Sawt al Niswa | صوت النسوة - fightrape

لماذا عليك إتخاذ موقف ضد العنف الجنسي؟

hiba — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 22:00:00 +0000

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Me and a Gun #Jan14

hiba — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 22:00:00 +0000

Laurel Harig

In Tori Amos’ autobiographical song about surviving rape (“Me and a Gun” from her first album, Little Earthquakes, 1992), Tori talks abouther choice to wear a “slinky red thing,” and how women's susceptibility to rape is commonly perceived to have something to do with the way they dress or the places they frequent. Funny how, in the tragic story of the rape and murder of Miriam Ashkar in November, no one asked what she was wearing. Was it because, in this case, the perpetrator– a Syrian worker, all too neatly fit the sectarian demonization bill and so no further inquiry was necessary? Or, was it because she was on her way to pray in church in the early evening, her status as a “good girl” thus confirmed? What would the media have said if she were walking alone late at night, or from her boyfriend’s house? Some might have tried to shift the blame from her killer to Miriam herself, as if a woman could ever prepare for rape, or prevent it, or cause it to happen. What if Miriam were divorced or even, married? Then, the crime would pass from her own body to the honor of her husband. This is the Lebanon we live in today. It is a land where only virgins can be raped.

There is an old German saying that a woman’s place is “kinder, kuche, kirche.” (Children, kitchen, church.) It is not hard to see that this mentality is still alive and well in Lebanon. So, how is it that a woman is not safe from harm in any of these three places? (Neither when a child, at home, or on her way to church?) I am currently working on a paper on women’s role in religion in the pre-modern world. When you study history and scripture, you see that patriarchal attitudes towards women are never part of “history” or “tradition,” rather they are political tools that are deployed against women depending on political goals at the time. An example of this would be how American woman were asked to join the workforce during the 1940′s during the patriotic days of WWII only to be sent back to their homes in the 1950′s to breed the next generation of citizens to replace those killed in the war. This is similar to the status of Algerian women after the revolution who were asked to return to their kitchens after playing a vital role in the resistance rather than take up posts in a new post-colonial government. This is not all bad. If patriarchal attitudes are historical products of a time and place, this means that they can also be undone by direct political action. What if, in the spirit of Lysistrata, all wives of Lebanese politicians refused to have sex with their husbands until the new laws were passed? Nadine Labaki’s new film tries to make this point, although I doubt that Russian prostitutes are the answer.

It is to women, all of them, who suffer sexual harassment, abuse, domestic violence, rape and murder that our actions on January 14th should be dedicated, so that we don’t forget the terrible urgency of what we are doing. Lebanon currently has some of the most archaic rape laws in the world. We need new laws to create a safer world for all women residing in Lebanon, whether they are citizens, foreign domestic workers or visitors. And after the laws, we need the courage to enforce them and watch society change.

Tori Amos Song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uKzCxi2yf5s
Lysistrata story:

http://drama.eserver.org/plays/classical/aristophanes/lysistrata.txt

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On Why We Are Demonstrating

hiba — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 22:00:00 +0000

Paola Daher

I read an infuriating article today, a blog post that was so patronizing it made me feel sick to the stomach. The writer referred to our action as “delusional” and while he deemed our struggle as “righteous”, he did not see it going anywhere for the moment. But Behold! For his was kind enough to provide us with an alternative solution, with other priorities and other actions.

The author’s intention was probably not to minimize our struggle, or be patronizing or anything: he probably did not notice that his sickly sweet rhetoric merely felt like a paternalistic pat on the head, like someone telling you you’re cute but naïve. Like someone not really believing you had serious reasons to be angry and to demonstrate.

Which got me to think: what are we fighting for? Why are we demonstrating?

First and foremost, there’s of course the issue of rights. We are demonstrating because the state has duties towards us, obligations it has signed on in an International Convention (CEDAW), voluntarily binding itself to respect, protect and fulfill them, rights that we can see are not being respected, protected and fulfilled. Hence, by making ourselves heard we are simply putting into action our democratic rights. We are neither demonstrating because we are spoilt brats, nor because we don’t have anything else to do or because we are delusional naïve nymphs living in Lala land. Rather, our carefully thought-out collective action is our weapon to put our government in front of its obligations. Its obligations is our rights, and it is our responsibility to demand them, to claim them, for the shameful rape laws are not going to be cancelled by themselves; and neither is the Violence Against Women Bill ever going to materialize and be adopted out of thin air. We demonstrate because the numbers 478, 488 and 489 (criminal code provisions imposing higher sanctions on women found guilty of adultery than on men) 503, 504 and 522 (laws pertaining to rape) cannot be read without a shudder. We demonstrate because of the large Violence Against Women Bill-shaped gaping hole within the Lebanese legislative apparel. We demonstrate because religious authorities are playing deaf and blind to that very simple fact: there are women in Lebanon, and we are not walking wombs. Rather, we are human beings who saw evil, heard evil and witnessed you speak your evil.

So we’re taking to the streets, armed with an international Convention, armed with laws and principles and a whole set of values that we think are worth sharing. Several people and bloggers seem to think that we’re ahead of the game, that before obtaining a change in the laws we need to establish a civil state in Lebanon then we’ll be able to see what we can do about women’s rights. It’s the same old song: women are selfish for demanding what is theirs, they should wait until the whole system changes until we can tackle women’s rights. To which I answer 1) Women Won’t Wait 2) why not think of changes in laws with regards to women as an opening door to a wider change in the system? Advocating for women’s rights is advocating for a more egalitarian society, it doesn’t mean favouring one injustice over another. The way I see it, turning Lebanon into a civil state will take longer than adopting the Violence Against Women law: what are we supposed to do until we reach that point? Sit around and pray?

The demonstration however even goes beyond obtaining our rights. It has become a question of reclaiming our very streets, each corner of our city until we find that we can walk around without fear or of uneasiness because of stares, glares, insults, offensive comments or unwanted physical contacts that is just plain sexual abuse. We’re demonstrating now because our cup is full: we’re tired of unlit zawarib where even the less sporty of us turns into a sprint champion until we reach our cars, we’re tired of feeling as if we’d like our breasts to be invisible, we’re tired to be harassed just because we are women. By pounding the streets of Beirut we’re making a strong statement to those who would like to see us off them, tucked away in our homes that sometimes are more dangerous that battlegrounds, as if under house arrests: look at us, we’re women and human, we want our dignity and safety.

We’re demonstrating because this way we get to say our stories, with our words, our chants, our actions, with no self-appointed authority (religious or otherwise) telling us we’re asking too much, too soon, too aggressively.

Our bodies are ours, and no one but us gets to dictate what we should do with it or whom and when we decide to give it to. Our voice are ours too, and no one but us dictates when and how we should use it.

So on Saturday the 14^th, I will pick up my banner and I will shout for my rights until my voice gets hoarse. But I promise that if you see us on the streets, and still have questions, then I will use it to talk to you.

And maybe then, you’ll walk with me too.

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Why I’m marching.

hiba — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 22:00:00 +0000

Raja Farah

Because a law that hurts women, hurts men.

Because no one, under any circumstances, should ever be subject to any kind of violence, be it domestic, sexual, or psychological.

Because a woman cannot, should not be scared of her husband.

Because a son needs to be able to understand that protecting women is his best hope for a good future.

Because a man should never feel reinforced and supported by the law when he is abusing his power and strength.

Because living in fear is not living.

Because insults, sticks, and force leave irreparable damage.

Because I have a sister, a mother, a best friend.

Because I respect women and men, and the right of each to control her or his own body.

Because I want to live in a society that respects and protects men and women alike.

Because violence begets more violence, and frankly, we’ve had our fair share of violence in this country.

Because this is an emergency, this is important, this is crucial.

Because children need to be surrounded by love and care, not violence and hate.

Because I have to right to demand that everyone around me be free of any kind of sexual abuse.

Because sexual violence gives sex a bad name.

Because we’ve been silent for too long.

Because we are strongest when everyone is protected.

Because enough is enough.

Because it makes a difference.

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Fast Car: Why I’m Taking The Streets

hiba — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 22:00:00 +0000

Sarah Hijazi

I had always felt strong; I had never let anyone force me into something I didn’t want to do. I refused to be submissive to the social rules and expectations from an early age and I definitely wouldn’t have expected to react this way. I was 18 years old. I had recently moved back to Lebanon. I was eager to get my driver’s license and so I went to an instructor to learn how to drive manually. I wanted to do it the “right way”. He told me I needed two weeks of practice before the driving test. The first few days were very exciting and empowering. I had always wanted to drive, and driving was somehow associated with freedom. Owning a car adds independence to your life and gives you a feeling of security. At least, that is how I perceived it. After one week of practice, my instructor had to leave and appointed me to his brother instead. In the first two days of the second week, I was mostly driving around Beirut. The instructor was very proud of me, complimenting me on every turn and every stop. I felt proud as well but a little uncomfortable. After one week and three days, I was driving so well that he asked me to take to the highway.

On the highway, singing “Fast Car” in my head, he decided to take my hand off the gear and put it on his leg. I rapidly removed it and placed it back on the gear. He took it again and this time placed it on his erect penis and told me I shouldn’t get used to driving while my hand is on the gear, even though I was driving a stick shift. I felt petrified. I thought of stopping and getting out and running away. I thought of what was going to happen next. But all I did was stay focused on the road and then removed my hand politely, yes without a word, and drove the car with both hands. I came back home and I didn’t talk to anyone about it, not even to myself. I wanted to erase it from my memory. The next day, I was supposed to see him again. You would think that after what happened, I would have refused to. I didn’t. Maybe it’s because I didn’t want to explain to my parents why I wanted to stop. Maybe it’s because I denied it so strongly that I reached I point I convinced myself that I was exaggerating and he was just being nice. And so I went. After a couple of hours of driving, he asked me to park near the beach. I, naively, thought he was teaching me to park the car. And so I did. I parked the car and he lit a cigarette and started asking me questions about my personal life. I hastily told him I was in a serious relationship and so he replied: “How far have you and your boyfriend gone? You are saying that you know him for a long time now, I’m sure you did a lot of things.” “I didn’t get your question” was all I could say. I turned on the car and told him that my parents were waiting for me at home and that I had to go. When I got home, this time, I did think about it. The next day I called his brother and told him that I’ve learned enough and that I was ready. I had already paid so he didn’t mind. It’s like I needed proof that I was not imagining what happened. It was like I didn’t want to hurt him because I felt guilty. Guilty of what, you may ask? I don’t know. I knew that telling my dad about what happened could turn his life upside down. But I couldn’t. I felt bad because I wasn’t able to handle it on my own. I felt bad because I wasn’t able to speak up. I felt weak and naïve. We should not be afraid. We shouldn’t feel guilty about hurting a harasser. We should not question ourselves. Whenever we are put in an uncomfortable situation, we should speak up. It is our right to feel safe when we are in a taxi, when we are walking in the street, when we are anywhere we want to be. This is why we all have to take to the streets on January the 14^th and claim our rights back. Fight for your safety, against sexual harassment, against rape!

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