#MeToo – J’accuse!

She sits sobbing, her body curling into an almost foetal position. Her face is strained, her hands clenched, her body wracked with fear, anger and shame. She feels violated and vulnerable, having experienced what every woman does a countless times.

I sit close, wanting to soothe her, to tell her that I care, that I empathise, that I understand.

The words don’t emerge.

How can I presume to say anything?

I have never been groped. Or elbowed.

I have never been undressed by hungry eyes.

I have never been told to sit with my legs together.

I have never been told to behave like a lady.

I have never been spoken to while my breasts have been fondled visually.

I have never been pinched, and expected to believe it is a compliment.

I have never been told not to drive, so that I can remain faithful and not wander.

I have never been told that I cannot leave the house without a male escort.

I have never been owned.

I have never been bartered.

I have never been sold.

I have never been murdered by my father to protect his honour.

I have never had my clitoris sliced off by a rusty blade to prevent impure thoughts.

I have never been widowed, and had my head shaved and told that I am an ill omen.

I have never been raped. Or violated in any manner.

I have never been told that my brother needs to eat first, as he is a boy and thus, is more valuable than me.

I have never been sacrificed through an abortion because I lacked a penis.

I have never been burnt alive because my parents did not fulfil my husband’s wants.

I have never been told that it is my fault because of the way I dress.

I have never been asked to leave the room so that the men could sip on port and smoke cigars.

I have never been called a bitch because I refused a pass.

I have never been called a slut because I did not.

I have never been deemed unclean once a month, every month.

I have never been stalked.

I have never been considered a cost.

How, in Heaven’s name, can I even be worthy of her? Of her heroism, of her grace under pressure, of her ability to withstand the fears and terror of always being prey, of her courage every time she walks into a room full of libido, of her tolerance and acceptance of the unfairness and illogic of life? How can I speak, when I have never imagined a minute in her skin?

I sit there, impotent, silently cursing the world of men…