I Shouldn't Need to Write This

Once upon a time there was a princess, trapped in a tower. Then one day, a prince came along and rescued her…and they both lived happily ever after.

You’ve heard that story, right?

The princess, locked away, imprisoned against her will. We’re always told that there’s something guarding her; something keeping her inside. A dragon, perhaps. Or a big kraken, scaling the cliffs up to the castle.

Dragons don’t exist. Nor do krakens, or mythical monsters that we’ve conjured up over centuries of imagination.

So what is keeping her trapped inside?

I think we all know the answer.

*

We’re always told that a ‘feminist’ adaptation of a fairy tale is one where the princess doesn’t need rescuing by a prince. Where she can rescue herself, and escape.

But escape where?

*

Once upon a time there was a princess who opened the castle door, to face the monster. There wasn’t a dragon outside, breathing fire, but a man.

She pushes past him, but there’s another man. And another. And another. The drawbridge is crowded; the moat is flooded full. They all stare at her, looking up and down. Dissecting every part of her appearance, her clothes, her body language. Systematically categorising her, labelling her for all to see.

Slut. Whore. Frigid. Virgin.

Easy game.

Not Worth My Time.

None of this happens out loud, but she can see it in their eyes, and the way their gaze travels across her. Every particle of her soul is trembling.

They might not be thinking that. They might not even be looking at her, but admiring her clothes. Looking at the building behind her.

But she doesn’t know that.

She turns away, in any direction, anywhere, looking for another woman. A girl, perhaps, playing on the grass bank, on the other side of the moat.

There aren’t any women anywhere.

She suddenly becomes conscious of castles, rising from the mist. All different shapes and sizes, but all with doors, locked and bolted. And women. Women standing at the windows, staring out.

Something hits her.

What if those castle walls - that rose briar, entangled across the moat - are not trapping her inside? What if they are protecting her?

*

I shouldn’t have to write this. I shouldn’t even be writing this, right now. I’m supposed to be working on an essay, but I couldn’t concentrate.

This is an essay in itself. If it goes anywhere, it will most likely be labelled ‘Opinion’ or ‘View’. It is both of these things, but also neither.

There is nothing opinionated about citing the truth. Which is what, you might ask?

Answer: that women are consistently, eternally vulnerable.

We’re not just vulnerable in the sense that we don’t have bullet-proof skin, or that we’re not immune to COVID-19.

We’re vulnerable in the sense that we can’t even step outside our house without having to be on guard. Those castles, in the fairy tales? They might keep women trapped and oppressed inside, but they also keep the bad things out.

*

Let’s move away from fairy tales, because there’s nothing fantastical about it, really.

I’m writing this on Friday 12th March, 2021. At the beginning of the week - the 8th of March - it was International Women’s Day. A day to celebrate women, to celebrate the achievements and the progress that has been made, after centuries of systematic oppression and imprisonment.

It by no means proclaims that the struggles for women are over, because they are not.

How do we know?

Simple.

Tuesday: a woman is publicly condemned, criticised and accused for speaking out about her mental health and thoughts of suicide.

Wednesday: a young woman, walking home at 9:30pm on a well-lit, main street, disappears.

She is found later, murdered.

Meghan Markle and Sarah Everard are just two women. Two women, out of thousands, out of millions, who just want to live their lives.

And today: I found out that a girl was sexually assaulted in an alleyway, around the corner from my childhood home.

Nowhere is safe.

*

I shouldn’t have to write this.

The way these things work is like a volcano. It lies dormant, for a long time, with the lava slowly growing, and bubbling, lapping over dark rocks and dissolving them. Then, at a particular point, it explodes.

Why did it take for a young woman to be murdered for this volcano to explode?

Of course, this volcano exploded a long time ago. Several times, in fact.

But why - why, in 2021 - are we still needing to have this conversation?

Feminist movements, they’re called.

The problem I have with the label ‘feminism’ is that it’s still not good enough. A woman shouldn’t be defined as a ‘feminist’ for being strong, independent and simply wanting to live her life. A man should not be defined as a ‘feminist’ for supporting her.

Why is she not just called a person? A person, who is alive, and celebrates that fact?

Because she’s different. Because she’s an outsider, an exile, a threat.

A survivor.

*

A teenage girl was assaulted on Weds 10 March at around 8.30am, in an alley near my house.

That’s 8.30am in the morning.

One of the best things about spring is that it gets lighter in the mornings. You don’t need me to tell you that in the UK, at this current point in March, it is light at 8.30am.

I don’t know what this girl was doing. She might have been walking to work, or going on a run.

She might have been walking to school.

I used to walk down that alley every day for school, too. My mum warned us away from that alley - particularly when it was dark - but at 8.30am on Wednesday 10 March, it was broad daylight.

These things don’t just happen in the dark. This isn’t an essay only about incidents happening in dark alleys, or shadowy corners of nightclubs. This is an essay, written in the light, about the constant threat and fear women face on a daily basis.

I’m not going to write about the incidents in the dark. There are women out there who have suffered awful experiences and deserve to be listened to, and to get justice. I will not take away their voices.

I used to think if I avoided the alley in the dark, everything would be fine. But that’s not just 10pm at night. That’s 4pm, after school. That’s 7.30am, walking to meet my friends.

And now? It’s not even safe to walk in broad daylight.

*

Incidents like this are not just incidents. They are a systematic expression of the constant fear, vulnerability and violence that women face, day in and day out. Sexual harassment, rape, kidnapping, murder are the most horrific crimes known to humanity.

Every year, on International Women’s Day, the British Labour MP, Jess Phillips, reads out a list of names of all the women and girls killed in the last year, where the main attacker or person convicted was a man.

This year, that was 118 women.

Some might say, that’s 118 lives lost. But that’s a passive sentence. The lives of these women weren’t lost in the sense that they were misplaced, removed, or forgotten. The lives of these women were taken from them by attackers and perpetrators. Male attackers and perpetrators.

Let’s rephrase that.

Between 2020-2021, at least 118 men in the UK murdered 118 women.

And for what? It’s quite simple, really.

Because they were women.

*

There are so many strands and ribbons to this debate that it’s suffocating. They wind around my neck, pulled tighter and tighter as I hear of more incidents, and as more and more women speak up about their experiences.

I’m not saying, here, that men are the only perpetrators in attacks. Nor that women are the only victims. We live in a society - in a world, even - where people of all races, genders, sexes, backgrounds and ages are targeted, victimised and tragically killed every single day. The volcanic eruption at the moment, focused on women’s safety and the realities we live with, by no means takes away from any of this.

You’ve probably seen the hashtag #NotAllMen.

The fact that this has even developed itself is completely and utterly astounding.

Let’s keep this simple.

ALL women know that it’s not ALL men. Nobody ever said that it was ALL men. There are some incredibly wonderful people in this world, and a lot of those are men. My dad, for instance.

There are a lot of good men in the world, and a lot of them who are horrified by the way women are treated.

We, as women, know that.

But, at the same time, there is a proportion of men who still think that it’s okay to label a woman based upon her appearance; to condemn a woman simply because she doesn’t submit to what he wants.

Or, just as bad - a proportion of men who think that it’s okay to turn their backs, and ignore the inequalities and prejudices ingrained in our society.

And the problem is - we don’t know who these men are.

If a man is walking behind me on a street at night, I’m automatically going to be afraid. He might be going home to his children, or to his partner, or perhaps popping out to get ingredients for dinner.

But we don’t know that.

It might not be all men, but all women know the taste of fear across the tongue. The hairs, slowing raising on our arms, as we gradually pick up the pace. Taking out our headphones, moving a little faster. Grabbing hold of our keys in our pockets, thinking about what our mums told us.

Go for the balls, first, my mum said. Or the nose.

Note that it’s automatically assumed to be a man.

*

The thing about #NotAllMen is exactly the same as #AllLivesMatter. Both hashtags are barricades, erected in self-defence, in anger, that those who are marginalised and oppressed would dare to speak out.

Barricades of denial.

Those sharing the hashtag #NotAllMen are exactly the same as those saying #AllLivesMatter. They are exactly the people who just don’t get it.

We’re not saying that it’s all men. We’re not saying that not all lives matter.

But we’re saying that it’s time to focus upon the problem. Focus upon the truth.

The men and boys who support the women in their lives don’t need to share that hashtag, because they know it’s not all men. They know that they treat women well, and that the situation needs to change.

So what does that say about those who do share it?

Well, I’m ashamed of you.

*

I’m one of the lucky ones. I’ve never been raped, or targeted in a nightclub. But that doesn’t mean I’m safe.

How do I know?

I carry a rape alarm in my handbag, ready to use at any moment.

I never walk alone at night.

I am catcalled, shouted at and leered at when I go outside.

(This, let’s be clear, isn’t flattering. It doesn’t make me feel good about myself. It just heightens that already prevalent sense of fear, disgust and overall weariness that this is accepted as normal in society).

Since lockdown, I’ve done exercise in my local park. But I’ve got to do it in an open area, where there are plenty of others around, and where I have a good view of people approaching from every angle.

Yes, I’m paranoid. But I’m not paranoid because of unrealistic and irrational fears. I’m paranoid because in the last year alone, 118 women were targeted by men, and this week, it was around the corner from my home.

The list keeps going. If you’ve even got to this point in this essay, I’ll be lucky.

But the point is - the point of all of this, really - is just one, simple question.

Why is this - why is any of this - considered NORMAL?

Why should I accept that it’s normal for us to feel scared, every time we leave our house? Why do we have to ‘be careful’ and ‘text when we get home’?

You know, women wear fear like a very fine layer of silk. It sits there, coating our skin, so gently, so quietly, that we’re not even aware of it, most of the time. And then - when we’re walking down a dark road. When a van beeps. When you can feel a man’s gaze, slowly pressing into every nodule in your spine.

Then, we feel it.

*

I’m angry. Actually, I’m more than angry. I’m so angry that every nerve in my body has set ablaze and nothing, absolutely nothing, will put them out.

I’m angry because you probably won’t read this. I’m angry because you probably don’t care.

I’m angry because my best friend shared a post of awareness, and was torn down by a guy she thought was her friend.

I’m angry because he didn’t listen. Because he didn’t want to learn.

But I’m also tired. I’m tired of writing this, because I shouldn’t need to write this. I’m sick and tired of constantly being on guard, and having people tell me that this all normal for women. That we should just accept it.

But, you know what?

I’m not going to accept it. I’m not going to sit here, pretending that everything is absolutely fine. Because it’s not.

This essay doesn’t even cover anything. This is just a tiny fraction of the emotion that I’m feeling - as one woman, in one town, in one country.

If you care - if you really care - then educate yourself. Educate others. Think about police brutality. Think about the disproportionate violence against women of colour and the lack of coverage this gets. Think about the violence against trans and non-binary individuals.

But don’t just think. Act. Do something, and do it now.

Educate your male friends and family. Ask the women around you what they want and what they need to feel safe and secure.

If you want to talk to me, by all means. I’ll be waiting. But not, I might add, like a princess locked in a tower.

As a woman, supporting and celebrating the women around her. A woman, finally brave enough to speak out.

I’ve found my voice. Where’s yours?