|
The politics of abuse
I have sworn not to be part of this conspiracy of silence. I took that call when I decided I wanted to be a writer…… Diary of an eight-year-old: "I cannot write, but I can remember. I’m a bright-eyed girl, innocent and trusting of the people I’m told will love me. Everything is new. A new house, new faces..they look friendly, they look like they will love me. My mother says so. I have new clothes, and some new toys. But I’m crying now, because my mother is going away. She’s going away to make a living and I have to understand. This place will be good for me, she says, but I feel good with her. I’m going to be alone. But I have to understand. How can you understand when you want your mother, but have to make do with strangers? I’m scared now. But I’m told to understand. To be brave. To be silent. ************* I remember cowdung floors. It feels rough on my hands, under my head. I lay on the mat and I’m thinking why there’s always hunger gnawing my stomach. Why I’m never full. I have no friends to play, they don’t understand what I speak. I’m learning to communicate, but they look at me like I’m different. I don’t remember missing my mother much. I remember what it feels to be lonely. The strangers have no time for me. But I’m running errands to the market. A small escape to find candy from the nice shopkeeper, an extra bread from the baker, a few coins to buy my own toffee. I have to be nice to these strangers,. They will let me stay in my own house. They tell me my mother writes. I wonder if she knows I’m ok. But, am I ok? ************** I have learnt to go to the garden by myself. It’s not too far from where I live. The swings are broken. The slide rips my dress because the cement is bare and rough. I’m scolded when I return back to the house because the dress is ruined, but I like to sit on the little square up the ladder and watch the cows going home. I like the ting-tong bells around their neck. I remember the church bells at 7 in the evening. I hastily do the sign of the cross when they peal loudly, because God in heaven is watching me. Does he watch me in the darkness too? ************** I do not know what it is to love. Or be loved. The strangers tells me I should learn to be grateful because they are looking after me. The errands multiply. I wake up early to bring them their bread and I’m given one loaf to eat. I walk to school and smile when my poem teacher gives me a chocolate for remembering my poetry and saying it correctly. She’s nice. She hugs me a lot. She sorts out my bag and puts my books in order. And she always encourages me to study, to write neatly, to make my mother proud of me. Is my mother proud of me because I understand? Will she be proud of me if I stay quiet and don’t tell her about the hands in the darkness. But how will I tell her when I do not know how to write? I got two stars for copy writing. I like copy writing and reading pitter-patter raindrops. My teacher says I will sing at the school gathering. *************** I am confused. I am beaten. And then again. It happens everyday. I shut my eyes to shut off the gloom of darkness. I don’t like to sleep on the floor. I like to go to school. I like to go to the broken swings and clang the iron chains loudly against the railing. I like to sit in the little square up the slide and wait for the church bells to ring. The fading skylight throws flame red shadows. The garden is empty, and I feel comfortable. It is the darkness that I don’t like. And what it does to my soul. Will those hands go to hell? Will God drag me there too? But how will he know if I keep silent. If I don’t tell….. ************ The name of Freddy Peats on my tongue makes me want to head to the wash basin. A corruptible man who fed off the bodies and the violated souls of young children looking for love. If ever there is a campaign to have him tortured, slowly, I would back it up forcefully. That we let him operate his gory deeds under the guise of charity for so long, and so openly in Goa, makes me question just how long we will continue to carry our colonial hang-up for the superior white skin. It continues till today, this huge complex we carry on our shoulders that the white skin is somehow superior, more advanced, more knowledgeable and rich. Go to any restaurant on the beach – they (and Goans, mind you) will subserviently attend to the `gora’ first, then the `guanti’ second. Peats was only making hay while the sun shone brightly. But what about the Peats living in our homes? What of them who twist the pure emotion of love to feed their carnal instincts? Sexual abuse of children is a grim fact of life in our society. It is more common than most people realise. It is a truth we have to confront, now that it’s out in the open. No more the code of silence. Or acceptance. Some surveys say that at least one out of five women and one out of 10 men recall sexual abuse in childhood. The fine work undertaken by the CRG (Children’s Rights of Goa) in collecting data with statistical back-up on the problem of child abuse in Goa, is horrific. It is this research that two women film-makers – Deepti Datt and Venita Coelho -- intend to use to produce Goa’s first movie on child abuse and paedophilia (Ajay Noronha successfully attempted one such movie a year ago) through the philosophy that women have to come out and tell their stories – however dark, dirty and dangerous. The conspiracy of silence must be broken, they urge vociferously, so that other women find the strength to tell their stories and create a support network for women wanting to speak. The movie, which rolls in September, seeks to create awareness, making every child and parent vigilant enough to detect future perpetrators of crime. There is an acute need to stop these devils in their tracks. It is to this cause that we must lend support. And to the cause of protecting the childhood of every child under us, in us, in the neighbourhood and in the universe. But first, let us begin by speaking up. No more tears in silence. No more nightmares for having locked our words into cages of forced guilt. A child has no hand in his/her abuse. Same with a woman who finds herself abused, because she chose to love. No man or woman who truly loves, will resort to abuse – physical or emotional. Less said the better of those who abuse the fundamentals of trust. Ethel Da Costa
|
The Goan Forum©
a Boa Vista-Bahamas presentation
The views expressed on this site are ONLY those of the authors. Please contact the authors if you wish to reproduce any of the posts or The Goan Forum to comment upon their content.
