Combatting silence with stories
Silence is the enemy of social change.
Yesterday, I had a discussion with several young women in the youth project I founded and run in the Gaza Strip. We talked about the #MeToo/#TimesUp movement, and how the issue behind it — women’s rights — is universal. I encourage the writers in We Are Not Numbers to learn more about and connect with movements in other countries, so they feel less isolated and expand their supporters. God knows, Gaza has its share of women who feel abused or otherwise subjugated. Society there is very conservative and male-dominated, and this is exacerbated by the Israeli-Egyptian blockade, which prevents exposure to other cultures.
However, many people in Gaza — including the youths in my project — are very reluctant to share their personal lives, even if they don’t name names. Many reasons are understandable, of course. They don’t want to anger or shame relatives or friends with whom they have to live, for instance. After all, due to the blockade, it’s not like they can leave. But their reluctance also stems — I think — from a difficulty in confronting and dealing with their own dark feelings, and a fear of being seen as “weak” — which also fuels the stigma attached to any issue related to mental health.
But the #MeToo movement is all about women finally speaking out. Because once one person speaks out, it gives others “permission” to do the same. And, as we have seen in the United States, once many people do it, social change follows.
There’s another fact, too, that I want to share with them: Good writing — writing that truly engages readers — requires sharing a bit of yourself. It’s part of what makes writing authentic — or not.
So, I will lead by example. I have always been a rather shockingly transparent writer (so say my daughters). But there is one personal story I’ve never written about. Five years ago, I was a victim of domestic violence.
Why does that feel like a shameful confession? Because, in my society at least, “these kind” of women often are seen as “doormats.” Only “weak” women would ever find themselves in that position. (Oh, so I guess we aren’t that different from my Palestinian friends; we, too, are afraid of being seen as weak.) And full confession: I didn’t press charges at first. I was worried about the reputation of my live-in lover. So yeah, I let him off the hook (initially). After just being punched in the face, I was worried about giving my boyfriend a police record. (And yes, I called/call myself a feminist.)
Let me start at the beginning.
I met Max (not his real name) through an online dating site. “Charismatic” is the word I’d use to describe him — good-looking, a sharp observer of current affairs, funny (to this day, I don’t think I’ve laughed harder than when I was with him) and downright seductive. He was a bit like a Pied Piper; he would walk into a room and immediately get to know everyone there, making each person feel as if she was particularly special. (Max didn’t discriminate either; he’d get to know the waitresses to the cleaning crew. I still admire him for that.) I had just returned from Gaza and was trying to make a living by freelancing. He was/is a filmmaker, and almost before I consciously knew it, he had swept me into his life — acting as co-producer for his first full-length documentary.
On one level, I saw the warning signs of a destructive relationship early on. With me, at least, he had a temper that could flare on a dime. Almost always, it was because he perceived me to be “disrespecting” him — for instance, by checking my text messages while he was talking. (I attribute this in part to his experience with growing up black in white America — and a maladjusted response.) He would flirt with other women when he was supposedly with me, and laugh at instead of with me when we were socializing. My close friends noticed, and disapproved. As one friend said later, “even the good things are manipulative, to soften you so you’re caught off guard each time he goes from cool to cruel.” That’s actually a typical pattern, I’ve since learned, in abusive relationships.
But at the time, to me, those moments were relatively fleeting and were outweighed by my fascination with his world and the chemistry we had otherwise. Plus, I was increasingly entangled in his work, and soon we moved in together in our own apartment.
Within a couple of months, however, his hair-trigger temper seemed to flare for increasingly inexplicable reasons. At the same time, he began telling me not to expect so much of him, that we were only friends. It left me confused, on unstable ground.
One morning in early November — three months after we settled in — he verbally threatened me for the first time, over some dishes I had left in the sink. He basically said I’d be sorry if I “acted up” again; that my undesirable behavior meant he couldn’t be held responsible for his actions. This was totally unlike the Max I thought I knew, and I was scared enough to write an email documenting the conversation to my three closest friends. I began making inquiries with the apartment management about what I could do to break the lease or force Max to move out (although I couldn’t afford the rent on my own). Without a court order, I was told we’d both have to agree to break the lease, since both of our names were on the contract, and a large penalty would be assessed for moving out early. I convinced myself he’d never really get physical.
Almost exactly one month later, he did. We were in our living room and he began rehashing an earlier argument. I cut him off, saying I didn’t want to revisit the topic. He shouted at me, and I immediately realized he was in a different “space” — vengeful, with his anger out of control. I fled the apartment, thinking to find a property manager, but he followed me into the elevator. When I warned him to get away from me, he punched me, directly in the face.
Somehow, I ran back into our apartment, grabbed my mobile phone and called 911. Max left; I’m not sure where he went. Two policemen arrived and took my account of what had occurred, then called Max on his mobile phone. Max denied hitting me, but at the same time blamed me for provoking him — insisting he had only defended himself when I pushed him (he omitted the fact that I was trying to prevent him from following me into the elevator.) The police didn’t encourage me to press charges and I waivered, so I did not. Why? Crazy as it seems now, I thought I had to buy into Max’s new narrative and say we were mere roommates, not lovers/partners. I could immediately see the police lose interest. (I later found out that this lack of “romantic” status switched me to a different section of the legal system and I would have a harder time making my case.) I also worried about the federal contracts Max had been trying to get, and I didn’t want to mess up his chances of securing new business. I was sure he was sufficiently rattled and would never threaten or attack me again. (I know, I know. Where was the justice for myself?)
I learned pretty quickly, however, that I had been naïve and foolish. Knowing I had not pressed charges, Max texted me with a taunt: Speak back to him another time and he’d “do it again.” Three days later, I filed charges. I knew there was no other way to get him out of the apartment.
There is a lot more to this story, but suffice to say that the court finally did order the apartment management to allow me to break the lease, and I was given sole “custody” of our living space until we could move out. A two-year protective order kept him away from me.
I consulted a therapist, seeking to explore why I had ignored the warning signs, why I had put concerns about his well-being above my own, and why I didn’t feel free to tell my full narrative. The revelations that grew from that self-exploration could be the subject of a whole other blog post.
Like a lot of women, but also due to my own childhood issues, I associated love with being needed. Even when Max began claiming I was less to him than I was, I knew I played an important role in his life and his business. I thought being with someone — no matter how deeply flawed — was better than being alone. And I was fearful of being exposed as weak when everyone saw me as a strong, independent woman.
The truth is, I am a strong, independent woman. Even strong women make mistakes — especially those who err on the side of giving people the benefit of the doubt. I waited too long, but I acted firmly, and took risks, to take back control of my life.
The truth also is that Max in many ways, with many people, is an inspiring, funny, supportive person. He often had been so with me. But he has an anger-management problem and our relationship, for whatever reason, brought it out. He deserved to be held accountable for his actions.
And, the truth finally is that if we do not speak out, if we do not share our stories, other women (and other people) facing their own challenges that often are misunderstood by others will think they are alone, will be afraid of being judged and will allow the perpetrators to continue to act unchecked.
#MeToo. #TimesUp.
