Musings From The Empire

Busy week as usual, I’m still coping with the post-Diwali hangover, meeting gazillion family members and of course, asking them for blessings and taking money for it*. Meanwhile, the Indian Blogosphere — regular as a clock! — reminds me just why I have such a long way to go before growing up. Because sticking to deadlines isn’t something I have down yet. Ahem. Apologies for being a week late, on with the LinkFest now!

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1. Sue from Sunny Days talks about contraception rather pragmatically and sensitively in Let’s Talk About Contraception.

Makes you think, doesn’t it? Two very close friends of mine have had to choose to terminate pregnancies because they were unplanned. Both were already mothers, and money, family concerns, health and other obligations helped them make this impossible choice. They know they did what they needed to, but one mourns a lost child… it doesn’t seem to make a difference whether you lose your baby by miscarriage or an MTP, the pain of losing a baby is something you seem to carry for ever.

A third dearly loved friend has just made the decision and there’s nothing I can bring myself to say except to wish her the strength and courage she needs. I know a woman who has kept the ultrasound scans of the baby she had to abort because those are the only ‘pictures’ she’ll ever have of this child of hers that she wanted so badly. I know a woman who closes her eyes and sees the daughter she never gave birth to, growing older in her head.

2. Dalit poet Meena Kandasamy’s poem Mohandas Karamchand takes a critical look at Gandhi

“Generations to come will scarcely
believe that such a one as this walked
the earth in flesh and blood.”
—Albert Einstein

Who? Who? Who?
Mahatma. Sorry no.
Truth. Non-violence.
Stop it. Enough taboo.

That trash is long overdue.
You need a thorough review.
Your tax-free salt stimulated our wounds
We gonna sue you, the Congress shoe.

 

3. Shail discusses the polemics of languages and decisive lines between tongues and states in Language Wars.

Now the topic of ‘mother tongue’ is a touchy subject anywhere and everywhere. There are people out there who are ready to beat up and even go to the extreme of killing each other over it. They think their own mother tongue is the best and the rest are just dust.Excuse me, I beg to differ. In the event that I were to grow up without ever hearing a word of my mother tongue, I could still be expected to turn out into a pretty decent human being.

So, personally my opinion on mother tongues is on these lines: Everyone has a mother and mothers have tongues. So what is so special about any particular one?? This I know is blasphemy to the language chauvinists. But then, language chauvinism bores me to tears.

4. Indian Homemaker in a chilling post about how words of women who’ve attempted suicides by trying to immolate themselves aren’t taken seriously even by the law in Dying Statements Of Vengeful Women Settling Scores By Attempting Suicide.

When I discussed this, one of the commonest reactions was, Oh these women know very well rat poison/pouring kerosene on themselves is not going to kill them, they just want to threaten their in laws.” It wasn’t considered odd that any woman should feel (if they did) that the only way to ‘get back’ at their in-laws was by hurting themselves (and risking death).

On the other hand one does hear about self immolation and suicide as desperate forms of protest.

Women hurting themselves to ‘settle scores’ with their in laws were (are?) generally seen as unaccommodating, head strong and vengeful troublemakers. The court seemed to blame this burns victim too.

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*Don’t take this too literally. Well not so much anyway.

Shame Is A Weapon You Are Not Entitled To Wield

Trigger warning: This post discusses shame as a motivator for weight loss, and as such might be triggering for anyone with a history of disordered eating and/or feelings of strong body shame.

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Have you ever been ashamed? Not just a little embarrassed, actually ashamed. Did you do something you knew you shouldn’t have; something really, really stupid, and got caught by someone you like and respect? Did you tell someone about your huge crush on them, and have them respond by laughing at you? Did you have to walk the famous walk of shame, and unfortunately felt neither cool nor ironic, just … ashamed? Whatever it was, I bet you remember the feeling.

Let me guess: You blushed so hard you felt your cheeks burn. The phrase, “I wish a hole would open up and swallow me whole” was suddenly no longer just an abstract idea. Your stomach dropped so low, you thought you might have to check the basement for it on your way out. Perhaps you felt nauseous, or even light-headed. You had the thought, “I will never ever be in this situation again” running on repeat inside your head. However you felt, I bet you wanted to escape.  I think most of us would want that, I think most of us would do a LOT to avoid feeling truly ashamed again.

“Go on a diet, fatass! You’re disgusting!

I wonder how you felt about yourself the day those two guys shouted this at you, from their passing car. I think you felt a little insecure about your body, maybe you had been feeling that way for a while. I don’t think, however, that you were thinking about what a ‘disgusting fatass’ you were, right at that moment. I know the shame washes over you like a tidal wave; you look around and realize that at least a couple of people walking close by also heard them; the tears sting in your eyes.

Maybe that is the day you decide to go on a diet.

Maybe it goes well for a while. You’re losing weight, and people are paying you compliments. “You’re looking great, what are you doing differently?”

“You look good, have you lost some weight?”

“I see you’ve lost some weight, good for you!” It makes you feel good!

Maybe it’s not going so well anymore. Maybe, like at least 95% of the people who go on diets (even the diets that are ‘lifestyle changes’), you gain the weight back. Maybe, also like most dieters, you end up fatter than you were before you started dieting. (Not that you were actually that fat before, but you definitely are now).

You’re reading an article about actor/director Kevin Smith being kicked off a plane for being too fat. In the comments below the article, a large amount of people are sharing ‘horror stories’ about the time they had to sit through an entire flight with a smelly/ugly/sweaty/just plain fatty pressed up against them.

Maybe you start to wonder if you might be too fat for the plane. You weren’t too fat the last time you flew, but you’ve gained weight since then, and,  come to think of it, you did feel cramped the last time you were on a plane. Maybe you start thinking about how absolutely, terrifyingly awful it would be, to be on a plane full of people and to be kicked off it for being too fat. Maybe you begin to feel like flying might not even be worth it anymore.

Maybe you start a new diet the next day.

Maybe it goes well for a while. You’re losing weight again, and people are paying you compliments again. This time you don’t enjoy them as much though, because what if you’re too weak-willed to keep the weight off this time too?

Maybe it’s not going so well anymore. Maybe you gain the weight back. Maybe you end up fatter than you were before you started this new diet. (Not that you were actually that fat before, but you definitely are now).

You’re dating a person you have a huge crush on. Everything’s going well, until one day when they tell you the reason the two of you never go out, is that they’re ashamed to be seen with you, and, by the way, won’t you lose some weight?

You stop seeing them. But maybe, every time you fall for someone new now, your subconscious reminds you how it felt to have someone you care deeply for tell you, you aren’t good enough. Maybe your subconscious is very effective in its messaging, and maybe, without noticing it, you start shying away from relationships.

Maybe you start a new diet.

Maybe it goes well for a while. You’re losing weight, and once again people are paying you compliments. Maybe it’s not going so well anymore. Maybe you gain the weight back. Maybe you end up fatter than you were before you started your diet. (Not that you were actually that fat before, but you definitely are now).

*

To be honest, when I first thought about writing of shame as a motivator, I thought I would be telling you it’s a useless tool. As I’ve since realized, that is not true at all. Shame can motivate you to a great host of things. Indeed, shaming someone can have lasting effects on that person’s life. Which is why, while you have the right to free speech (I hope), shame is a weapon you are not entitled to wield. Because, as with all weapons, it has a vast capacity for destruction, pain, and upheaval, and a very limited capacity for anything else. So don’t even pick it up, just leave it be, and you won’t end up doing something you (should) regret. We, the shamed, will be truly grateful to you.

 

Jaded16’s note: Meet Veronica from excellent Musings From The Soapbox who in addition to being a kickarse LadyPerson and a hardcore Gilmore Girls fan, is also fat, Norwegian, bright, feminist, a student, a woman, a nerd, an idealist. When asked to write a whinyarsed bio by me, she describes herself as “In short, I am a human being, and I believe that all human beings deserve to be treated like just that;  human beings. Quite simple, I thought”. Are you as much in love with her as I am already? Or at least gushing as I am? Also People Of The Olde Interwebes, remember the Open Guest Posting Policy? It’s still on!

Another note: This is a fat-acceptance space. Any comments or e-mails that lead to fat-shaming, giving suggestions to eat healthily, are condescending to the writer’s body or shape will be promptly deleted without much consideration.

 

The Disease Of Being Universal

This week, as India deals with the after-effects of Obama’s visit,  where we dissect every word he said, try to re-read into the words he didn’t say, search for any snippets of news that would piece the puzzle to just what did the President really want to convey, we somehow conspicuously forget to think about the organised deaths in the Kashmir Valley. This is an old strategy employed by Indian politicians and policy-makers, to completely dodge the issue and hope the problem — this can mean anything: the poor, the huge population, silly Ladies asking for rights, take your pick according to your mood! — will just dissolve away as we busy ourselves with four more years of systematic oligarchy. Every single newspaper since the past three weeks have been talking about the President’s impending visit to India, covered every second of his visit and now are doing soul-deep articles on the clothes the First Couple wore and other extremely relevant topics while the account of four Dalit women who were raped yesterday just outside of Mumbai for pressing charges against army officials for previous episodes of unwarranted assault and violence are somehow unwritten about.

This morning as I seethed in fury at the sheer injustice of it all, another post about the Obama visit shines at me from its spot on the newspaper. I can re-hear the words, “I am so happy, that India has now left behind the rank of being a Third World Country” that had almost become the national rhetoric last week; only this time the question “At whose cost?” is glowing just beneath it and refuses to go away unanswered. Many history lessons from my school days come to mind where I’d read India’s name in the list of ‘backward’ nations and shuffle around it, swirling the words in my mouth, imagining what ‘forward’ must look like then. And today, it seems that ‘forward’ is here; I’d always thought this day would somehow magically manifest itself over the calendar, be celebrated and leave a mark. Little did I know, this very mark will never come off of my skin, no matter how hard I try to scrape it off. I can’t seem to understand our dedication to the words “global village” or “solidarity” especially since they’ve started to look more dangerous than ever to me, considering our fetish with borders and chalk lines; between nations and states, added to our affinity with using the many perks of ‘democracy’ — military authoritarianism of course! — or any other ‘freedoms’ can afford us. In some part of my LadyBrain I can for a few moments understand why would being ‘Universal’ appeal to us, for who wouldn’t want to UnWrite the narrative of the Empire, People Of The Olde Interwebes? I won’t lie, being the Inscriber has held its charm for me; I have dreamt many times how would possessing and prodding spaces feel like, instead of just ‘occupying them’. But when reality sinks in, too many discrepancies between the dream and the lived reality become painfully visible.

The newspaper is still open, screaming the words ‘global economy’, ‘freer economic policies’, ‘exchange of privilege’ and I can’t help but laugh. We’re a country that is constructed by the Center to delight, to serve and to offer free culture to exoticise and to make Other. We thrive on selling decoded culture to anyone who wants to buy it, to being one of the major supplier of agency-less DustyBodies so that the status quo of the superior races does not shift; and in this process we’ve internalised the belief that being universal is the only way to progress, that when we leave the stench of our Third World Bodies behind can we don our shiny new skins of Being Them, which almost always is white. Being a universal MudSquatter is a very peculiar position to be in, trapped in two worlds of appropriation and tokenism. A few weeks ago, a theorist I met told me my poems need to be ‘less gendered’ and ‘more universal’ if I want to see them published in any International Anthology. As I was leaving, he reminded me to not completely erase the “gender aspect” or even the “Indian flavour” because then the reader would be disappointed to not find the Image Of The Indian Woman zie had in mind. I laughed it off then, internally vowing to never set eye on this DoucheColonial theorist ever again, only today I can see the meaning of his words, maybe not the way he intended them though.

When my fellow feminists and I were discussing the Radical Movement of the 80’s in India for a panel discussion a while back,  how flawed the movement was and specifically how it condoned mass-erasure of people who wouldn’t fit the prescription of being affluent, educated and upper-caste, somehow the talk shifts to devdasis and hijras. Devdasis are a specific caste of temple-dancers theoretically speaking,  but in reality they are prostitutes, available for the consumption of Brahmins and other caste-privileged dudes and hijras are India’s equivalent of intersex and/or transsexuals, again the dynamics of caste, class and community intersect, localising the phenomenon to specifics of our Culture. One feminist suggested that they way to ‘deal’ with Devdasis is to just categorise them as ‘prostitutes’ and then just work towards legalising prostitution. While I wholeheartedly am in favour of legalising prostitution — what part of giving agency back to DustyLadies doesn’t sound fun to you? — the ‘blemish’ of caste cannot be erased that easily, we need a solution that goes beyond just legalisation. Practices of Devdasi’s vary from state to state and are further fissured by more caste demarcations, where a few communities practice it for economic reasons and aren’t necessarily bound to prostitution by birth as other communities are. When these specific communities are bound to prostitution by birth — as the women who are born into the caste that worships Yellama are — the problem goes more than just skin deep, here women aren’t allowed to have a choice of other than selling their bodies, to keep the ‘tradition’ going. Applying the Universal answer here isn’t enough, I said it then and I’ll still repeat it. The same goes for the ‘treatment’ of Hijras, as out here, trans-sexuality isn’t a choice or an organic biological need or any other reason that works with agency. Here Hijras are interwoven with specific communities, classes and castes, to the extent that sometimes little boys are kidnapped and made trans-sexual; or they have to be born inter-sexed and the family abandons the baby for some reason only to be adopted by the Hijra community of that region. Universal narratives of transgender , trans-sexual and inter-sex cannot be blindly applied here. Again, Universalism reared its ugly head again as one activist suggested a Pride March “just like the one they have in D.C” when what we need are more obtuse measures of having the Hijras integrated in society like allowing them to reside in commercial housing areas rather than communes in the outskirts of the city and so on.

My first foray into Dalit feminism was two years ago and one day I excitedly compared it to Black Feminism, as both are oppressed because of their gender and race/caste for a paper. Recently, poring over my journals from that year, I was enraged at the 18 year-old me for erasing each culture and forgetting their specific conflicts and expressions, for letting the ‘Global’ or the more cannonised view step into the ‘Local’, in effect blunting each movement. What I cannot rub away is how overwhelmingly easy it is to be Universal, to allow the Bigger Narrative wash over you. What disturbs me today is how responsibility is squared on POC’s shoulders to keep up with the Global norm though the invasion by this very Global norm comes through Colonial channels and dialogues, how we have to go ‘Glocal’ while the Bigger Empire remains intact. We have to start cherishing hybridity, plurality and differences before the Disease Of Being Universal swallows us whole.

On ReDrawing Borders

Earlier this week, I got to hear President Obama during his stay in Mumbai as a part of the student’s interactive session where we were supposed to ask questions as he wanted to ‘know’ and ‘connect’ with the youth of India. Of course this demographic was rounded off from the most affluent and well known colleges of the city and if I’m not mistaken, clear caste selections were visible too; where under the excuse of having all the ‘brightest’ and the ‘most’ creative group of students, quite predictably students from lower castes were excluded because apparently ‘those’ students weren’t good enough to be even passed on as tokens! Can you imagine how deviant and depraved they must be, that institutions had to collectively silence them? But I digress. In other inconsistencies, the city is spruced up, the roads where he would pass by are redone, beggars are displaced, stray dogs are removed from their place and other forms of erasure I probably can’t even gauge have gone on. But none of this is surprising, this is the routine whenever Anyone Of The Important Variety visits the city, from the Prime Minister to Ambassadors of other nations. For a couple of days, my city changes its face, we stretch out corners to make them seem like crossroads and the day the President leaves, everything is back in its place, except perhaps the beggars and the dogs. But who cares about them anyway? They probably will vandalise this newly done street with their stench and bodies, so they’re better off in some obscure little ditch, the Empire muses to itself. It’s particularly ironic that though President Obama came with hopes of expanding job opportunities, of creating ‘openings’; so much closure and hazing was inspired by his very motive to ‘open’, almost as if the blurry lines between ‘open’ and ‘fixed’ have been mutated to fit the version a few ImperiallyInclined people saw fit.

The talk turns to borders and boundaries one minute and becoming a ‘global village’ the next. What struck me most in this lop-sided conversation is how perfectly parallel it is to our reality; where we staunchly oppose spaces between people but will not hesitate to create a gulf between states or communities — that’s the only way a ‘democracy’ works it seems, People Of The Olde Interwebes! — that we let our Collectively Colonised Persona to slip under yet another Empire, that of emptied meanings. Generally speaking, spaces between bodies, virtually and otherwise is frowned upon. My immediate family members never seem to understand why I don’t have a Facebook account — what part of encouraging people I don’t even like have access to most of the important details of my life sounds ‘fun’, explain to me once again — or the fact that I don’t like to be hugged is a big shock to people. They always want to know why is it so that I need this ‘space’, that I like to keep a few things out of public access. It takes a MudSquatter to fully comprehend just what I mean by ‘keeping boundaries’ and just how incredulous it is to most people I associate with. “No Facebook account! How are we supposed to know what goes on in your life then?” are the most common complaints followed by Super Shocked Gasps when they realise there is a reason why I don’t want them to know ‘what goes on in my life’.

Also, because of the fact that I am a LadyPerson and identify as one too, somehow the intimate cords of ‘sisterhood’ and ‘solidarity’ are supposed to be a reflex to me; that I should be most comfortable in ‘women’s spaces’ and such gendered niches. Again, at family events the Super Shocked Gasps step in when I confess I’m not at ease in such spaces, that I don’t like undressing in front of a bunch of other Ladies regardless of the fact that we have the ‘same parts’. When I ask to be treated differently or that people respect my ‘space’, almost immediately tongues start forming the words along the lines of, “See! This is what reading so many English books does to DustyLadies!” or “Is this OUR culture? To ask for space!?”. A week ago, my LadyFriend and I were discussing matters of coitus in a coffee joint and a Lady from the table across was making faces in our direction because we were talking without any undertones of guilt or shame or perhaps she really just detests free speech that comes out of Uteruses. Anyway, she felt compelled to come to our table and lecture us on how ‘shameless’ we are for talking about things like that (in public no less!) and we heard all that she had to say because that is what DustyLadies do, we ‘respect’ our elders and then she left with feeling UberEntitled at having done “her bit” to keep the Tights-Wearing-Foul-Mouthed-Coitus-Discussing girls in line. The point isn’t how ridiculous her action was, but that it’s quite ‘alright’ for her to butt in like that and lecture us. Had we started laughing at her face (I really did want to, I’ll confess), she would have been even more enraged at us breaking yet another moral code; the idea that the Private isn’t up for intersection with the Public is a concept she has no interest in. Sadly, she is a reflection of a lot of our cultural expectations and practices that encourage such ‘forced’ merging of spaces to prod, regulate, police and tutor all that the DudeCouncil can about its DustyLadies.

On the other hand, we’re obsessed with boundaries, more than willing to have chalk lines divide us into slots of Hindu, Muslim, Indian, Pakistani and for LocalFlavor we’ve got State Lines collectively deciding that our identification cannot seep out of these metaphorical and literal lines. This Sunday, one student asked the President about Afghanistan and his goal to retract troops by 2011 where the answer was (predictably) colonial, as if borders don’t exist at all, as if ‘help’ can be doled out universally without taking into account the nature of spaces it ‘invades’ and the many hued implications it carries. Interestingly, for the last two weeks, we’ve been engaged in a nationwide debate about ‘the Kashmir Situation’ — those of us who’re not busy silencing Arundhati Roy that is — where we ‘liberal-minded people’ sit in our comfortable, privileged living rooms and decide, debate and drone about the importance of keeping certain borders, namely the one that will keep those Bloody Pakistani Buggers Decidedly Out without as much as even wondering what do the people of Kashmir want. While the need for private spaces is unfathomable — especially when Ladies demand it because they can’t crouch under the shadow of being ‘attractively temperamental’, they become just plain ‘hysterical’ — public spaces are open and uncharted, waiting to be possessed and locked into another set of boundaries that constitute ‘national’. And (insert gasps here) when the same kind of borders are asked by people from Kashmir, they become ‘anti-national’ or ‘separatist’ and a threat to National Security. If you too guessed that they are ostracised and almost labeled as ‘contaminated’ because they don’t please the bigger, popular demand of ‘borders’, then the Empire will not like you very much, I’m afraid.

We’re constantly swaying between public and private spaces and the stark difference in each’s reception angers me often. The slips between the public and private are an only a part of the reason; the real reason is how easily we castigate spaces into ‘possess-able’ (therefore invading them is justified) or ‘unnecessary’ (where denying their existence becomes second nature). I’ve never been able to forget Virginia Woolf’s statement that ‘Perhaps being locked in is the worst outcome’ mainly because how equally right and wrong she is. Being locked in can be a luxury and a space away and yet it can uncurl to be a theft of freedom if the person being locked isn’t allowed to decide. I don’t need to remind you which ‘locking in’ takes place more times I should have the gall to admit now, do I?

My Rape Story

Jaded16’s Note: Heavy trigger warnings for child rape, molestation and other PTSD symptoms and language.

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I was 12 or 13 years old, back in ’72 or ’73.   It was summer.  I played outside with my friends and did whatever young boys do, with time on their hands and no supervision.  My friend Bob and I were outside goofing around.  We ran into Jimmy, a man who lived in the neighborhood.  He was tall, thin, had a mustache and long hair, in his late 20’s or early 30’s.  He often said hello to me as he walked by.  Bob and I saw him and we got to talking.  There was a forest preserve across the street from my house, where I often played.  As we walked along talking, we entered the woods. I had no reason to be suspicious.   I was always in those woods.

Somehow, Jimmy and I became separated from Bob.  We were alone in the woods.  He told me that he wanted to tell me a joke, but that we should go further up the hill, away from the path.  Once we were away from the path by a good measure, he told me that he wanted me to “do him a favor”.  I had become nervous, but I was too frightened to move.  I feared that I might upset him if I did.  I began to think in my mind as to how I might control this situation.  But, I was not the one in control.

By now, he had a hold of me and was pulling me to the ground.  He said that he wanted to “lean on me” I didn’t know what it meant, but I was terrified. He pulled me down and his grip was very strong.   I remember thinking of what I might be able to say, to make him think that I was not going to run and at the same time, get free of his grip.  I remember pleading with Jimmy, begging him to stop, to let me go.  He was still trying to get me to lie down and was taking off his shirt or something.  I remember him loosening his belt and pants.  I remember him dropping his pants.  It was all happening so fast and I didn’t know what to do.  I was crying and asking for him to stop, but he wouldn’t stop.

Then, I think we heard Bob on the trail, looking for us.  Jimmy still had me, but now he was asking me to promise to keep this a secret.  Not to tell anyone.  I was so frightened but I was so relieved that I might be able to get away from this place in the woods.  I promised him that I would.  Suddenly, I was aware that I was free from Jimmy’s grip.  I felt as if I had come back from the grave.   I saw light returning to the forest.  I could hear things…birds, cars, planes.

I found Bob, and Jimmy came up right behind me.  I didn’t tell Bob anything right there.  He looked at my eyes and we just got out of there.  We separated from Jimmy and he asked me what the hell happened.  I told him and he said that he thought as much.  We discussed what to do…go to the police, tell our parents…what?  We didn’t tell anyone.  We were pretty sure that we were the ones that would get in big trouble.  I was sure that I would. We told no one. I told no one – for years. I think that I told my parents about 15 years later, when we were all liquored up one night.

I was lucky that a friend came back to find me.  If he had run into another pal and taken off to do something else for a while, I might not even be here.

I saw Jimmy around the neighborhood a few times more and then not again. Bob and I stuck together for months.   I never went outside without knowing for a fact that Bob was around.  I felt lucky that my parents and nobody else knew.  I was a skinny kid and the common insult back then was ‘fag’.  I didn’t want to be called fag for the rest of my school days.   I didn’t want to be in trouble with my parents or police or have Jimmy come looking for me, if he found out I had told on him.

I pretended that it never happened, but it did.  It took me years – over a decade to admit that I was not the guilty one.  When I could bring myself to think about it, I was clear that Jimmy was not gay.   He was a child molester.  They are not the same thing.

My rape story is one that has some lucky breaks – I lived.  My story is a survivor’s story.  It has colored my world view.  I think that it allows me to stand one step closer into someone else’s shoes. Thousands of children go up into the woods every day and do not come home.  Children are raped and killed in every country in the world.  Children, barely able to think for themselves.

At the top of the human social ladder is .01% of the population running empires of weapons, oil, drugs, finance and bureaucracy that exists only to make them richer.  While at the very bottom of the pile, being starved, raped, mutilated, burned and murdered – are hundreds of thousands of children whose lives are forever shattered every day.

I don’t know how the world gets fixed, how the economy turns around, how jobs come back and how we fight terrorists.  I don’t know how anything gets solved.  I do know however, that I don’t know how to fix all this crap, all the lies and all the cruelty. I do believe that until the children are safe from the absolute worst of humanity, we have accomplished nothing.

P.S. Any comments or e-mails that discredit the views of the author will be deleted without much consideration. I will not entertain any e-mails complaining just why your horrendous crappy comment isn’t showing. If I still have to explain to you why is it important to hear survivor’s stories without any shaming or accusing the victim, then you need to exit this blog.

 

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