I was raped. What’s rape? One might ask. The dictionary explains - A: “The crime of having sexual intercourse with a woman forcibly and without her consent;” B: “Any outrageous or violent assault.”[break]
But to me, the meanings of rape come teeming, swarming in multitudes, for the meanings of rape are ever so many – as are the aftermaths, the repercussions – on the victim.
I’m a victim of rape – My body not only physically abused but my emotions tampered with. Moment after moment, day after day, week after week, month after month, and year afterward, I’ve been made to suffocate in silence here, down here from where I speak, from this black void from where nobody ever reports back.
I lost my body, and with it my soul and spirit, my laughter and my sunshine. But I’m determined to retrieve them. Not only that, this time when I get myself back, I want to cherish them, nurture them, love them, for my body not only wants sex, it yearns longingly for so many other things – silence, freedom, gentle kisses. And it wants songs and laughter, too. “A bit of laughter, a bit of a song, the sweet scent of perfume, a naughty smile, languid happiness, an eternity…”
Sometimes, I hear myself hum to myself in this still and dark silence, forgetting for a moment the agony that is me.
I admit my sexuality is the essence of me. But that sexuality was brutally gagged and murdered years back. I don’t feel sexual, and sitting here in my black hole, I dream of the endless vistas of this wondrous vast place that’s called lovemaking and orgasm. But all I seem to want is to release myself, unshackle myself from this copiously abundant anger that’s in me. My want to escape is alarming.
My body was invaded, my soul butchered, and my spirits burnt. I don’t touch my body now. I don’t even care to visit it. I live someplace else. I don’t know where it is, for it’s so dark in here, and from here nobody ever reports back.
It’s been ages since I looked down at my own vagina, felt my own body parts. Even if I did, I think I’d fail to feel them. For I hate my body, I hate my vagina more. I think it’s ugly and should forever be hidden and concealed.
As I sit in my deep black hole, I think of my other sisters all over the world who, along with me, crouched in fetal position. They too must want to go back to where they came from even though the world outside is blatantly bright, the glaze stinging and hot. It’s about my sisters in Africa with their genitalia mutilated. Knives, razors and even glass shards used to remove their clitorises – Is this not rape? My sisters who’ve had their labia stitched: Is this not rape?
But I also call them lucky, the ones who get to die of septicemia and hemorrhages. These lucky sisters of mine die quick deaths.
But many of my other sisters linger with physical sufferings as chronic uterine infection, fistula formation. And can I forget to mention the 600,000 of my Nepali sisters who suffer from uterine prolepses? Their sufferings last them a lifetime.
Little girls married young and becoming mothers at a tender age, malnourished and walking around with other new mothers, tired, weary, lacking rest and blood, and with their uteruses precariously hanging out from their vaginas that were brought out forcefully by various means; and marital rape being a major reason for that. These sisters of mine have no say over their own bodies. Is this not rape? Their men pounce on them whenever their ravenous dicks desire, leaving them not alone, even after childbirth. My poor sisters, I weep for you from my black hole down here, from where nobody ever reports back.
These sisters of mine go about doing their chores, carrying water uphill, walking miles looking for fodder for the cattle, working in the fields, coming back home in the evening, completely drained out, their uteruses precariously hanging out. Some of them shove it back in, with disgust, in shame. Many push it back in along with grass from the fields and seal it with mud and cement with their own two hands and prefer to let it rot in there because it’s simply annoying and inconvenient, hampering their daily work. Is this not rape? My darling sisters, my poor sisters! They suffer all these along with mental afflictions. And believe me, the mental wounds are much more lethal.
Have I strayed from my course for I was in no way narrating my own woes, my own agonies? But don’t you think all our concerns are the same? Being women, we share the same stories, the same pains, the same suffering. Our hopeless dreams soar so far from reach, my dear sisters, that I hear the angels laughing. Stop! Are they laughing, really? Nay, they’re whimpering. My dear sisters, I hear the angels’ short bursts of pitiable whimpering for our kind.
I know outside my deep dark hole that women walk shoulder to shoulder with men. But that doesn’t fool me. Each woman, as she walks in Nepal, her shoulders rubbing against the men’s, competing with them, there’s guilt in her heart that refuses to leave.
A wise woman once told me: When a man leaves the house in the morning for work, he does it with a fresh mind. But a woman rushes out with concerns of her own domesticity, and throughout her working day, she balances her concerns of work and home. Yet, she manages to rub shoulders with men. Kudos to you, such sisters of mine! You make me proud. I say these words to you from this deep dark hole of mine, from where nobody ever reports back.
I have stories of such women from the outside echoing down my dark hole. Many are even called whores, sluts. Various labels and names are given to women who rub shoulders with men. If a man wants to go to a bar after a day of a hard work and celebrates works done well, it’s considered a normal do. Whereas, imagine my sisters sitting alone in the evening on a barstool sipping a cocktail. Instantly, she’s a whore. My dear sisters, you don’t even have the right to celebrate a day of hard work, leave alone celebrating yourself.
As I continue my narration from this deep dark hole of mine from where nobody ever reports back, I desperately want a different woman emerge from within me – one that’s strong, one that can withstand the phantoms of my past, the jeering phantoms who’ve made me crouch into this deep dark hole from where nobody ever reports back.
So, having given myself away in pieces, I want to gather all those fragments and assemble my scattered self in one piece. This thought is possessing me, and becoming a strong conviction, an assurance, and defiantly a certainty. I’ll now emerge from this deep dark hole as a woman, and I shall own my life, and I shall appreciate myself, my body, and make proper use of my self. As Helen Reddy sang: “Yes, I’m wise / But it’s wisdom full of pain / Yes, I’ve paid the price, but look how much I’ve gained / I’m wise, I’m invincible, I’m a woman!”
The writer is the author of the novels, “Loyals of the Crown”, “Beyond the Illusions” and the forthcoming “Facing My Phantoms.”
Related story
I grew up with holes in my shoes: Jennifer Lopez
