Category Archives: Comment

HEROINES AND HUBRIS

LibDemLogoKick ‘em, brush ‘em off, ignore ‘em. But DON’T change ‘em. Men.

Since when have so many women have been urged to be so violent? Kick him in the cojones, shins, and knees! Elbow the thorax. Bite the bastard. All sackable offences, and, as it happens, the least likely and, most certainly, the least alluring response to a man sexually harassing a woman.

But we’ve been hearing these tactics being counseled here there and everywhere as the way to deal with a ‘groper’ – aka a man sexually harassing a woman – following a week of really brave women calling powerful men and party leaders to account for institutionalised sexual harassment. That’s among those who admit that sexual harassment is not on.

There are others who don’t think it matters much; its not like real sexual abuse, they say. Often these are people who have not risked their reputations by taking the side of people who have been sexually abused.

Laughing Lord Tony Greaves reckoned that if sexual harassment was a resigning matter then ‘around half the male members of the Lords over the age of 50 would probably not be seen again.’

Lady Shirley Williams, a noble parliamentarian, is not known as a champion of the victims of sexual crime. She told the BBC that her party’s former Chief Executive, Lord Rennard, now under investigation by the Metropolitan police, was ‘a very fine man.’

She ventured that Jimmy Savile’s abuse of children was ‘the bad stuff’ but she did not believe ‘anything that’s been said about our chap is in that category.’ Who said it was? But she then maligned the women who had, after many years of self-protective – and humiliated – silence, spoken out: the women’s allegations against Rennard had been ‘hopelessly exaggerated’.

That’s not what the police think – Scotland Yard is now investigating Rennard. Women have, however, confirmed that they felt emboldened to come forward after the Savile case had changed the nation’s consciousness.

Oxford scholar Allison Smith, who had once hoped to be a Lib Dem candidate, said she had been encouraged by the ‘change in culture’, to go public about Rennard’s alleged harassment.

LibDemLogo-2

Williams needs to explain what, exactly, is being exaggerated. Does she think the women who have brought their complaints to the Lib Dem leadership or to the police are themselves exaggerating, lying, or does she think that the problem of sexual harassment as such is an exaggeration? In either case she has some explaining to do.

Explain, Lady Williams, why so many women in your party are prepared to risk their own privacy and perhaps even their careers as Lib Dem politicians to expose serial harassment in the same party culture that also tolerated serious, serial sexual abuse.

The police have investigated the story — interred for decades — of serial sexual abuser Cyril Smith MP, and concluded that he was a serious offender who would, these days, be prosecuted. Smith and Rennard are not, of course, comparable. But they inhabited, and were protected by the same party culture. The behaviour of both was well known in the party.

There is no question about it: the Lib Dems stupidly, smugly, turned their back on feminism; didn’t confront sexism and, inevitably, therefore, accommodated sexually predatory behaviour by men.

What the Lib Dems did not understand is that defining harassment and abuse clarifies what is, and is not, appropriate behavior. Like laws and procedures on drink and driving, seat belts, smoking, hate speak, racist chanting at football matches, hitting children, cultures reach a consensus about public safety and public manners. They are connected.

Loss of confidence in cultural renovation, the mocking of so-called political correctness, which – lest we forget – sponsored the campaign to kick racism out of football, has stalled the recognition that sexism – like racism – sustains abuse, disrespect and bullying.

The response to the Lib Dem women, whose charges have been corroborated, has been, predictably polarized. The most remarkable feature of this debate has been the fortitude of women in politics and the media: Cathy Newman at Channel 4 and Nick Clegg’s former special adviser Bridget Harris explained helpfully that women are even supposed to feel that brushing off the predatory men is ‘the feminist response’. Au contraire, she insists, ‘our silence is not shame. It is self-preservation.’ The problem is ‘the power imbalance’ that makes protest futile and even self-destructive.

These women have been met by a chorus complaining that t’was ever thus; well, its not as bad as real abuse is it; they should not stand for it, brush it off, bash him in the balls.

This inducement to either silence or violence been compounded by some nasty body stuff which compounds the disrespect for women by the language of contempt for the man. In an otherwise creditable critique of sexism in parliament and the press, Allison Pearson lowers the tone by describing Rennard as a ‘slug’.

Rod Liddle – always reliable as a barometer of choleric white man’s intemperance – adds in The Spectator that Rennard is a ‘lardbucket.’

As if harassment by a svelte Fifty Shades of Grey Christian Grey or Brad Pitt would have been not offensive but charming.

All of this, of course, averts our gaze from the people who are the problem – the perpetrators and their cultural comfort zones. It brings pessimism and denial to the possibility that marauding masculinities can be reformed.

The Lib Dems’ disgrace, however, has been society’s gain: we all now know the open secret of sexism in the party and the mass media. And these institutions now know that they’ve got to sort it.

Mantel’s Right Royal Calumny

Oh what a mighty calumny Hilary Mantel has caused. Her ravishing, slightly odd, fastidious, eloquent, essay on suits, frocks, fabrics and royal bodies in the London Review of Books would have been a good read. Now that the Daily Mail has spiked her, it is a must read.

Kate Middleton PortraitSo, her remarks about the Duchess of Cambridge, aka Kate Middleton, having been designed by committee, and Mantel’s ruminations on royal gynaecology has gone viral. Marvellous.

Mantel doesn’t, of course, say anything horrid. She merely points out what we all know, that Kate Middleton has been finished: finessed, drilled, dressed. She will be perfect. She will be adroitly, vacantly, nice. The royal family’s scalding experience of earlier, unruly recruits into the firm – Fergie and Diana, mother of Middleton’s husband William – made any other option intolerable and to be avoided whatever the cost.

Mantel’s LRB piece is a rumination on what she knows so well – royal bodies: What they wear, how they rustle around space, how they are produced, how they are penetrated; and how they are seen – to repeat George III’s mantra they must be seen, above all be seen.

Mantel argues that the purpose of the royal body is to breed. Yes. But there is more. Being seen is not just about being visible – indeed it is hardly that – and I don’t really share Mantel’s observation that we stare at royalty to find antiquity, to find the special.

Queen Anne BoleynWhen we stare aren’t we searching for something else? Aren’t we struggling with that paradox of monarchism, the evidence that they are not so much immortal as merely mortal? Aren’t we searching for something about them that is human?

That, finally is the problem: our democracy warrants their sovereignty and yet we worry about the price THEY pay. Not the price we pay for their indulgences; not the price we pay for our compromised, unfinished democracy, for our abjection as subjects rather than citizens.

No, the price they pay for the seeming pointlessness of their privilege, what Mantel describes as the airy enclosure that is always a cage.

The paradox is that when they show their humanity they are in trouble. Being seen in the royal firmament is never to show their humanity, it is about the parade as propaganda: it is about being seen as superior, as sovereign.

PHOBIAS, PROFANITIES and CENSORS

Wild twittering about what exactly….? CAN THIS BE FEMINISM?  http://www.dailydot.com/society/suzanne-moore-julie-burchill-transphobia/

Here’s my own take on bans, prohibitions and Julie Bindel being proscribed by NUS for allegedly being offensive:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/jan/31/julie-bindel-transgender-nus :

Censoring Julie Bindel

Transgender activists who seek to ban her from speaking are wrong – we need to hear Julie Bindel on gender politics

I love Julie Bindel. There, I’ve said it, I love the woman some people love to hate.

We are bonded by offensiveness. When her activities got her into rucks with strangers who knew no better she’d pass herself off as me. Out of sheer malice. Marvellous. She is an adversary to be treasured. She is

necessary. She’s clever and quick, which sometimes makes her rough and even wrong; and yes, sometimes rude.

Bindel is also an inventive feminist campaigner who has helped to make life better for some women living the worst lives. Everyone should be entitled to hear her thinking aloud about gender politics. And she’s a scream, a low-down stand-up; and she should go on the stage. Ah, there’s the thing.

It is getting as hard to catch sight of her as it is of Aretha Franklin. Bindel is, in effect, being banned. Airing the complications and troubles oftransgender politics is being traduced as “transphobia”. Transgender people who used to live as men and now live as women persuaded the May 2009 NUS women’s conference to mandate its officers to share no platform with Julie Bindel. Proponents say they are offended by Bindel’s critique – aired in the Guardian since 2004 – of “trannies”‘ perceived cultural conservatism and anatomical violence.

The NUS women’s campaign shows no solidarity with women who are offended by the presence in their safe spaces of people who used to be men telling them which women they may listen to and who qualifies as queer. This month, her enemies mustered a picket outside Queer Question Time in a London pub. They’re not censoring her, they say, you can read her, they say, just don’t go to hear her. That renders her “audience” passive consumers but not engaged debaters. By the way, the blogger’s sexual semantics are interesting: women should “have the balls” to stop Bindel speaking.

They’re offended? So what? Offensiveness is a discourse shared by both politics and comedy. “Offendedness” is a privileged, protected category in the NUS against, specifically, rightwing extremists, racists and Julie Bindel. The women’s officer Olivia Bailey insists this is “not no platform” for Bindel. “The expression of transphobic views directly discriminates” against “valued members of our campaign.” It’s just that, “We welcome our trans sisters” and a group of them “had been made to feel uncomfortable”. Again, so what? This solidarity does not extend to women who feel unsettled by the presence of people who used to be men in women-only spaces and services.

This campaign obscures the question of power and the theory and practise of politics. Politics is the art of peaceful conflict. Index on Censorship reminds us that conflict and controversy are essential to civil society. “There is no right not to be offended,” says Padraig Reidy, Index spokesperson. “To imagine that you should be protected from offense to your sensibilities is neither realistic nor desirable.”

The transgender vigilantes should listen up, wise up and grow up, participate in, not proscribe, the debate they started. And their best friends in the NUS should do what best friends do: tell them to stop it, their politics stink.

JIMMY SAVILE: MORAL PANICS THE BIG SOCIETY and HOW SOCIETY WAS GROOMED BY A PROLIFIC PREDATOR

Jimmy Savile funeral

No sooner does child abuse get aired than we are warned against witchhunts, obsession, and hysteria. Always. It is happening again; it is de rigueur.

Andrew O’Hagan’s ruminations in the London Review of Books on Jimmy Savile and the dark corners of light entertainment, offer a glimpse of the just how difficult it is for anyone to confront child abuse.

Andrew O'Hagan

Andrew O’Hagan

Check out Times columnist David Aaronovitch’s response to the Savile inquiry and the review of the North Wales children’s homes abuse scandal :

‘Don’t launch inquiries on the back of lurid claims’:

David Aaronovitch

David Aaronovitch

Gesturing towards new knowledge abuse, Aaronovitch then cautions:

But it seems we have had to pay an unnecessary price for our new understanding. In Cleveland in the late 1980s, alongside real abusers, completely innocent people were deprived of their children on the basis of the beliefs and a faulty diagnosis of a paediatrician and social worker. Not long afterwards there was panic on Orkney and in cities such as Rochdale and Nottingham, amid claims that there were networks of abusers using satanic rituals as a pretext for acts of abuse, including infanticide and cannibalism. Books were written, front pages were splashed, serious conferences convened, in which dark caverns and human sacrifice were earnestly discussed.The unattractive (because complicating) truth is that sometimes people do lie about being abused. When it all collapsed, as it had to…

It doesn’t matter that this stuff is punctuated by historical inaccuracies and a repetition of the mass hysteria/moral panic line. That never matters. What matters is what this kind of stuff is NOT interested in, and what it is NOT about.

Andrew O’Hagan threw no light on the questions thrown up by Jimmy Savile, perhaps because is not interested in child abuse, nor in how easy it is to get away with it. His rendition of Savile as a man ‘made to the public’s specifications, ’ ignores the other publics who have been challenging marauders like Savile.

British society is not homogenous, it is fissured by sexual abuse, how it happens, to whom, and how it comes to be known.Why did the BBC harbour Savile?

What was it about his horrible persona that the BBC wanted? Was his allure, precisely, misanthropy and misogyny? It was not the public, it was the BBC that made a public according to Savile’s specifications. The broadcasting media do not reflect public taste, they participate in the creation of it.

Crucially, his reputation and room for maneouvre were secured by both the BBC and the Big Society.

Savile traded on the NHS and schools’ dependence on charity. Without charity he would have been just another coarse, grotty DJ. Without the Big Society, he would not have been showered with virtue, blessed by popes and princes and politicians. Without the Big Society he would not have been given the keys to any hospital, school or prison.

Where would Savile have been without the counter-revolution from the late ’80s (apparently endorsed by Aaronivitch) against evidence of sexual crimes against children?

O’Hagan’s contempt for so-called political correctness, and the instant invocation of terms such as  ‘moral panic’ and obsession’ whenever child abuse is aired, has licensed grumpy old and young men to grope whoever they like, to proclaim the right to be right-off and swank about it on telly.

Savile’s savvy access to almost anywhere warehousing vulnerable people, from children to patients and prisoners, is a model of grooming and stealthy exploitation. His reputation and the unsteady exposure of his abusiveness, exemplify the condition of knowing and not knowing that describes Britain’s befuddled ‘common sense’ about abuse. Enough people knew for it to have been an open secret.

Ever since sexual abuse was added to the inventory of statutory concerns about children in the 1980s, child protection has been a war zone. Actually, it is defeated.

For three decades child welfare institutions have been unable to withstand the overwhelming and outraged resistance from accused adults to civil libertarians.

Yet, still, there is a determination to tell the story. The ‘choke and sting of experience’ – the Indian anthropologist Veena Das’s poignant phrase – finds its way, somehow, into public knowledge.

It is routinely met by the smug sort of piety that, sadly, was aired again in O’Hagan’s piece:

Child abuse is now a national obsession,’ it produces  ‘an unmistakable lack of proportion in the way we talk about the threat to children posed by adults ‘ and by  ‘the hysteria, the prurience, the general shrieking that surrounds discussions of discussions of sexual conduct…

What does he make of the somewhat muted, hesistant, ashamed voices of Savile’s victims? Does ‘general shrieking’ describe the hundreds of people who say they were abused by Savile – witnesses spanning 50 years – who finally felt able to quietly share their story with the police/NSPCC?

And what of the dull, defensive response of the institutions?Does  ‘shrieking’ and ‘obsession’ describe the dismal response of the criminal justice system to the majority of rapes and sexual assaults reported to the police – a scepticism, by the way, that is an embarrassment to the Metropolitan police, Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary and the Crown Prosecution Service.

Where, exactly, in the company O’Hagan keeps, is all this hysteria and shrieking?  Isn’t denial of child abuse the national obsession?

On 11 January 2013 the Metropolitan Police and the NSPCC published their report, Giving Victims a Voice, on the evidence of 450 people concerning Savile’s 50 year career as a prolific sexual predator.

(An earlier, shorter version of this appeared in a letter to the LRB).

Prison Writing

Watch the hands of young men in prison, moving pens across the page, and you see a story scrolled on their scarred fingers and bulging, busted knuckles. Their heads bowed in concentration, lips sometimes moving as they spell words to themselves or ask, how do you spell before…or gate? And yet they have more to tell us than we might imagine about a passion for violence.

Edvard Munch, The Scream

Edvard Munch, ‘The Scream’

As a Writer in Residence in prisons between 2005 and 2007, I’d gaze at these young men’s heads and hands as they’d write about everlasting love – their relationships are usually in crisis; about their babies’ births – so many are dads; their life stories – ‘I could write a book!’

I’d promise them that they’d surprise themselves, that they would do some beautiful writing and they would discover what that feels like.

Before I started this, I thought I knew about violence. I’ve been writing about it for years. These narratives by self-confessed, card-carrying thugs got me thinking, though, about the logics of violence: how much they love hurting people – and getting hurt.

This emerges when they focus on what actually happens: when their knuckles hit walls, when wrists break, bottles scrape scalps, when their knives slip into someone’s skin or kidney. The first, exasperating answer to questions about what it feels like, is usually: ‘nothing’. Even if it were true – and it isn’t – feeling ‘nothing’ demands effort, however.

As a journalist I’ve interviewed many men and women who have killed someone. Bombers, kidnappers, snipers, all with a cause; men who kill women who rejected them, men who like killing women; women who kill men who have put their lives in peril. But prisons are swelling with boys and men whose dangerousness is ascribed to nothing much: postcode killing, turf, peer group pressure, self-defence, to just…this or that. These terms conceal as much as they claim to reveal.

My favourite word, why, isn’t much use in this context, it rarely attracts answers beyond the banal. But the journalistic mantra: ‘who, what, where, when’ allows us to delve.

Fighting appears to be without cause. It isn’t, of course. What these young men in prison tell us that there are causes. And more, there is cause: They believe they’re making themselves as men. The project is domination, pain, power…They represent themselves as soldiers and troops. But the discipline of writing discloses to us and them how they build their hatreds, how they invest in hazard. They spread macho mayhem, but they also do themselves serious damage.

A prodigious fighter said if we saw him from the top deck of a bus we’d think he was ‘a terrorist’. Then he eloquently deconstructed his ‘scraps’. Bashing someone again and again with broken knuckles was not about loss of sensibility – he wasn’t out of control. He says he loved pain. ?His affrays produced pleasure. Combat was also an invitation, an incitement: he wanted to be wounded. His injuries banished other psychic agonies. He provoked pain because it gave him corporal peace.

The young men I met in prison, with lined paper and pens and wounded hands, all seemed to know what this means. They read each other’s writing and recognise themselves; the unsaid becomes an open secret.

I suggested to them that writing is a way of sorting stuff out. They don’t do it for grades, it doesn’t meet any targets, but it is useful. ‘This mattered, miss,’ said one statuesque, silent young man, on his last day inside, gripping his prize: his text, in print. These young men’s writing does not celebrate violence – even if that’s what they usually set out to do – it clarifies its dreadful allure.

Bruffy is serving five years for offences associated with violence and weapons. He is 21 years old and has been in and out of prison many times. He wrote this piece about the last time he was released.

Soldiering

I got through the gates, I could see my mum and dad in the car.? It is a big moment for all of us. I hadn’t seen my family for four months,? I was lively but I sensed it was complicated.
My dad says, ‘Hello son, good to see you.’ He’s smiling.
My mum doesn’t turn round, she doesn’t look me in the eye. I could hear her tears.

‘What’s up with you, I’m fucking out now!’ I say.
‘I’m all right, just a bit upset,’ she says.
‘Promise me you’ll keep your head down,
I don’t want you going back in there.’ ?I give her a hug, ‘Don’t worry, I’m not!’

But I am imagining the looks on my friends’ faces, my boys.
And me top boy again, back on the scene.
I get dressed and I’m feeling good, bouncing. I’ve got £500 – half of it from the postal orders my mum sent my in jail.
I see my boys. Instantly it was like I’d never been in prison, forgotten.
Now it’s not ‘I’ve changed me ways.’ Its ‘I fucking soldiered it.’ It’s
‘what’s happening?’
The life I live is party time, danger.
I get a gun, I’m eating tomazies, I’m uncontrollable.
‘Can I have some money?’ Every day I do the same: wait for my mum to come home from work, have an argument, get money, go out.

What I’ve put my family through is enough for a lifetime –
I’ve took the piss, robbed them blind.
My mum is good to me.
My mum would give me her last £1.
But she doesn’t influence me. I give her nothing.
I’m a horrible person. I feel so guilty.
When I’m in jail
. That’s when I start thinking.

Prez served nearly a year for prolific fighting when he was 19 years old. Here is his exercise in empathy, a new work in his lexicon: he writes about his girlfriend’s feelings, and explains his own. Only towards the end of his sentence did he write about his childhood.

Her to Him:

You’re my boyfriend, in crime.
The fighting and the drugs are taking over you
. When I see you, crew to crew,
I see my boy rowing and swearing.
You look like a terrorist with a devil inside.

I’m the most important girl in you life
I never again want to see you in a hospital bed.
With a machine plugged in you.
To keep you alive
I want you to stop.
But I know I don’t matter enough.

Him to Her:

Me and my boys we love to fight.
The pain we gain is what we live with
. Love and crime, its all pain.
Love is a pain because the one you love is always on your back
. ‘Don’t do this, don’t do that.
But you are doing it, and at the end of the day
you are going to lose your girl.? Crime is pain, “I love to fight
. Hitting a lad for the first time is lovely.
The pain you gain will be the pain you love
. You’ll have the power.

My knuckles are broken, at first I feel nothing.
Long enough to hit him again
. The pain starts when I am calming down.
And moving my fingers about. And the pain I gain makes me forget the
pain that I bottle up.
All the time, all my life.
The pain has been there inside of me since ever I can remember.

In my body, all over; When my mum was getting knocked about by my
dad.
And then my mum wasn’t giving a fuck about us all
. It was like my dad knocked it out of her

Then I couldn’t trust my mum.
Couldn’t rely on her. I became a devil
. Mum couldn’t control me at all
. I didn’t like pain at that point –
that came later, when I was older, when I was fighting.

Gegs is serving a life sentence for murder. He is 21 years old and a powerful presence on the wing, whose pleasure writing his life story inspired several other young offenders to put pen to paper.

Thug

I’m not a psychopath. I’m a thug. A thug just fight and fights and fights.
I’ve been fighting since I was ten years old, I’ve been carrying knives
since I was 14 years old. I’ve been threatening and terrorizing people.
I like it. But I don’t want to die. And I don’t want other people to die.
My life story is about this. I seek pain, I appreciate pain.
I think about causing pain and being in pain.
The pain I really desire is laughing pain. It relieves me, calms me.
I never want to die, but I love being at risk. And I love surviving.
It gives me a fright: I freeze I don’t flinch,
I stand firm, knowing I’m going to go through something terrible.

Not My Blood

I did not really know what I’d done until the prosecutor stood up and
said, ‘do you plead guilty or not guilty to Section 18?’
Who was this lad? I didn’t know. I still don’t know.
‘Guilty.’ Guilty of what? I didn’t know.

I felt so angry, I was coming down off the drugs, sick, I wanted to throw up, but I didn’t. My head ached, like my brain was loose, banging on my skull. When I closed my eyes I saw red. My fingers were twitching, red; covered in blood, not mine. I couldn’t clench my fist; pain. Somebody else’s, I didn’t know who. My skin was pale, white, very white and rougher than tar.

The man I did not know

A group of lads had stared at us, we held their gaze.
‘Let’s s have it then,’ I said. We were all throwing punches, kicks. I see
black red.
I see a knife in a lad’s hand. I pull my knife from my sock, the knife
plunges into his side.
I don’t know this lad.
I shout, ‘Do you want more?’
I pulled him towards me and slowly trailed the blade across his throat. He
begged for his life. I watched the knife on his throat.

Writing and reading this, I’m feeling sorry for that man. I was affected by his panic.
I decided not to kill him. I buried the knife into his thigh, stood up, spat at the man I didn’t know. My boys said, ‘you’re crazy.’ For nearly killing the man whose name I do not know.

Troublesome

I see the car window, my arm moves back,
My fist is clenched, hits the car window, smash.
Pain shoots up my arm, to my elbow and then to my knuckles.
I spread my fingers and clench my fist again.
It wasn’t stinging pain. It was laughing pain.
I punch again. Every pain I get I start laughing.

Anger is always there, it makes me want to fight. I don’t want to.
So I bring a different kind of pain to me. It gets my anger away…

I hit him and watch him go down, wobbling, wobbling.
I see him run out. I order a pint, the barmaid pushes it over, we both drop
it. We both say sorry.
A girl runs up to me, ‘they’re fighting outside, go and help them.’
A lad comes running at me with a metal bar. I grab my knife from under the pool table, I plunge the knife into him. I pulled the knife out, then the knife goes in.
I heard him shouting, ‘Why are you doing this?’…

I didn’t want to kill him, I just wanted to seriously hurt him. I don’t want to think about this. Writing it puts me in it, in that moment, as if my hand holding this pen is my hand holding the knife…

I feel shady, tight, horrible. Other prisoners say to me, ‘What you in for?’
I tell them what I’ve done. Murder. Their faces light up. Excitement,
they’re talking to a murderer.
I feel nothing, nothing at all.