I’m going to take off my self-righteously-angry-feminist hat (don’t worry, it’s only temporary) and put on my on my personal meditation one. The thing is, although I think there are some very obvious problems with reporting that the media could (and should) rectify right now, writing about these issues isn’t easy.
There have been many times, particularly writing this blog, that I have hesitated before continuing, not sure which words to use, or even if there are any words. Many people with much better arguments than I have have written about language from a feminist perspective, pointing out that language was predominantly developed by men and therefore there are not adequate words to describe many experiences predominantly experienced by women.
Of course, that’s an oversimplification; there are groups other than women (though probably mostly including women) who experience the same phenomenon. And disadvantaged groups often do develop their own sets of words. Nevertheless, particularly for groups such as rape survivors who are frequently made to keep their experiences secret, there are huge gaps in the language, and particularly the language used in, say, government or the media.
One place I always hesitate is when I need to refer to someone who has been raped. I fully understand the problems with labelling someone a victim, and I know many people have found it greatly empowering to describe themselves as a survivor. And I would not hesitate to call someone a survivor if they self describe as such.
But what if they don’t? What is a survivor, anyway? It can be anyone from someone who doesn’t die to someone who gets on with their life successfully as if nothing had happened – in practice it’s usually somewhere between the two, but there certainly isn’t a set definition.
I shall continue to use the term survivor in leaflets and such like, but it worries me that by doing so I might still be implying that those who have been raped should act and feel about themselves in a particular way. It’s a significantly less harmful way than many others, but to an extent it’s still a judgement.
It’s certainly not a bad word, but it’s not one I’m entirely comfortable with either.
And then there’s the term ’sexual assault’, which I’ve used in this blog but with great reluctance. I’ve already written many times about how I object to the use of the word ’sex’ to describe rape, and though it is mitigated somewhat by the use of the word ‘assault’ which emphasises that this is violence, I’m still uncomfortable with it. But the only real alternative I’ve come across is ‘intimate violence’, and to me ‘intimate’ implies (though I appreciate doesn’t mean) a genuine, caring relationship.
And then, what is classified as rape? Different countries use different legal definitions, and these may be the same or different to the commonly used definitions. In any case, the boundary between rape and other forms of sexual violence is pretty arbitrary and tends to take little account of women’s (and men’s) actual experiences and the effects on them.
I would also like to say this: I am white, university educated, a first language English speaker and do not come from a particularly deprived or disadvantaged background. And still I find that for every thing I write about on this blog, there are maybe three that I feel unable to write about. That may be because of the lack of suitable language available to me, or because I don’t feel comfortable or safe doing so. If even women in a relatively advantaged position feel somewhat silenced, then we need to look not only at what we are reading in the media, but also what we are not reading.
