I had been on pro choice marches, anti fash marches, the lovely A to B ones that the TUC kindly arrange. I have been to Burston School, Tolpuddle and save the NHS marches. You would think I could call myself a veteran.
I wasn't ready for this.
Having made our placards, we headed into town. Grace wrapped up as if ready for an Arctic winter and me hobbling on my broken toe. We grabbed burritos and were still the first ones there apart from the marshals.
So we sat. Waiting for the others to arrive. Waiting for the chance to get together with other women who are sick of the slut shaming. Sick of the victim blaming. Sick of not feeling like we can walk the streets safely at night.
And arrive they did. Women, men, families. Dad's wanting to let their daughters know that they stood by them and their right to autonomy and safety.
And in the middle of all these people. A sad looking woman with a black eye. Wandering round looking confused and bemused and like she felt slightly out of place.
I didn't take a picture of her because sometimes dignity and privacy trumps an iconic photo.
I watched her for most of the night. This woman with a visible reminder of violence. Most of us have hidden our scars and you wouldn't know we were survivors unless we told you. And here, in the midst of us was a woman with a black eye.
I am not sure I have the words to describe how I felt looking at her. The memories of my own black eyes and broken bones assailed me but I felt supported by my sisters and they wouldn't drown me. More on this woman later.
We started off the event with a minutes silence round some candles to remember the women who have been killed by male violence. Didn't realise it was going to be so emotional.
Grace and I cried all the way through it. Then all the way through the poem that was read by an amazing woman about how she was finding a new pride in being able to live and laugh again.
Then Grace turned to me and whispered 'they're all here.'
And they were. We felt them. All the women that could have been us. The ones who didn't survive. The ones who shouldn't have died.
We felt them.
And we marched for them.
We shouted for them.
We honoured them.
We stopped the traffic. We carried our placards high and proud. We blew whistles. We basked in the glow of sisterhood.
I heard very young women crying because it was the first march they had ever been on and it was the first time they had felt proud to be women.
I saw old women on the pavement applaud us in tears and shout 'THANK YOU' as we went past.
I heard an 11 year old girl scream 'I HAVE A BRAIN AND YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO SEXUALISE ME!' defiantly into the night.
And I was proud. I was proud of every single woman who was there. I was proud of who I was. I was proud to see a transgender flag with us. I was proud to see most of the men who marched with us do so from the back, recognising that this was a moment for women to scream and shout and demand an end to catcalling, to blaming us for our own rapes because we dare to go outside after dark, an end to killing us because they can, because we will be reduced to someone's wife, girlfriend, mother, daughter.
So what of the woman with the black eye.
I caught sight of her again during the march. She was crying and she was smiling. She was walking with her head held high. She was alive.
Who knows what she went home to that night. Who knows how long her very visible euphoria lasted.
I don't. I only know that in that moment she looked free. And that made the marching on a broken toe worth it.
There was a rally and after party, but we didn't stay for that. PTSD being what it is, we can't all always stay for that kind of thing. Too loud, too busy.
It looked like fun though.
So we took our placards and went home. Where we ended up having a conversation about victim blaming on the bus with a woman who said 'I agree with what you just said, but...'
This happens a LOT. People who say they agree then go right on to say something really victim blaming like women shouldn't get drunk if they don't want to get raped.
*sigh*
Also in this category of truly unhelpful are those who try and derail with the what about teh menz argument.
Yes, men sometimes get catcalled too. Does it make it ok? No. Does it give men free reign to do it? No. Are men in danger of their lives if they don't respond or do respond? No.
This is a world where we have Julien Blanc telling men how to choke women into sex. Am I going to die in a ditch over a woman shouting nice arse at a man. No.
So, despite the men who wouldn't go to the back of the march, despite the twitter trolls who tried to start a row on the #reclaimthenight hashtag, despite everything, for that night it was ours. We reclaimed it. We felt safe with our sisters.
Tonight, tomorrow and all the other nights?
Well we still have work to do. Much work.
But we are up to the job, and we will win.
Solidarity sisters
Deeva xxx
No comments:
Post a Comment