be funny if you did get pregnant? you wouldn’t know the father until it was born’ before chucking the condom over his shoulder. I asked him not to hurt me and you did too, I thought you were on my side. Until you said you wanted to have a go too. He ripped my pyjamas because I’d tied a knot in the drawstring. What part of that was consensual? At some point, after it was all done, you left to sleep in the other room. I asked M many times why he’d allowed for something like this to happen and he said, so carefree, that if it had been any other one of his friends he wouldn’t have stood for it but you, you were like his brother. What the hell does that mean?!?

Why were you guys forcibly taking pictures of me? When I was trying to wrap myself up in the duvet? Do you know I got an infection after that night? Not transmitted but as a result of the trauma? That I had bruises on my wrists, thighs?

How can the picture be any different in your head?”

A responds:

“I know saying sorry doesn’t change anything, but I really am.  I remember M telling me that we would be driving down to *place* and didn’t tell me much of who we were meeting.  I remember I was exhausted because I hadn’t slept in two days and I didn’t think I would have fun.  Then he stopped to pick you up and everything changed.

At that point, I didn’t know the relationship you had with M.  I could tell there was some history, but I didn’t know the extent of it.  When we were in bed, I felt incredibly awkward.  On the one hand, I understood what was going on, and yet I felt so attracted to you, and more than just physically and I believed that you felt that way too. I know that shouldn’t make sense and maybe that’s where I am totally wrong.  I tried to control my feelings, and then I slipped up.  But X, I didn’t do it to ‘have a go’.  I’ve never been that way, and I will never be that way and I wished many times that I could talk to you just to let you know.

Now years later I have a chance to talk to you about this – I still think about you from time to time.  Partly because of the strangeness of that night and partly because somehow I knew you were hurt, and I didn’t want that.  I hope we can continue to talk.

P.S. I never saw the pictures after that day, and I really believe they are gone.”

X replies:

“There’s a reason why I decided to have this out with you than him. As far as I’m concerned he never existed. He came into my life when I was 15, when I was vulnerable and manipulated my feelings, treated me with very little respect. I was just his girl this side of the pond. I developed an eating disorder because of all the crap he’d feed me about how hot and slim his girl was, how he could never treat me as anything but a shag. He broke my heart so many times going as far as taunting me with lines like “you’re the second girl I’ve fucked today”. I was so stupid, I let him, year after year until that occasion. I can understand now why it may have been strange for you and why you wouldn’t have been feeling what I was feeling where, for the umpteenth time, he just used me and left. I remember telling him the two of you had to leave ‘cos I was moving out of the house the next day and that the chap from the agency saw me as a sister and how would he feel if it were his sister in the same position. He just scoffed, going as far as calling his mum a vessel and his sister someone he shares DNA with. I’m just sorry it took me so long to realise his intentions. Apart from his girl, his views on women are misogynistic and quite dangerous. I’m sorry you got dragged into it.”

A’s final email to X. X is so disgusted by some of his suggestions, she cannot continue.

“ X, I shouldn’t have made my version of that night sound overly romantic because thats not fair to you.  I too thought most of the night was great and I had alot of fun, but I realize the morning was insensitive.  I really did try to get M to contact you after that day because I didn’t feel good about it, and I thought he was lying when he said he couldn’t reach you anymore.  After about 1 year I gave up.  Then I tried sending you that email and I got that response from your friend, and I can’t believe how much that email bothered me. At first I was offended, then I was pissed off about it, and then I was hurt and very sad that I had something to do with making you feel that way.  I think it hit home that things were worse than I expected.  If I had to defend myself and my actions regarding the things that happened that night, I think I could, but I wish I held back.

I always wanted to tell you that I think you are beautiful and that you have a sweet personality.  That probably sounds gross coming from me

How have things been for you these last few years otherwise?  Have you found someone that treats you well?  Would you rather stop the emails now that we’ve discussed it?”

There are many that will say, well, it can’t have been that bad else why would she still speak to them? Trauma works in mysterious ways. Victims need closure and if the State cannot provide it, what are they to do?

If X now chose to report, would she have to answer questions about why she allowed herself to get so drunk? What about the clothes she was wearing? The fact that she’d had previous sexual relations with one of the rapists, would they deem it consensual? 

An open letter to the funny makers

You’re funny, we get that. That’s why you’re on TV and have a massive following on Twitter. You made it. You’re an intelligent person, you’re likeable; it’s what makes you so successful. The world is your oyster.. Do you think if you chose to avoid a subject like rape, the world would suddenly fall out from under you? Tickets wouldn’t so well, reviews maybe not so favourable? Who are you trying to please? Is that because you consciously know that a significant number of your fans relish this sort of ‘humour’ because they believe it to be true? Do you like it because it’s true..?

When you make a joke about rape, I sometimes forget to breathe. My heart starts pounding and my palms begin to sweat, with a crawling sensation over my whole body. Pins and needles in my hands and feet.. In my brain. I have to force myself to breathe in a controlled manner until the adrenalin subsides. I always feel nauseous afterwards. Sometimes I am physically sick. These are all symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. Although I am on medication to control my resting moods, whenever I am triggered I have an acute response. I suppose they don’t do drugs strong enough to suppress trauma like rape, sexual assault and child abuse.

We’ve pleaded with you to think about what you’re doing. But that just makes you do it even more. Much like a rapist. 1 in 4 women has experienced rape or attempted rape. This is not a laughing matter. Women generally don’t like to shout it from the rooftops but I imagine this statistic also applies to the women in your life. Unless you are a perpetrator of rape and your mother, sister, girlfriend, wife or daughter are fair game for other men cos women are beneath you (and I’m not talking to you), the thought of these women in your life being violated is too much to bear right? (I hope.)

Can you imagine them feeling what I feel when you so flippantly roll off a gag about date rape? How about gang rape? I know, paedophiles!

When we get angry and we demand that you think, it’s not control or censorship. It’s sheer disbelief that another human being would mentally and emotionally harm a large section of society. And not just once but defiantly, repeatedly offend in some bizarre belief that this will boost the ratings. Yes! It will. Rapists and supporters of rapists will flock to your shows. Nice one.

Please. Think.

What rape culture? What racism?

Many thanks to Natasha J Smith for sharing her harrowing story of rape in Egypt’s Tahrir Square. As predicted, it wasn’t long before the apologists crawled out bringing with them the racists and anti-Islam hate mongerers.

The Netherlands appear to going crazy for my blog today. I’ve been linked by a queer little character that thinks it OK to invade a serious piece on misogyny and patriarchy and make it about the cause closest to his heart; those pesky muslims and their superior woman-hating ways. Darn it, must be really annoying when brown people hate women that bit better occasionally.

The troll lives here http://www.eliveld.nl/articles/2012/2706/2706.html where he tries very hard to justify his hatred of women because of how they let brown men treat them. Sigh. He also refers to me as Punjabi. I know the ass, you and me thing is really old but that line was made for twerps who need life breaking down, it’s the perfect formula.

SOLIDARITY WITH ALL THE LOVING PEOPLE; WHO CAN GIVE IT AND RECEIVE IT.

WHATEVER YOUR COLOUR, RACE OR RELIGION.

 

 

Rape-Rape In The Real World Online

[View the story "Rape-Rape In The Real World Online" on Storify]

Please Click Link