The Cathartist
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Sex and the Community: Rape Culture and What we Can do About It
Written By Julie Gras-Najjar and Navila Rashid
When we met each other 3 years ago over french fries at a classy late night McDonald’s hangout, we had no idea we’d be embarking together on a humble but hopeful journey to create a safe space for survivors of sexual violence. Motivated by our own personal traumas and the similar experiences of many of our friends, we decided that being angry at horrifying news articles wasn’t enough. We wanted to start a larger conversation. That conversation started with our project, The Cathartist, and continues here.
Many of us have watched in shock and horror as story after story of sexual violence, rape, and abuse have come to the forefront of news and media in the recent months. Our reaction is generally one of disbelief, anger, and blame.
“How could this happen?” “Some people are animals!” “Why would she be alone with a man? “
Our conversations about sexual violence generally stop there. If we think of rape and abuse as isolated incidents, something that would only happen to that type of person, in that area, in that community, there isn’t much we can do besides show our outrage and go back to our lives, right?
It turns out, we’re all part of the problem, and we can do something about it. Let’s start by defining a phrase we may have heard in the media: rape culture.
Rape culture is a term that describes a culture in which norms, ideals, practices, and media normalize, condone, tolerate, and even glorify sexual violence.
One of the most insidious aspects of rape culture is that those who participate in it generally don’t realize it. But anytime we’ve said that men can’t control their urges, anytime we’ve thought a girl wouldn’t be harassed if she dressed differently, anytime we’ve heard someone blame a victim and we’ve said nothing, we are participating in rape culture. These individual problematic instances feed into problematic social norms that perpetuate communities and cultures that fail to address sexual violence. Rape culture has manifested in our communities, and denial and stigmatization are an obstruction to fighting the oppression of sexual violence. God calls upon us to fight and drive out injustice and oppression, but to do this, we have to look into ourselves and ask honest and frank questions about sexual violence in our communities. And yes—we have to talk about sex.
The stigmatization of sexual violence stems from the way we frame and discuss sexuality. If individuals and communities are hesitant to talk about sex at all, it is very difficult to have a framework within which to discuss sexual violence. Understanding and teaching the differences between healthy and unhealthy sexuality is key in preventing abuse and breaking down harmful myths about sex. Unfortunately, ideals of sexual purity, virginity, and marriage create an incomplete and problematic picture of sexuality that often ignores consent as an essential component of a healthy sexual relationship. This incomplete picture, combined with a cultural hesitance to discuss sexuality in general leaves new generations without comprehensive and healthy frameworks with which to combat the often unhealthy messages portrayed by cultures and media. If we can foster an atmosphere where individuals feel safe to express concerns and questions about sex, we can then begin to challenge pathologies in our cultures and communities that contribute to our rape culture.
A great place to start these conversations is in our religious communities. We need to cultivate a space in our communities where we can tackle these questions, regardless of how uncomfortable or taboo they may be. We need to ask ourselves, how do socio-religious norms that we internalize help perpetuate harmful assumptions and attitudes about gender and sex? Can we identify some of these harmful norms, ideals, and practices in our own communities? If so, what is our role as individuals and communities in dismantling them? Are our leaders fulfilling their duty to guide communities on these issues? Finally, are we fulfilling our duty to be supportive and compassionate towards those who are suffering, or are we allowing stigma, judgment, and silence to be part of our response to those in need?
When communities label sexual violence and assault as taboo subjects, we begin to descend toward believing that victims of rape, molestation, sexual harassment are the cause of their own victimization. Too many times have we heard stories of brave men and women who sought help from their communities and leaders after being abused or assaulted, only to be rebuked, judged, or blamed. We believe that community should ideally be the first line of support a person can count on, not one that they fear and avoid. Not only do these responses directly hurt survivors of sexual violence, they also perpetuate the silence that allows for cycles of violence to continue.
These conversations are challenging, uncomfortable, and intimidating. They are one of many reasons why we founded The Cathartist. Beyond providing a medium for survivors of sexual violence to share their voices, we hope these voices help engender a space for the community to understand both the causes and consequences of sexual violence among us. Our vision is that one day, communities everywhere can work together to combat rape culture and prevent violence and abuse against all. Today, let it start with you, the individual.
Julie and Navila are co-founders of The Catharist, a forum that aims to provide a safe space for survivors of sexual violence to share their stories, as well as a platform to voice ideas and strategies to combat rape culture in our communities. Share why you speak out against sexual violence on their Tumblr, Words Over Violence, and follow them on Twitter and Facebook at @TheCathartist.
Check out the modified and Published article on Altmuslimah. com | http://www.altmuslimah.com/b/gva/4780
Reader Submissions
I suppose it’s just easier to blame your mother: My teachers wouldn’t allow me to make zoom noises when I Superman-ed to the playground, Scooby-Doo wasn’t ready to begin right as I flopped onto the couch after returning home, the like…. My mom had led me to believe that she held dominion over everything. Obviously she should have been able to control things such as these, the things that really mattered.
I don’t suppose my outlook changed much as I grew older. Twelve years old: Thanks a lot for the zits, mom! Thirteen: Why do you have to get a divorce and ruin my life? Yesterday: Why is my car out of gas?! These things made sense to me in their own time.
I suppose it also made sense to me that my father took what he wanted from her then left her crying afterward. I didn’t see the violation of her dominion; I accepted that this was how life was. Truthfully, I can’t be sure I actually thought there was anything blameworthy occurring at the time because I have reflected so often on those events that my memory is like an overshined penny with all its details rubbed smooth. What I know is this: My father raped my mother many, many times. I don’t know if she willingly had sex with him intermittently or if every time was forced, but I know that their noises crowded my childhood home—echoes of a woman acting like she was enjoying everything so that the man she loved would finally believe he had done enough that time and leave her to sob and sleep until he sought her again.
I thought that was what sex was supposed to sound like. Since then I have come to understand what happened in my home. My mother and I have each moved past blame in our own ways, and I have cultivated my own relationships with people. But whenever I have sex, I secretly fixate on how it sounds.
-Anonymous, Male, Age 26
22. That’s how many years it has been since I’ve decided to actually talk about my past. I don’t actually know how to start talking about this topic, but I’ll do my best.
Growing up I’ve always felt that my duty was to help someone regardless of when, where, and how. I have come to make it my mission in life to follow a career, which would allow me to come home each and every night with the satisfaction that I had saved someone.
Today, I am 27 years old and though life has been a struggle, I’ve realized no life is without its downfalls. I am currently working for the State Police, and before that I worked for the Richmond Police Department. I have seen a great deal when it comes to domestic violence, rape, and murder. Thus, I finally decided it was time you knew my story.
I grew up in Bangladesh, in a small village of Rangpur. The grass was always green and the pain of poverty was evident in the streets and slums I was raised around. I was fortunate, more than most. My father lived in the U.S. and we were better off than many of our neighbors. I, like any other 5 year old in Bangladesh, enjoyed running around bare foot, climbing coconut trees, stealing shoe’s from our local masjids and selling them to poor vendors for ice-cream, and taking things apart; I absolutely loved taking things apart. I was the problem child, and then I made a friend.
To be honest, I don’t remember the name of this friend. I was so young, I just remember having fun. I did know that he worked for our house. I guess you could say he was like a butler. Don’t know how else to put it. He cleaned, helped cook, ran errands, and mostly made sure I stayed out of trouble.
I lived in a small house, with one bedroom, which had a wooden bed. My mother, older brother, and I slept in the same bed. The room was lit with a glass oil-lantern that vaguely showed the beige color of our walls. Toilet paper was non-existent. We relied on leaves. Seriously.
Our neighborhood was fairly simple. Our house was a lot like the center piece, next to us lived my Uncle, who had the biggest boroi(Bangladeshi Fruit) tree in our neighborhood. My uncles were all farmers. Behind our house, we had a godown (barn) where rice was processed, bagged, weighed, and stored in stacks that were 20ft high.
I remember this place because this is where I had been raped. The kid that worked at our house was probably around the age of 15. I remember him taking me to this godown (barn), because he wanted to teach me a new game. I was naïve because I had trusted my friend who had always protected me. I was also naïve because, I was a child. I remember playing hiding-o-seek, and one day hid in a small room covered with hay on the top floor of this dark wooden go down. I remember the stench of this place, because this barn was used to shelter the cows our neighbor grazed.
My friend had found me, and decided he wanted to show me something. I didn’t know what it was, but I do remember his taking my pants off. I was than asked to turn around, and he told me that it was something I would like. It was something that I would enjoy. I didn’t know it at the time, but I remember the pain. I remember the tears that I held back, and that horrible stench from the manure. I was told not tell my parents, that this game was between him and me. I remember how this went on for a whole week, and than he asked me to do what he had done to him. I was hesitant, I didn’t know what I was doing, but I do remember my brother looking for me. I remember my brother calling my name to attend Friday prayer with him, and as soon as the adhan went off, I remember this friend running away. Since, I have never heard nor seen this friend of mine.
I didn’t realize what had happened to me until I had come to the United States. I didn’t know what sex was, nor did I know that I had been a victim of rape. I was too embarrassed to ever talk about it. I had never mentioned this to anyone, not even my best friend of 17 years who had recently passed away. I am not homophobic, but I do understand why it is that I always yearn to save the lives of others. I wish someone had saved me from those horrendous nights, but no one came.
In the year 2000, I went back to Bangladesh to visit and I secretly had a mission. I wanted to track down this kid, and ask why he did what he did. I was angry; I wanted to know why he chose me. I asked around and eventually found out that he had died from a bus accident. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or angry. I wanted to tell him what he had done wasn’t right.
They say God, does things for a reason. Sex was something that I realized ruined many aspects of ones life and relationships. I also realized that sex without consent took away a sense of self-control one had; and for many people that are victims of rape, sex was just that. I never wanted from that point on to ever lose control of my emotions. I decided that, if I ever wanted to be physical with anyone it would be for a reason that was more than just a lustful moment.
-Anonymous, Male, Age 27
One of those days where I want to be a t-rex,
but all that fits is a Barney costume.
Dreams of finding a place to feel home,
return listings made for troglodytes.
Did my love for you,
mean that I was vacationing in Stockholm?
Because when I look into your eyes,
I see Pakistan. My scapegoat:
When surrounded by all potential heroes,
the nation responded with silence.
All I was left with was my white hijab,
And burning orange shalwar kameez.
I see all of Pakistan’s guilty, clenched faces,
When I look at you.
Instead of comfort,
You returned disdain.
Forever will Pakistan be on my mind,
Forever your hatred in my heart.
Forever the stains on my hijab.
-Abeer M.
I stand looking in the mirror and what do I see
I see a woman
I see a friend
I see an aunt
I see a daughter
But then I look deeper and what do I see
I see someone who loves God
I see someone who tries to obey God
I see someone who struggles with sin
I see someone who tries to take life one day at a time
But then I look deeper and what do I see
I see a small girl who is broken
I see her trying to stand, but doesn’t know how
I see her afraid of being alone
I see her afraid of relationships
I see her afraid of being hurt again
I see her trying to trust and love
So, I stop looking and try to help her
But she is scared
She doesn’t know me
How will I get her to trust me
She wasn’t taught how to love
She doesn’t know how to open her heart to others
So, I take her hand to help her to stand
I tell her that
We will learn how to love together
We will to learn how to trust together
We will learn how to stand together
We will start to heal together
Now I stand looking in the mirror and what do I see
A woman starting to know herself
A woman starting to love herself
A woman starting to love others
A woman starting to trust herself and others
A woman starting to open up to others
And I see a smile come to her lips
And I see the tears of healing start to fall from her eyes
-Hope Hartwigsen
When I am at worship
I know the songs
I know the books
I know the stories
I know the things to say
I know the things to do
But, I am broken on the inside
When I am with my friends and family
I know how to make them laugh
I know how to make them happy
I know how to make them feel comfortable
I know how to look for what they need
I know the things to say
I know the things to do
But, I am broken on the inside
When I am at work
I know the procedures
I know the routines
I know the politics
I know the things to say
I know the things to do
But, I am broken on the inside
When I am by myself
I sit amidst the shattered pieces of my heart
I ask myself “Why am I broken”
I ask myself “How can I become whole again”
I don’t know the answers
I don’t know the rules
I don’t know what to say
I don’t know what to do
I don’t know who I am
Because, I am broken on the inside!
-Hope Hartwigsen
Why are there men like him
Why do they think like him
Why do they act like him
I don’t know why
Why do they think no one knows
Why are they able to fool some people
Why do some people choose to ignore what they do
I don’t know why
Why did they pick us
Why did they look at us
Why did they touch us
I don’t know why
Why can’t I remember
Why did I block what happened
Why won’t I allow myself to remember
I don’t know why
Why do I allow him to affect how I look at myself
Why do I allow him to affect how I think of myself
Why do I allow him to affect how much I like myself
I don’t know why
Why do I somehow blame myself
Why are my memories so strong
Why do we give them power
I don’t know why
-Hope Hartwigsen
First Mortificatio
I am retreating
dreaming,
unruly
undermined, the
fragile kind
brick by brick [buried within]
blahblahblah noise inside
provoking wounds
protruding scars to hide
intruding
line
by
line
to write and right and write
Am I Am I Am I
trapped inside
this my own mind
ashes ashes ashes
drowning in
burning ashes
fragile
tied down
tied [to] time
lackthereof
The night(s)
so long
ago, ages ago
he liked the hurt
khaki shorts
black shirt
Am I Am I Am I
there, alive
(watched my blood
circle ‘round the drain
bones were pulled,
cracked, cleaned, and
chained)
fabric at my feet
wall melted to my cheek
(I think on white tile too,
in the back room)
hide from
Monster’s smile
Monster’s eyes
smell gush of breath unsweet,
poison-like
biting teeth
[kiss of death moaning for me]
bruised neckarmschest,
like the rest
suffocation pressed
forced between ******
seen-unseen
box locked, buried deep
Am I Am I Am I
there, alive
[he] stinging sweat
on
[i] burning cold
… maybe I’m still there,
on the floor where I died
in the room where he murdered me
I am retreating
-Anonymous
I do everything with deliberate intention now.
For those minutes he controlled my body, but it’s still mine. It’s still mine and it works just fine when I tell it what to do.
I move my arms. To embrace those I love. he can’t hold them down now.
I move my legs. One day I will spread them with deliberate intention. With someone I love.
I remove my clothes. To shower, because I want to, after my body is tired from a long day of doing things I want to do.
I lie down. Next to someone I love, because I like to be close to them.
I close my eyes. Not out of fear, but to savor a moment that I love, that I want to remember.
I do everything with deliberate intention now, and I do it well.
He better hope I never intend to kick his ass.
His hands
Day 1: His hands slightly brushed across my boobs
I was 12 years old, he was 29
He was my dad’s friend, my dad’s closest friend
I still remember how that made my body shake
Day 2: His hands this time grabbed my boobs
my little growing boobs on my flat chest
I pretended not to react, pretended nothing happened
I felt dirty, nasty. I did not understand why he was touching me there
He played with my boobs for around 5 to 6 minutes, while carrying out
a normal conversation with me
No-one was around.
Day 3: I was home alone, sleeping
Parents left for work, he was sleeping in the next room
He came to wake me up
with his hands
Even before I opened my eyes
I felt hands inside my underwear
His hands, his nasty nasty hands
feeling my vagina
fingering my vagina
12 year old me did not know what was going on
Is he raping me? Should I shout? Would he kill me?
I decided to remain quiet
He said “wake up honey, its 11 am”
It last 5 to 6 minutes
Then he left
He never touched me again
Little does he know what he did to me
with his hands
I never talked about it
never told it to anyone
My mom once told me
Muslim girls are pure, no-one is allowed to touch them
before marriage
Mom said,”Only pure girls will go to heaven”
“I am not pure” I cried myself to sleep
6 to 7 years later: Sudden awakening
My sealed lips opened
I shared my story
Sharing helped my healing
Share ladies
Shout out loud
Heal yourselves
Don’t wait
-Anonymous
I took this particular photo on a peaceful day. Beautiful weather with Beautiful company and my thoughts of nightmares past dissolved. I’m bare. But with all the goodness around me. I’m bare. For the world to see that I’ve truly grown. It was an enlightening moment. So I stood there, underneath the warmth of the sun. I’m growing into my own skin. Watch me now.
-Navila
Words in my head
the words that you said
stamped into my thoughts, unrelenting
taunting, mocking, I’m tired of listening
strings of letters are not just that, they become words,
words become tools of expression, expressions of power, of darkness, of cruelty
your tools of power became my pain, constant reminders, reminders of shame, of fear, of loss
Reminders that violate my thoughts even as I sit here writing
Strings of letters that rebuild what was torn down, I need tools of
Expressions of Strength, of Hope, Determination
My tools of My Power become my Courage
Courage to tell you
Stamp these words into your thoughts
I am stronger than your words.
-Anonymous
The images of his face, engulfs me.
Floods me.
Inundates me.
I want to believe that I’ve gotten over it.
I possibly have.
I have.
Yet theories of marriage, and the concept of sex
plague me.
He plagues me,
BUT
I crush it. I search for familiar faces
of love, and only love.
I have found my solace.
I have moved on.
-Navila
Acrylic Paintings
-Anonymous
Mixture of sketches (pencil/ pen/ thread work)
-Anonymous
Mixture of sketches (pencil/ pen/ thread work)
-Anonymous
*reader discretion advised*
there is no goddamn hare; no tortoises are here.
i am the fable, from the years before i stretch.
i teach while i am learning, my organs eat themselves
while i try to teach you to eat your young, don’t make
any more. hold the ones you have, grow ribcages
around them and slice open their numb weaknesses.
surgery, slick surgery. my god we just keep going.
turn my fingers into keyholes, bury what you want
in me, unlock. i am undone; i’ll do you, honey. bit
that, bitter backboned queen of the blow-jobs, half
baked bitch who knows her way around a man. funny.
isn’t it? funny how i spit, how i hate, choking grade-
school nigger-lover dyke in the dirt and yes, i loved that
girl and she is not white. hitch-hiking fat-ass letting
sweating men. i would let blood, today, i have grown.
evolved. my god the girl still remembers but i don’t
give a fuck, you can’t take the fuck from me. i fuck.
i will fuck. the finish line is what i make it and i’ll drip
come or blood in a line and you’ll know when you step
on my toes if i’m going to win or you’re going to lose.
i top unless you strike me down and i shake like the
earth when a tree falls. we are talking about tall tales
and i’m not as wide as i am long but you get me, right?
you’re laughing at me pouring spit into lines, snorting
fallopian tubes like time bombs, dissatisfied and decaying.
i wasn’t meant for this like you weren’t meant for what
ever you want to be not meant for. god, i can’t tell you.
-Anonymous
the shadows of night come almost as overcast
tick tick tick
i wait for the silence
it comes, slowly as i force myself to sleep
tick tick
the thought of waking up in fear
keeps the sound not muffled at all
tick tick tick
the mesh of disgusted emotions with reality
a collection of images both new and old
tick tick
i guess i’ll have to wake up and find out
tick.
-Navila
As a six year old, playing in an apartment with your friend who’s five years older than you is probably the one thing that raises your ‘cool kid’ status. Little did I know that it would also be a memory that I would try to erase in the years after.
Eating lunch and about school were the usual things on our agenda. That day however, she was acting a bit strange. She started talking about boys and how she wanted to ‘go steady’ with this one guy in her class. After her babbling for what seemed liked ages, she asked me if I was interested in anyone and if any guys had ever touched me.
That should have been my moment to just stand up and leave, but I didn’t. I just sat there and stared at her then at the dolls laying sprawled next to her. My eyes, shifting back and forth, thinking if I should answer her. Amidst my contemplation, I hadn’t realized that she had taken my hand and slowly began rubbing them against her body. I pulled back only for her to say that this is what friends do.
I was embarrassed and felt so dirty. As if being horny wasn’t enough, she took the barbie doll that was lying on the floor.
“Look, this will feel amazing. Just copy me!”
She grabbed the doll and started gliding it up and down her vagina and at one point inside of her. I couldn’t watch and started walking away. She grabbed me and glared. Pulled me down next to her and said, “Do it.”
It would be safe to say that the reason why I hate barbie dolls and stuffed animals to this day, is because of her.
-Navila
you creeped up behind me as if i wouldn’t notice. you always had a ‘tactful’ way of doing it too. you would eye me from across the room to see if i was alone.
usually, i wasn’t.
it seemed as though you were plotting your moves. the typical excuse was always blurted in the midst of all the uncles, “i’m going to grab some water, do you guys want anything?” and thus pursued you to coming over to me. you pretend to go into the kitchen and then make your way.
‘let’s go you guys!” i would yell in the hopes of playing somewhere else. to my dismay, while everyone rose, you would come up behind me and grab and carry me in your arms playfully. it didn’t look odd at all. maybe that’s why the rest of the kids would run away and continue on with their games.
if there weren’t any rooms, you would just take me aside. we’d sit there while you caressed my arm and back. your favorite thing to do was whisper. you whispered a lot of nonsense. half of which i didn’t understand since your broken english was just that. broken. “i love you, do you love me?” would be your favorite line. my most hated one.
i hate what you did to me. i hate the feelings i had to endure. i hate that you probably did this to other girls and you don’t even know what you’ve done.
-Navila
Today I am angry.
I know. I know, anger doesn’t solve this. Anger doesn’t make it go away.
It’s better not to be angry. But it would be better that I had no reason. For this anger.
My anger reminds me why I must find the strength to speak through my tears
And reminds me why I move on.
Because I wish that nobody had the reason for this anger.
But I do.
Anger. It’s not becoming. I should get past that. I should move on.
But today I am angry. Am I allowed this one day, to be angry?
-anonymous
this is what i can remember…
“Hey, is it ok if i take her out for ice cream?”
for a good while, that’s all i looked forward to. ice cream. any five-year-old would. but little did i know that i would find myself enveloped in a mess of hands, legs and whimpering. i knew it didn’t feel right but he was going to give me ice cream, eventually….right?
WRONG.
the strange man returned me back to my parents and all i wanted to do was sleep. and so i slept.
to this day, i can’t imagine telling anyone what happened. because it didn’t end there. let’s add on another three years till it all finally ended.
-Navila
I’ve always had contemplated telling someone, anyone. Wanting to yell it at the top of my lungs in the middle of the street, Goddamn it! But I couldn’t.
And so I waited 21 years to finally get it off my chest. It was like a un-suspecting hiccup. It didn’t even smell bad. Just a whiff of hot air drifting into familiar faces.
I won’t lie, it was difficult and foreign, but the weight of keeping silent was finally lifted. I think, it’s time for change. And Change I will. For the better and not only for myself.
Overwhelming is the feeling of
despair.
Overwhelming is the feeling of
invisibility.
Overwhelming is the feeling of
shame.
Torn between my sanity and my psych.
I hadn’t told anyone, anything.
For too long.
I just needed a push,
and find myself overcoming my own
weakness.
I’m stronger than that.
Stronger than you.
Sunset
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