AS A BLOODY GBV AND HATE WAR RAGES, I ASK: What Do Women Want?
By: Lyle Lackay
Tags: Gender Based Violence, South Africa, Hate Crimes, LGBTQ, Cape Town

AS A BLOODY GBV AND HATE WAR RAGES, I ASK: What Do Women Want? Lyle Lackay Sep 9·8 min read

“Jy’s mos net a moffie.” (You’re just a faggot) He says quietly as the stabs pierce my body, one so deep it severs the tendon in my left arm. Perhaps he wasn’t speaking softly. Maybe my heart thumping in my chest, reverberating in my ears, muffled the sound of his voice. The same faithful heart that pumped the blood from my body and onto the pavement. Either way, it was hatred that landed me in the hospital, on the operating table, and few days later, face-to-face with the SAPS detective. He was short, round, dark of complexion, and cheerful — in an older brown man kind of way. He reminded me a little of my father and made me feel safe in the way an archetypal coloured Dad would. But that moment would pass.

“Well, without real evidence, there’s nothing much that we can do” he says as he gets back into his big 4x4 and drives off. In that moment, under the light of a solitary streetlamp of Hope Street, I become acutely aware of one simple truth: I am alone. We are alone.

THE COLLECTIVE US

With this realisation I remained confined to my bed for the next few days, followed by a monumental spiral into drugs and haphazard sex. However, it’s been almost 4 years since then, and although I’m mostly fine now, the rest of South Africa isn’t — we are not fine. And I use the word “we” not to conflate, nor to differentiate between the violence faced by women and the hate crimes experienced by those who are sexually other. Instead, I use the word “we” to deliberately, in this moment, make the distinction between “US”, the victims of terror, and “them” — the one common fountain, from which all violence perpetrated against us, flows.

Committing this thought to written word makes it land, or rather sink, to a place deep within my belly, and my soul. But this isn’t a story about them, but rather about the collective “US”. The source of safety must flow from within the joint “US”, so in this instalment, I specifically ask some friends, who identify as women, the question: “As the bloody war rages on the collective “US”, what do women want?”

BROKEN FOUNTAIN

If all violence springs forth from one fountain, then surely the problem is masculinity, or rather the concept thereof? When asked what she wants, my friend Amy says: “I want the notion of ‘being a man’ completely dissolved. I want a cultural and societal shift from seeing power in masculinity to seeing power in the feminine. I want men to heal their wounds. More women in leadership. Male friendship should be based on the same thing that form the fundamentals of female friendship — accountability, vulnerability, acceptance and sharing. Basically, I want men to sort their shit out and sort each other’s shit out so that women and queers can literally just live.”

MILITANT MEANS TO AN END

Ideally, militancy should never be the answer. But could it be a means to an end? When Winnie Mandela was tortured and dehumanized by security policemen, she historicaly militarised her motherhood to liberate this country and free its people from untold oppression, subjugation and violence. And was then, for her efforts, spurned, punished and betrayed by the men of the movement. Perhaps most publicly, and symbolically in 2001, when she arrived late to an event at Soweto Stadium commemorating the 25th Anniversary of The Soweto Uprising and inadvertently, or perhaps intentionally caused mass disruption when the crowd went berserk upon seeing her. President Thabo Mbeki, who was also in attendance, retaliated by brushing off her attempt to embrace him on stage — so harshly that he knocked the baseball cap clean off Winnie’s head. GOD, this story makes me all giddy inside. Because firstly, it’s my absolute favourite. And then secondly it serves as an example of how a fragile patriarchy fears the power of women and instead of celebrating and harnessing that power, chooses to ostracize, shame and shun women like Winnie Mandela who dared to weaponize their motherhood. Another lady who perhaps hasn’t exactly militarised her femininity but is most certainly taking measures to protect herself is my childhood friend Adele who runs an NPO called “Champions Against GBV”: “Yes, online petitions and social media campaigns etc are very important for creating awareness. But how does awareness help the woman in an immediate real-life, dangerous situation? That’s why we (Champions Against GBV) empower women not only emotionally, but physically in the forms of self-defence training, hand-gun training, close combat and situational awareness. I also do believe that the police are underpaid, under-resourced and ill-equipped to tackle this crisis with the force it deserves. I want police to be more active, I want a dedicated task force that deals with GBV and violent hate crime. Too often perpetrators are left roaming the streets while women are left vulnerable — with the constant threat of violence at their back.”

EDUCATION

If you were alive in 90’s South Africa, you’d remember when AIDS was a seemingly uncontrollable crisis. I was just a child in a time of Rainbow Nations and AIDS. But why that red ribbon will forever remain emblazoned in my mind, was due, in part, to the aggressive marketing and awareness campaign the newly formed government embarked upon — in spite of President Thabo Mbeki’s AIDS denialism during a time when a third of pregnant women were HIV positive but only 15% were receiving antiretrovirals. There were fold-out pamphlets, national days of prayer, fundraising concerts, billboards, TV & radio ads, school roadshows and government sponsored TV shows, like the ground-breaking “Soul City” — to name just a few of the initiatives embarked upon by the government. Now as our nation faces an equally violent pandemic, do we employ old tricks to battle this new crisis? My colleague, Busi seems to think so: “GBV Awareness should be made part of the curriculum at schools. We should teach kids about the signs, how it starts, how to report, how to protect yourself and others etc. I’m sure there are a few organisations out there that do this sort of thing . . . but I just feel like there’s not enough information about them. Like for example, in my work environment there’s been nothing really tangible in the way of GBV Awareness. I just want to know how to take care of myself, my sisters and how to stay stafe. And I currently feel there’s just not enough info out there.”

CLASS UNDIVIDE

To say that working-class women and queers — poor women and queers — are disproportionately affected by GBV and hate crime would be the truth. It is also true that middle to upper-class women and members of the LGBTQ community are protected, to a certain extent, by class hierarchy, education & social structures, as well as location and movement privilege. However, it would be unequivocally untrue to say that these more enfranchised members of society remain unaffected — as in the case of Susan Rohde who was murdered in her luxury wine farm hotel room by her CEO husband, or me, with my tenuous “one pay cheque away from poverty” middle-class status, who was stabbed in the trendy Gardens neighbourhood of Cape Town. But as we dominate lower to middle corporate management, run SMME’s like it’s nobody’s business, make mad money through social media pursuits, and write our clever little think pieces, are we aggressive enough in addressing a patriarchal system that affects us adversely — the exact same patriarchal system which our more disenfranchised counterparts bear the violent brunt of? Or perhaps you feel like Lumka Ngoli who says: “I don’t think women should do shit. We have marched, talked, striked. We want a system that works. Not to be seen as nothing. But to be recognised, allowed to be heard and protected.”

NOT NOTHING

It’s this specific part of what Lumka says that brings me pause “Not to be seen as nothing.”

A patriarchy, by its mere definition, values the lives of men over those of women, and people who identify, or are seen as adjacent to masculinity. Could this be the reason why many GBV cases and hate crimes are struck off the court roll, or why others don’t even make it that far, why our patriarchal society has deprioritised violent crime perpetrated against us, or why we conveniently use the term “not all men” to distance ourselves from and negate all responsibility for the biggest crisis of our time, why my brutal stabbing went ignored and why the Hate Crime Bill gathers dust in parliament while the bodies pile up? In full disclosure, the previous sentence I got directly from an article I read about the Hate Crime Bill. In fact, I don’t know much about bills and legislation and stuff . . . so I ask a friend in-the-know who mentions that public hearings for the bill are due to start soon. “Public Hearings?”, I ask. “Yes, it’s a constitutional mandate when making legislation. It allows all, and any, members of the public to be actively involved in legislation.”, she replies.

“Oh.” I say.

THE GREAT WORK BEGINS

Writer and GBV activist Zaylia Vivienne says “Revolution isn’t achieved overnight. And with that said it’s going to require a lot of work from activists and supporters. And once we’re mobilised, and standing together, I believe we could actually by-pass the government to get people working together, in their own capacity, within their communities, all around SA, to combat gender-based violence.”

This sounds like a call — a herald — letting me know that the work begins now. You see, we are not alone. Instead, we are bonded not only by trauma, but by a shared responsibility and commitment to act, vote, legislate, champion policy, do the work, reject, support, break down, build up, be courageous and make the same sacrifices and difficult decisions that Winnie Mandela once did, to ensure a safe country — for us and the most vulnerable among us.

I’m thankful to my friends who provided deeply honest answers to my difficult question and hope for an opportunity, in the future, to speak to a wider more demographically representative group of women and members of LGBTQ+ community. Because I understand that what we want, as it applies to the violence perpetrated against us, changes significantly from one community to the next. I will continue to ask this question until women and queer people get what they ask for or take what they want — whichever comes first. But this is a start . . . a beginning that lets me know the painfully emancipating truth: The source of our safety, can only come from within us, and amongst us. If you think this can’t happen, you haven’t been paying attention recently, to all the woman at the frontlines doing the work. Perhaps your champion exists among them?

And maybe she’s just waiting . . .

. . . for you to call her name.