I am sick of writing yet another rape poem.
I am sick of using a new hashtag.
I am sick of watching strong women appear on TV screens and featured in newspaper columns as they plead basic humanity to monsters, while trying to remain composed and solemn.
For an overly emotional dialogue makes the men uncomfortable and too many facts and figures tend to roll over the heads of most people. Every invitation to start a new conversation somehow ends up opening doors to imbeciles that laugh as they callously play the advocate for the devil, because a headline about a minor’s rape and mutilation is the fitting space for one to ask “why was she playing outside without her brother?”
The problem is not that evil exists, but it is the comfort that our society has found within it. The problem is not that there is one bad apple, but it’s that the entire tree is contaminated. We are a people that love cleaning up by brushing everything underneath a pretty little rug that we will then sit on and share a communal lunch, celebrating our willing blindness as hospitality while all the survivors brushed under, end up disintegrating into dust.
I am sick of the protests and I am sick of the slogans. I am sick of skating through life with such low expectations. I am sick of reading the tips and tricks that women begin to desperately offer in the wake of yet another tragedy, because I am sick of accepting that men will always be less than human. We have heard these stories before, we have read through these accounts. We have watched countless movies and cried over countless shows, we have shared each other’s experiences and we have tracked social media as these same stories make multiple rounds. The only part that remains constant is the expectation that in a few more days, yet another body will be found. And in all the days in between, countless other voices will be drowned.
I am sick of parading around in a country that pretends to be a part of the progress when rape victims are still questioned about the way they were dressed. A country where the spotlight is shown so starkly on the victim and all her choices that the abuser lurks in the shadows, conveniently forgotten and unaddressed. We can continue to band together and show strength in numbers, we can set social media ablaze with our never-ending stories, and we can make all kinds of legal requests but at the end of the day, we are governed by the same kind of men that have managed to even sexualize the Heavenly rewards of God’s spiritual test.
I am sick of reliving my own trauma and I am sick of being praised for my strength. Us women are not strong, we have been backed into a wall where we scratch and scream and fight for survival, because apparently the best chance of proving our innocence is still a two-finger test. I am sick of the lack of options, I am sick of making new posters, I am sick of waiting for the next news bulletin that will once again make me weep and rant and rave, then retreat to the only temporary remedy I know, and write yet another rape poem.