Great! More Propaganda Against Men!

A comment under an article on the most recent femicide in Greece

Photo by Mateus Campos Felipe on Unsplash

Will you look at that? I have abandoned my care for making this story digestible. You will be uncomfortable. But, you’ll live.

World shake

In the year 2021, in Greece, there have been reported 11 femicides. It is no longer a crime that goes unnoticed. It is reported and it is seen for what it is. It’s real. As it is on the news, it is on paper. And so, a writer has concluded his findings on the latest femicide and has written an article. It is quite informative. He added the number of femicides that occurred to show that it is tragic. There is nothing of gain. Nothing else reeks from murder. And yet, there is this new section where we can wear masks and play around. We can play with words, people’s lives. Especially people’s lives. It’s called the comment section.

One individual wrote that a woman’s death is not about sadness, it is propaganda against men. It is a strategy to enforce stricter laws for (violent) men. The commenter said it’s a plan to make them suffer in the future. A second individual wrote that feminists should be careful where else they out their focus or else they might fall and end up dead, too.

First, came rage. I wanted to shake the world until it made sense again. Second, came the tears. One man has killed his wife while another is being angry at her. The world felt smaller. Unsafe. Third, comes the therapist. And more tears. During and after. Powerless.

Thankfully, I have a different voice than remarking disgusting comments.

Her - from birth to end

I think of the woman. She is born. A tiny baby. She grows slowly, her emotions before her body, her body before her intentions. And the circle of violence wraps around her little leg like a snake as soon as she is in the spot the snake can reach. It feels heartbreakingly inevitable that as soon as her warmth is built, the ability to give to others, someone will try to own it. She is fragile, he is strong. That’s not it though. Let’s not confuse natural balance with patriarchy. Further information on the toxicity and scars patriarchy causes is advised to be researched by the reader.

I think of the violence. It doesn’t start in a second. It’s not a light that turns on. It’s slow. Like a plant that goes rotten and abandons its leaves one by one. Life is a light that raises everything around it. Violence is not a way of life or a way of a relationship or how things are ‘sometimes’. We must remember, to our core, violence does not exist in love. And when we are outlookers, outside of the cycle, we are firmly strangers to it. It’s not our job to be convinced. The belief that if something existed it should be seen by us clearly is false. We can’t see behind closed doors, we don’t have bionic eyes.

A man and a woman love each other. It’s not the woman’s job to constantly go looking for red flags when she is with a man that loves her. Have you thought of that?

When the snake bit me

Here is something I lived.

I wasn’t in a relationship with him. He never allowed me to call us that. We thought that what we were doing, the instability was passion. I was a warm-hearted, naked woman, eating up his bullshit with an open mouth. I painted many faces on him. Even of the wrong person but it never lasted. Do you know how far a man will go to make you sleep with him? He will put you on top of the moon or he will corner you like a coyote in the dark. A certain type of man. I will do the not-all-men bit this time. At first, he was sweet. He was gentle with me. And I am fond of feeling equal. I started having emotions. Of course. And I showed him. But, I think he translated it as him being in control. He knew. He had me. And then the real beast was out.

He was in the army. He was a little soldier thinking his brain was bigger. He would say half-sentences intentionally and when I couldn’t make sense of them, he would sigh deeply. He would make sure I understood that I was what bothered him in the whole world. When I told him it hurts me, swiftly, like an expert, like a sociopath, he managed to have the matter forgotten. I was getting manipulated into being happy with one slip of kindness. If you feel like a prisoner being allowed to experience the sun for one hour of the day, run. In our whole lives, asleep and awake, we deserve kindness.

I started asking fewer questions. But, it wasn’t good enough. He started asking me. How much money do I make. When I replied, he laughed. But it wasn’t my salary that he was laughing at. He was laughing right to my face about something I was making with my value and my time and my degree. Next month when I visited him, he hadn’t gotten his paycheck and he wouldn’t come out of his house. I was outside his balcony with a friend and he wouldn’t come out because he didn’t have money for a haircut. Turns out he was making 50 euros more than me.

He would wreck me strategically. Like a Jenga game where you take out pieces and yet it stands. I still stood and I looked great on the outside, I felt fine on the outside, but I was slowly getting smaller. I would be accommodating to him, waiting to be worthy to be given my pieces back. To be found worthy of them again. Of praise.

A certain type of man can wreck you.

After a while and enough heartbreak to make me scream, I was done. I was a furious woman. I was a woman trying to see the light. I needed to see the light and I yelled for it. I was desperate to see beyond the toxic cycle.

What followed was a theatre of ugliness. For an hour he spoke to me. He spoke of a woman that is unworthy and delusional. Her audacity to try and force him to care. Crossing his sacred boundaries. Boundaries about not being obligated to be nice or interested in this woman because it was a waste of time.

I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. And I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to understand him. I wanted to leave.

Not all men

Those that write comments about how the feminism movement is threatening men are correct.

If you feel threatened by a woman, not even speaking, but by her dead body seeking justice, you are a certain type of man. There you go, not all men. Certain types of men, alone, out of the normality, out of the love spectrum. Fading in and out of this world, utterly alone. Men don’t want them, women don’t want them, their daddy teaching them to smack a woman with the back of their hand three times before lunch didn’t want them.

And look at me. I could be the woman of the article. I could be the cause for ‘stricter rules for men’. Yet, I am not her. I am alive. If a law is put to vote about keeping these men in stricter check, I am gonna vote it. I am gonna make their silly nightmare true. Because they have no idea what a real nightmare is.

Feminists are careful when they walk, let’s not worry. It’s the same damn heels we wear in places of power. When we work, when we vote, when we go to court, when we are political figures, when we correct men publically and officially.

You know, I did fell today while getting off the bus and a man helped me steady myself immediately. I wonder how does that feel to a misogynist? Ouch.

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