Two
weeks ago, on a Monday morning, I started to write what I thought was a
very clever editorial about violence against women in Haiti. The case, I
believed, was being overstated by women’s organizations in need of
additional resources. Ever committed to preserving the dignity of Black
men in a world which constantly stereotypes them as violent savages, I
viewed this writing as yet one more opportunity to fight “the man” on
behalf of my brothers. That night, before I could finish the piece, I
was held on a rooftop in Haiti and raped repeatedly by one of the very
men who I had spent the bulk of my life advocating for.
It
hurt. The experience was almost more than I could bear. I begged him to
stop. Afraid he would kill me, I pleaded with him to honor my
commitment to Haiti, to him as a brother in the mutual struggle for an
end to our common oppression, but to no avail. He didn’t care that I was
a Malcolm X scholar. He told me to shut up, and then slapped me in the
face. Overpowered, I gave up fighting halfway through the night.
Accepting
the helplessness of my situation, I chucked aside the Haiti bracelet I
had worn so proudly for over a year, along with it, my dreams of human
liberation. Someone, I told myself, would always be bigger and stronger
than me. As a woman, my place in life had been ascribed from birth. A
Chinese proverb says that “women are like the grass, meant to be stepped
on.” The thought comforted me at the same time that it made me cringe.
A
dangerous thought. Others like it have derailed movements, discouraged
consciousness and retarded progress for centuries. To accept it as truth
signals the beginning of the end of a person–or community’s–life and
ability to self-love. Resignation means inertia, and for the past two
weeks I have inhabited its innards. My neighbors here include women from
all over the world, but it’s the women of African descent, and
particularly Haitian women, who move me to write now.
Truly,
I have witnessed as a journalist and human rights advocate the many
injustices inflicted upon Black men in this world. The pain, trauma and
rage born of exploitation are terrors that I have grappled with every
day of my life. They make one want to strike back, to fight rabidly for
what is left of their personal dignity in the wake of such things. Black
men have every right to the anger they feel in response to their
position in the global hierarchy, but their anger is misdirected.
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