I hold attitudes which promote the rape of my grandmother, my mother, my sisters, and my one-day daughter.
Every time whenever I hear of a rape, I think: “I wonder what time it was,” I tell somebody it’s okay to rape my grandmother if she’s out late at night.
Every time whenever I hear of a rape, I think: “I wonder where she was,” I tell somebody it was okay to rape my mother if she’s in the wrong place.
Every time whenever I hear of a rape, I think:” I wonder who she was with,” I tell somebody it’s okay to rape my sister if she’s with you.
Every time whenever I hear of a rape, I think, “I wonder what she was wearing,” I tell somebody it’s okay to rape my one-day daughter because she was wearing the wrong outfit.
I love my grandmother, my mother, my sister, and I will love my daughter. I don’t want them to be raped.
The facts don’t care about my love.
My grandmother, my mother, my sisters, and my one day daughter live in a country where their being raped is not just possible, but likely.
My grandmother, my mother, my sisters, and my one day daughter live in a country where their being raped is not just possible, but likely.
They live in a country where real men rape because they feel they have a right to women’s bodies.
They live in a country where one of the most respected and progressive minds can not only imply that a woman’s rape is her family’s fault, but also defend that implication when called out on it.
They live in a country which teaches its boys that they are deserving of anything they want, and its girls that it’s their responsibility that boys do not take from them what they don’t want to give.
They live in a country which I was raised to think that way; a way which promotes their rape.
They live in a country which killed Anene Booysens.
I’m scared for my grandmother, my mother, my sisters, and my one-day daughter.
I’m scared for my country.
