I’d like to say I’m a sweet, nonviolent soul, easily placated who sees the best in every situation, seeks out silver linings and happy to calmly await changes for betterment.
Yeah, that sounds nice. Problem is, it comes nowhere close to accurate in most any description because in fact I’m a right stroppy bitch driven to murderous rages over much of the shit that happens in the world, impatient, intolerant and prone to snap when provoked.
Although more than impressed with outcomes generated by gentle greats like Gandhi and Martin Luther King, I’m incapable of that much cheek turning of the other kind and subscribe more closely to the adage that revenge can work as a deterrent and is a dish best served up cold.
It’s this little quirk that reacts today to a BBC report today out of the DRCongo:
”The rebel leader asked me two things: ‘Do you want us to be your husbands? Or do you want us to rape you?'”
Congolese mother-of-eight Clementine speaks in a quiet and hesitant voice:
“I chose to be raped.”
She explains: “I told myself, if I tell them that I want to be their wife, they will kill my husband. I didn’t want my children growing up saying the one that made our father die is our mother.”
But that sacrifice was not enough. Her husband left her for another woman.
“After they raped me, my husband hated me. He said I was dirty.
Can we count on how many levels this sucks?
Although it’s nice enough for the UN’s “special representative on sexual violence in conflict” to notice the DRC is the “rape capitol of the world”, that doesn’t seem to be doing much to make it stop.
Maybe it’s this story about a fox getting his own that sets me off today, but my vengeful mind has come up with an idea that goes a bit further than charting rape cases and tut-tutting and probably wouldn’t cost any more than those useless activities.
You see, when I read ‘victim’ I tend to think more in terms of keeping numbers of new ones down than keeping count and collecting grim tales. Seems a much better use of time, energy and funds, yet even I stop short of the idea of blasting the bastards to smithereens.
Not that blasting away is a foreign thought since I grew up with guns and am a bloody good shot. No, it’s more the realization that blowing away bad guys doesn’t stop more bad guys from popping up. There’s something sexy in dying in a blaze of glory that draws dudes like maggots to rotting innards, plus a very good chance of collateral damage doing in victims along with the perps.
With all the money going into arms research, I’m thinking it’s time investment was made in developing a weapon designed specifically for places like the DRC; a weapon that won’t kill, can’t hurt victims, yet will put an end to the rapes and see a significant drop-off … so to speak … in new recruits.
Think phaser, as in “Set your phasers to stun” … only instead of kill or stun the only setting is shrivel.
Imagine a blaster that has no effect whatsoever aside from shrinking testicles to nothing, then causing them to drop off. Aim it at a woman, nothing happens, but lock, load and deliver on some dude and it’s bye-bye balls.
If these could be manufactured in small sizes … and possibly in pink … women in Congo could be issued one each. Just think of the problems solved, the shift in power and what a lovely place central Africa could become to raise children!
Does this seem harsh?
Sorry, but if it does, you’re missing something.
Thankfully, most no longer chalk rape up to a “boys will be boys” thing, but it’s still a horror under-appreciated in its terror and damage.
In one of the rooms, a heavy foul smell suffocates the air. At first impression, it gives the impression of a toilet that is not clean. It wasn’t.
The smell was coming from the women themselves.
Some of them are suffering from fistula whose manifestation is the uncontrollable passage of urine and in some cases, faeces.
It is estimated that 14 women are raped each day in eastern DR Congo
One 15-year-old is drumming as hard as she can.
Her experiences exemplify this complex war raging against women. She was abducted by 10 rebels from the Interahamwe group accused of carrying out the genocide in neighbouring Rwanda. They kept her for about a year as a sex slave.
”They would rape me in turns. It got to a point where I did not feel pain.”
They fed her when they wished and gave her water from their gumboots to drink. She soon became pregnant. The rebels said she would be set free once she had given birth.
”One day they tied me to a tree and tried to pull the baby out. The blood… it just kept flowing.”
She says she can no longer feel pain and relates all this in a detached manner – cold and emotionless – and then ties a colourful wraparound around her waist and walks away.
Rapists rarely rape just once and enthusiasm for it is contagious. Aside from killing the bastards, the only way to put a dent in a rapist is to separate him from his scrotum buddies.
So …
Anyone have connections in the weapons biz and want to get in on the ground floor of production of The Ball Buster?
A collection of my short stories:
I'm in this one, too ...
And I'm in here, as well ...
Paradise Preoccupied 