For a long time, I have waited for people to defend me and mine, to intervene and speak up for my sake but with the recent #Metoo movement at schools and universities, all of it has been shoved at the back door. There is no time, no need for an intervention of an outer space friend because my anger and rage trumps all. There is a very comforting calm about it, of drawing a circle around yourself, of knowing exactly how, where and when you were trespassed so whatever noise tries to sabotage your story is dropped. And maybe that's what, the otherwise very underwhelming subtle art of not giving a f*ck tried to explain?
To be at a point where stakes of fighting are the only stakes being weighed.
In one of the meetings yesterday, someone wanted to know about the mindset of women who keep getting abused not once but many times. Funnily enough, it didn't bother me. I have imagined this conversation so many times, all of us women have, and so we know the answers. We always know the answers, long paragraphs of perfectly crafted explanations of what is victim blaming, consensual sex, mansplaining. All of it, for in theory lies our liberation, we stick so closely to understanding how things work, for our word alone never matters. Our experience is one off anomaly. Our anger is countered with empathy. The good side and forgiveness thrown at us, reminding us of our inability of accommodating within us basic human goodness.
I read a tweet yesterday "if you are countering rape allegation with the incompatibility of call out/cancel culture, you have a problem" (was phrased better). Anyhow, I've been looking at all men, A L L M E N, with so much distrust, not because I am shocked. We have always known, and not just women, of what is it that power is capable of doing. It's the easy detachment, casually throwing words around and then going on about in the same circles, bare minimum basheer living his best life, untouched. Oh, how lovely to be bare minimum basheer, now more than ever, to be revered for being a decent human, to have awards for good-boys lining up for you, to remind us "mard bohat khoobsurat cheez hai."
The deep sense of loneliness which ensues is novel to me. To know, those you grew up loving, looking up to are all accomplices, all can enjoy the sweet fruit of choice. The choice to stay disoriented, to be indifferent. To stare from distance, at those who tell me to check my activism for my actions carry consequences. Do I tell them, the consequences that generations of older women suffered because of their lack of action?