My usual bus/Metro routine this morning has led me to a story that will stay with me forever. Amina Filali was raped in a street attack in Morrocco. She held off telling her family for two months, but finally broke the news. Her attacker was apprehended and arrested, and there was a court case. The Moroccan penal code, article 475, states that if the victim’s family and the rapist agrees, the victim is forced into marriage with her attacker. The attacker is spared jail, and the girl’s ‘honour’ is restored. This is what happened to Amina. Because the rape had taken her virginity, her family worried she would never be married, and agreed to the union. They were married for just over 5 months. Amina confided in her mother that her husband was regularly beating her, and probably worse, but was advised to ‘counsel patience’. Sounds a bit much for a 16 year old, don’t you think? Well, it was. Amina killed herself on Saturday, by taking rat poison.
The story speaks for itself, and I’m sure anyone with half a conscience reading the articles today are as moved as I am. There have been many comments already about Islam, and general Arab culture- but just to clarify, this ‘Article 475’, is Moroccan law. And whilst it is inextricably linked to the country’s culture, it is not exclusive. There is a similar clause in the Old Testament’s Book of Deuteronomy. So anyone shouting ‘bloody Muslims’, should also be shouting ‘bloody Christians’.
As well as the religious and cultural comments this story will conjure up, it also made me think a lot about sexual equality, and how our world’s ‘progress’ is nowhere near as great as we have been led to believe. Whole cultures surround men, and their contributions to the world. A woman is only deemed successful in her life if she finds a man to marry her, and reproduces. The notion that Amina, who had her virginity taken in a rape, would have been deemed so worthless without a husband that she was forced to marry her attacker, fills me with complete and utter despair. Did she have nothing to offer the world other than her role as a wife to somebody? The extraordinary bravery it took for her to tell her family, knowing the possible reaction, is too much to think about. And all this, because she was a woman. Chastised for being raped, cast aside as tainted, forced to marry her rapist, beaten and abused and then killed, by many things. Recently, a young married woman living in Afghanistan, raped by her husband’s cousin. She was convicted and jailed for ‘forced adultery’.
The level of sexism that exists all over the world today, is scarily huge. And I hate using the word sexism, or chauvinism, because thanks to crappy American legal dramas and over-boisterous office workers, these words now conjure up images of atypical scenarios, none of which fully or accurately describe the actual meaning. The range is massive, and the little things anger me too. Being paid less than male counterparts, although it seems this little trick is mainly hidden by the golden rule- ‘don’t discuss your wages at work’. Being constantly patronised about cars, sport, anything practical, and the response if I question their views? ‘What are you, some sort of feminist?’, as if that’s bad thing! And granted, I don’t know a lot about cars of certain sports. But that’s not because my female brain is incapable of understanding these complex ideas, it’s because I’ve never gone away and learnt about them. I wonder if it wasn’t for the way little girls are conditioned into playing with pink barbies and stuff, would I have learnt a wider range of skills as an adolescent? I think the answer is yes.
I’m not a man hater, in fact, I live with one. I cook, clean and scowl, but so does he. And not because I set fire to my bra and stand on the sofa and announce ‘I am an independent woman, and I refuse to cook you dinner, you oppressive phallic dictator!’, but because we look after each other, and we’re both considerate. Why do I feel the need to explain that? Because there still always seems to be this undercurrent of antiquated thoughts, ‘you should be providing for your man’, and ‘housework is for the woman’. HILARIOUS Facebook pages announcing days like ‘A steak and blow job’ day. If your girlfriend caved into this, I feel sorry for you as a man. Once a year? Oh dear for you.
Best finish up with a montage section. Fucking strip clubs, jesus christ. Prostitution. Advertising. The media in general, and lucky you if you have testicles- it’s all designed to please you. We women are subservient to your needs. Feeling the need to watch girls dance in their underwear with your boyfriends? Come to this club and leer and stick money in their pants. Feeling lonely, horny and want to throw decency out of the window? Visit a hooker. Tragic, meaningless sex, and you don’t have to worry about things like, oh I don’t know, respecting people. Come buy this bra, it’ll make you more attractive, and you’ll probably get that promotion. Wear this war paint, boys will want to kiss you. Don’t read this book, men will find you intimidating and then nobody will EVER marry you. Fucking reality TV shows, Essex, Chelsea, Northern tripe, with their pouty lips and vacant eyes. Whether I like it or not, these girls are becoming role models. Would it hurt them to mention anything of any worth once in a while? Education, health? No. They are actually marketing themselves, and making money out of, ACTING STUPID. Thanks for contributing girls, way to represent.
I’m so angry today because people like Amina didn’t have any chances. Their choices do not exist, their rights have been taken away, and they are not free. They are not physically shackled, but they are slaves. I have choices, so many! And you do too. So please, for fucks sake, make it count.
Hello,
My name’s Bryony Taylor, I’m 26 years old and from a little town called Nuneaton. I’ve worked with Matt Croxall a few times in my local area, and am constantly amazed by his dedication and fundraising efforts.
After sharing this rash awareness link on Facebook and twitter, I decided to try and tell our story.
As well as always being slightly confused about how meningitis symptoms are described (not necessarily in order of importance or severity), I would also like to highlight the fact that it can strike anytime, anywhere and kill people of ANY age. Which leads me to our story.
Simon Peter Taylor is my Dad. He was born in 1961 into a large family. He worked hard at school, and graduated from Warwick university. He went on teach English and PE in Nuneaton, and eventually in his later years migrated into financial services. During this time, he met my Mum, Juliet. They got married and had two beautiful (ahem) children, myself and my younger brother Ryan. Our family was incredibly close, and we had a wonderful, wonderful life. Dad bleached his hair blonde in his late 30’s, much to our amusement- my parents always seemed so young to me. They would even venture ‘down town’ on a Friday night, and would come back giggling like teenagers. They were both fit and healthy and happy.
My Dad died on the 22nd November 2005, aged 44, approximately eight hours after being diagnosed with Meningococcal septicemia. Just like that. I hadn’t long been moved out of home, I remember ringing him on Monday evening to check in. He’d sounded tired, and we were shocked to discover he’d actually put the central heating on (he was a bit like that!). After my Mum came home from work, Dad got poorly. I wasn’t there, I think I’d gone to see a Wallace and Gromit film at the cinema, I still can’t bear to watch it to this day, so a lot of this is second hand, from my Mum. He was displaying flu symptoms, fever, sickness, tummy upset, but perhaps most importantly, pain in his hands and feet. His fever got worse, until he was pretty out of it. Mum followed her gut instinct that this wasn’t just the flu, and phoned our GP out of hours service. We were told to ‘sponge him down’ to reduce fever. I can only imagine how difficult that night was for my Mum and my brother. It wasn’t until the morning, Mum noticed a rash. Things went very quickly from there. She called for an ambulance, and the paramedics came. Initially, they refused to take him, citing ‘severe flu’. But after taking his blood pressure, he was raced off to hospital. My Mum called me as she was leaving, and I reached the hospital before the ambulance did. I was so confused, my first thought was heart attack/stroke, he was in his 40s after all. Like a lot of other people’s experiences, the next few hours are very blurry. Waiting rooms, being told it was meningitis, Mum telling us Dad ‘didn’t look very well’ (by this point, the well known rash had spread to his face and chest), doctors handing Mum his jewellery.
He was taken to intensive care, and we followed behind quickly. They wanted to put him to sleep, because he was getting tired, and we asked to see him before they did it. I don’t know what I was expecting? Sleepy, bit of a rash? Needless to say, it’s not a memory I cherish. I think all this had happened before about 10am. Again, more blurriness- ringing relatives, not knowing if they should come, holding his hand. At one point, he got a little better. But then he died, at 5pm.
Reading back though this, it must be awful for anyone to read. But this is meningitis in reality. The current campaigns that point towards the »RASH«, are well meaning but sometimes without merit. The rash presenting itself is such a late symptom of this disease, and once it appears- the effects are too often irreversible. I strongly feel that more emphasis should be placed on early, initial symptoms. My Dad did not have ‘meningitis’ as such- no stiff neck, or photosensitivity. But the cold/painful hands and feet are a very early sign of septicemia.
I understand as well as anybody, that it’s a very difficult disease to diagnose early- but surely raising awareness of early symptoms and warning signs for both meningitis and septicemia, can only lead to good things. We can make a difference.
What a year it was. Things were done, by everyone, and things were said. We made mistakes. There were good times, bad times and all the stuff inbetween. I must have replayed it all in my head over a million times. Total humiliation felt inevitable for a long time.
And I’m not quite sure what’s happened, or how it happened, but everythings actually ok. More than ok, it’s better. So much better. Everyone worried, and so did I. But I did the right thing and being the exception is a lovely feeling.
One of my secret NY resolutions to myself was to try and worry less. Realistically, that’s not going to happen, because, well; it’s me. But there are certain things that I won’t worry about anymore, and it’s a massive weight off my shoulders. Things seem to have clicked, and without tempting fate, I can’t imagine them ‘unclicking’ any time soon. I’ve realised that I sometimes feel embarassed if I’m happy, especially if I think people might find out about it. I spend an utterly ridiculous amount of time worrying about what other people think of me.
But, I’m discovering that contentment does a pretty good job at speaking over all the other stuff. It’s my favourite thing to listen to.
I’m conscious of drawing attention to it on this day more than any other, because really- every day is the same. Birthdays/anniversaries/special days, I talk about it and update my status not so much because it’s on my mind, but more because I know it’s on others peoples minds. And if there’s ever a day to guilt you into appreciating your parents, today is one of those days. I suppose I want to say, just because I’m sad, it doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate all the people that aren’t. I love reading and hearing about all the things you do, and the nice things you say- because that’s how it should be!
I feel like I’m in two halves. One half is saying ‘look at what I have lost! If you moan about your Dad/Mum one more time, I’m going to smash your ungrateful, selfish face in’, and the other half… Ok there is no other half. That’s just how it is.
I think the older you get, the more you realise your parents are just people. They were just bobbing along, they didn’t have any plans, they were just like us. Stuff just happens, and you do the best you can with what you have. I know people who have/had great parents, shit parents, parents die, leave and probably worse. But they’re just people, they have the same propensity to fuck up just as much as we do. But to be fair, I think we have all turned out ok. And that’s a testament to your Mum/Dad or both.
Except the dying bit, I’ve been extremely lucky. I had a brilliant childhood and wonderful, wonderful parents. I was spoilt, but also taught the value of earning money. I never really wanted for anything. And that’s what makes the knotted feeling in your stomach bearable to a point. Because if it wasn’t that great, it wouldn’t hurt so much when it was gone. I don’t mind carrying that around, because this feeling is worth it for the twenty years I got with my Dad. Some people aren’t so lucky.
This isn’t meant to sound like a sob story. It’s just, today is a pretty good excuse to just do something nice for your Mum or Dad. Or your Nan. Or your Aunty. A parent doesn’t have to be a parent, to be a parent…if you catch my drift.
So I’ll go to sleep now, thinking of my Mummy and Daddy, and all the happy times. And you should all do the same.
My Simon Peter Taylor 10/02/1961- 22/11/2005
I want to talk to you about different coloured things. We have all these choices, you see. Wednesday, Friday, Saturday or even Sunday? Stay in and buy coloured stuff to ingest or go out and spend a great deal more on more varied coloured stuff?
There’s all this stuff to choose from. Do you want pink stuff that burns your eyes, or do you want brown stuff that people drink by the PINT even though they’re not particularly thirsty? You can even buy clear stuff (so I’ve heard) that doesn’t taste or smell like anything. But it does the job apparently.
And then you are absolutely and totally judged on this coloured thing, how much you consume, how you consume it, how well you metabolise it. Consume too little, (‘heavy one last night’) and be prepared to be met with a chorus of boos and these people who were your ‘friends’ five minutes ago have turned into coloured things dealers. They want you to ingest. They chant for it. Hell, they BUY you things. Maybe it makes them feel less pointless. But then, consume too much- (‘excuse shir, can you ‘elp me? I’ve drank my weight in blue/brown/green stuff and I can’t feel the floor’) and be prepared to be met by a fanfare of approval. People will pat you on the back, they’ll tell you they love you, that you’re a legend- they’ll probably want to buy you more coloured things, just to see what’ll happen to you. And if you vomit over yourself/others, it’s like Mardi Gras. Never has there been more appreciation for involuntary expulsion of stomach contents.
But then where do you end up? The same place as everyone else. No, not Reflex sillys. You end up at home, in bed if you’re lucky. Last nights clothes strewn over room/house smelling like coloured stuff and smokey sticks. Usual best brand late night chicken box upside down, a greasy coffin. Your wallet is surprisingly empty, you have a receipt for a cash machine withdrawl at 2:08am which can’t be good at all. You’re probably alone because the coloured stuff turned you from a funny, witty person into a rambling, sweaty pervert. Or, an arguement started with your partner in the taxi about a chicken nugget. It went on for five hours, and you both eventually decided in your coloured dazes to go your seperate ways as the chicken nugget thing was actually a sign that you two had ‘serious problems’. You’ve tried to type in your phone what the row was about, because you knew at the time, it was the most important thing ever. But now you can’t seem to remember. And now you kind of miss them and want a cup of tea.
But don’t feel too down. Because when you go back to work, you’ll get to share coloured stuff stories. How much you consumed, how much you didn’t, how many £ you spent on coloured stuff, how well you metabolised it, did it make you ill? The winner is always the person who has ingested the most, over the longest period of time, who has the least money in their account and who did the most shameful/disgusting thing.
Good times, right?
Well! I’m on a bit of a journey I think. Some ups and some downs, but more ups I’m pleased to report. The swimming thing didn’t really take off (fascinating, I know), but I reckon I’ve found something better- angry kitchen dancing. My new routine involves dancing in my kitchen to my favourite songs in the world for about forty minutes after work. I really can’t recommend it enough! I suppose it helps if you live alone, especially if you feel the need to do it in your pants. Just sayin’. It’s bloody great and clears your head of work and other shit. You know they say- dance like no ones watching? I think it’s better if you imagine LOADS of people watching. Oo-err. Another thing. It started out as a funny facebook update, but it sort of rings true. Note to self- must stop presuming everyone thinks like me. I just assume everyone is as kind as me (slightly ego-ish, I know), but maybe I need to stop being so naive. There’s no point stopping being nice, because that’s stupid. But maybe I get myself upset about stuff because I can’t understand why everyone else isn’t so nice! Am I babbling? Yeah so anyway, try the dancing thing. It’s fun. And even though I dance like a massive spaz, it doesn’t really matter. What else? Nothing, I guess. I’m off to make dinner and drink tea. Decided to take it easy in the week from now on, need more sleep. Au revoir Shosanna, au revoir!
Making the same mistakes over and over again and expecting a different outcome each time. Clever bloke, wasn’t he?
When my Mum was very sad once, I suggested she get her own theme tune. You know, a song you sing in your head to get you through the day. She chose the Bear Necessities from The Jungle Book. It worked, because she got less sad and then got married. I take full credit for this. Recently, my theme tunes have been more demotivational than Disney, if you catch my drift. I’m talking things like:
• Al Green- How do you mend a broken heart? • The Beatles- Yesterday • And that All by myself song, I think it’s Celine Dion.
However! This morning, I woke up with Twista- Sunshine, in my head. YouTube it if you’re too cool to know it. The sun was shining, and I woke up feeling pretty great. Work was work, but like most things in life, it’s much more enjoyable if you’re a little bit happy inside. I came home not counting down the hours until sleep, but anticipating the evening ahead. Theo and I took a walk to collect Lisa, and walked the canal way. It’s like being on holiday, dog walkers smile their knowing smiles at you, and people on boats wave at you like they’ve known you for years. Lisa and I put the world to rights with tea and too many cigarettes. I saw my brother too, which was nice. All in all, it wasn’t a particularly special day. Except it kind of was special, because it was lovely. Not fantastic or ground breaking, but lovely all the same. And I’m quite pleased with that.
Today was shit. My brain will just not shut up, or leave me be. I woke up to a declaration of love from a very good friend of mine (mind your own), and it threw me a bit. Plus, I hate hurting peoples feelings. I hope we can just get past it, after all- we are sort of in the same boat.
I fear this post is going to be super emo, so if I’ve already cried on you in the past two weeks, then look away now, because I want a whinge. I’m a sharer. I like to share things. Evenings, weekends, meals, laughs, jokes, kindness, love etc. I thought I’d found someone to share all these things with, like, forever. I’m not ashamed or embarassed to admit I put my heart into it. What other way is there to be? I think when someone decides that they don’t want to do that with you, they don’t want to share their time with you anymore- it’s an awful, awful feeling. And for those of you scoffing at the screen and saying ‘just get over it’, don’t worry, I will. I know bajillions of people have been through it and they are all fine. I know it’s not the end of the world. But, I just want to say, once, for today- I am NOT ok. I feel sick and tired, and my dreams are full of the way it used to be. Everyone says I should be angry, but I’m not there at all. I just feel totally exhausted, used up. And I’ve never been one of these girls who can just go and put it about to make myself better. I could try, but I think I’d be more unhappy than I am right now. It’s shallow, and not what I want in the slightest. I despise coming home to an empty house (no offence Theo), and there’s only so many times I can ring my Mum to tell her about my day. Life is for sharing, and all I’ve ever wanted since I was little (I blame my Mum and Dad for being so happy) is to get dead happy with someone and have a big family. This may seem silly to some, but not to me. I think the whole point is, you could have the shittest job and house in the world, but if you come home everyday to someone who loves you as much as you love them- the rest is just background noise. Pretty gay, right?
I’ve been happy to work an OK job these past few months, because I was always so happy to get home. And now it kind of feels like I have nothing (apart from friends and family of course). I still can’t get my head around any of it, and I just feel really sad about it. Everyone has been so great, and you all talk so much sense. I’m not going to top myself or anything, or wallow for years and years. It’s just today, I want to be sad and to feel sorry for myself because I’ve always been nice and tried very hard- and this is fucking shit.
I hope you’re all suitably depressed. I’m off to watch shit telly on my own and eat cold pizza. Tomorrow I will be back to pretending like everything is fine again, and may blog a joke or something. Bet you can’t wait! Seriously, sorry for the moaning, but I think you have to write these things as if no one will ever read them (and they probably won’t after this avalanche of angst.)
I can’t sleep. Nothing to do with the fact I napped earlier, and I’m quite hungover.
I’ve always thought these things were a bit gay, and it probably is, but it also feels quite cathartic if you know what I mean. And it beats updating my Facebook every five minutes. Essentially, since I was about 17, I have been bobbing along quite smugly thinking I had it all figured out. Turns out, I don’t at all and am not feeling too smug at the moment!
My problem is, I’m a hopeless romantic. Hopeless being the main thing to take from that saying. Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be an Emo blog, no poems I swear. I’ve always had this unrealistic view of love, and it goes something like this. I bump into a guy in the street, instantly I know he is charming, kind and funny. He thinks the same of me. He picks me and swings me round, and mid-swing- a beautiful ring magically levitates itself onto my finger and at the same time I am instantly impregnated with a perfectly formed foetus who is moral yet a genius. All of this happens to bird song and rainbows form in the sky. We walk hand in hand back to our perfect house and live happily ever after. We only argue about who loves each other more, and our spare time is spent looking into each other eyes and reading in the park. Crap like that. Do you see my problem? It’s not like I’m not grateful for what I have. I have a house, a job and am disease free. I know all this. It’s just… I want a bit more, you know?
That aside, I have had a lovely five days with some lovely people. I’ve tried to explain it, but I don’t think I’ll ever be to vocalise how grateful I am to some people for making a place for me again. I’ve been pretty lazy this past year, and haven’t made enough of an effort with a lot of people. I hope this weekend has gone some way to making amends for all that.
I’m not really sure what to do next, but who does? I need a hobby I think. Something that doesn’t involve my iPhone or watching telly. I’m thinking swimming. So, I’ll get up, go to work, go swimming, walk the mutt, go to sleep and hopefully see friends and people I love inbetween. Sounds like I plan, I hear you cry.
Yeah, ok, I’ll do that. And just see what happens I guess. I wonder what tomorrow will bring?