Female Perpetrators of Sexual Violence

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SHATTERED LIVES: Immediate medical care vital for sexual violence victims. A report by Médecins Sans Frontières. March 2009.

Women can be perpetrators. Male rape survivors have reported being forced to have intercourse with female fighters or guards while in detention. Most of these assaults were committed publicly, to cause humiliation. Even if not involved directly in forced sex, women may play a role as accomplices, facilitating repeated aggression or preventing the violation from being reported.

A form of violence specifically perpetrated against males is forcing them to rape family members, a practice known as forced incest, where both the rapist and the victim suffer the violence. 

 

**English Translation provided Bjarne Kristian Kongsrud http://bristleconeproject.org/men/bjarne-kristian-kongsrud/

Male survivors of childhood sexual abuse, well-known Norwegian actors, filmmakers and Save the Children Norway have collaborated to create a powerful initiative that raises awareness and advocates for societal change.

NORWEGIAN: Dette er historien til en 56 år gammel mann som ble utsatt for seksuelle overgrep og psykisk vold av sin mor. Nicolai Cleve Broch har valgt å gi sin stemme til ham. Seksuelle overgrep mot barn skjer nærmere og oftere enn vi tror. Gutter blir utsatt for overgrep, og kvinner er også overgripere. Alle barn, gutter og jenter, trenger å vite at de har rett til å eie sin egen kropp, sine egne tanker og sine egne følelser. Snakk med barn om retten til å sette grenser

ENGLISH TRANSLATION: This is the story of a 56 year old man who was subjected to sexual abuse and psychological violence by his mother. [The Norwegian actor] Nicolai Cleve Broch has chosen to advocate for him.The sexual abuse of children occurs closer to our lives and more often than we think. Boys are being molested and women can also be perpetrators. All children, boys and girls, need to know that they have the right to protect their own bodies, their own thoughts and their own feelings. Talk to children about the right to set limits. 

 

 

SHOW ME YOUR LIFE is an experimental international art program for pediatric and adolescent males. The program is survivor-led and peer-mentored. Kids explore the tools of art & poetry & storytelling, because their lives depend on being able to communicate and advocate for themselves, and for their peers who have not yet reached a safer place to grow up in.

The Smash Street boys think they are often judged.

Judges themselves do, indeed, judge them.

So do the normals.

These boys scare you.

Often, the Smash Street Boys only think they can’t write.

Sometimes, I will write the words.

But the words arise from inside their guts.

They say them.

I will write them down. I tend to write them the way the words are uttered. Then, I will consult the boy who said them.

We will process the words. The feelings behind the words.

Spelling is irrelevant.

It’s the sound behind the sound we are shooting for. Not a perfection that does not exist.

Word for word. The boys will study what we did.

Sometimes, they will tinker with the text.

The words belong to them.

The rage belongs to them. They are owning it.

They are not as stupid as you might think. Owning it is a process. It has a longitude, and a latitude, but it is not a location.

In time, they will learn to write the words themselves.

But for now.

They just need to scream them.

 

Smash Street Boys Festival, NYC, July 2012

 

damascus

 

talk don’t change a thing/ o it’s fading for ya/ words don’t sink, they swim/ o it’s fading for ya/ the olive clutches of damascus were far but not so far i could not sail away/ speechless cities of the barbarous night strapped against my father’s breast/ we stood there mute for the longest time just watching her dance in her madness further and further away until she was the size of an ovum/ o mama/ daddy/ how can it be a surprise i/ love the people i love/ time coming down/ no sleep at all/ whores and thieves and we’re all going to fall/ my mother’s dancing in her ornaments could suspend reality for a time/ like the light through trees/ you do not believe my life/ it is not what you know/ to me it is just a life/ i lose track of how unusual it is to other people/ i, too, cannot imagine their lives/ freud has his inappropriate list of analogies/ mumbojumbo/ get your sacred sigmund out of my face/ he is diseased by the cold and the smells of mold and fungi in his empty house/ my house was never empty it was filled with hate mostly for me/ he who has stayed forever/ with his copper wings green as a cadillac/ daddy is home from work and he will have you now/ his whores of fish and lipstick on his factory skin and i could smell them out in the cheap perfume of their woolworth stones/ your mind racing as he mauled you in your ten-thousand years of loneliness/ if you so much as made a sound, he would throw you naked into the unforgiving wall/ grab your hair and pound your face into the death of salt with death again and the only time he had ever regarded you with anything like regard was that one time you begged him to kill you — kill me now, daddy — break my skull in this foxhole you give me to live in and there she was/ my mother in her violent robes/ screaming at him to give it to me/ harder/ fuck him in the mouth until he breaks in two/ stands the man whose fists are never finished/ mother, what was wrong with you/ to unleash this whip and there was no home to crawl to/ his withering and i will shut my eyes/ the boy hired for his hours to float like angels above the neon moon and lick daddy clean of deadly dreams, desire, and summer’s tombs, she dances toward the treeline twirling at my fields asleep in blood/ she drank her water from the pond and tortured the torturers’ wounded/ hours with exile from her vacant motherhood of love/ a circumstance of dancing so far apart and falling/ i could only shudder at what flesh was left/ torn down and torn away and torn from the shreds salvaged/ all the letting go and narrowing/ i moved and was living alone somewhere in damascus o/ how can it be a surprise i love/ the people i love/ time coming down/ no sleep at all/ whores and thieves and we’re all going to fall/ talk don’t change a thing/ o it’s fading for ya/ words don’t sink, they swim/ o it’s fading for ya/

 

o damascus/

 

 

 

Rough Whore Blues, a poem by Dane (13)

 

we were the only mother and son team in our building

 

i would fuck her and men would watch

 

jacking off

 

and we would

 

have to swear we were really related

 

and we would speedball

 

mama and i and i would do some tricks on the side

 

but no holding out on mama she knew where i lived

 

in her pussy and her twat so then i started getting

 

public hair so she shaved me cuz shaved was what

 

those tricks wanted

 

and i do not think of myself as no

 

whore but i thoughta her one and she owed money

 

to a dealer fuckingshit so he paid me to beat the cunt

 

off that bitch

 

i hated her and her fucking needles and

 

her crispy creams was all we ever had, you go live

 

in them projects you think it’s so funny boy i knock

 

your motherfucking teeth out your head

 

i hated that bitch

 

but men would pay us to watch me beat her up and

 

i beat her until that rough fucking whore turned

 

blue and if they paid me skank i’ll beat on you

 

so that is why i am a loser punk cutter dope bitch

 

who wants to die

 

with this hiv disease please god i am so tired no

 

speedball can do me right

 

i have been sober a week and i hate it soaking

 

this chill in a thousand blankets

 

no one can get to me or hurt me

 

wrapped up in a thousand blankets

 

 

 

I AM, a poem by Jose (14)

 

I am my mother's cunt.

 

I am that cunt's empty house.

 

I got nothing at Xmas.

 

I am coming out of her cunt to escape her.

 

But she will not leave me alone.

 

She is drunk asleep.

 

She is drunk asleep.

 

I do not want her boyfriend to find me.

 

If they find me I will kill myself.

 

I will not go back.

 

I do not care what a court says.

 

I will not go back.

 

Her boyfriend gave me HIV.

 

Fuck all of them.

 

They made me fuck her.

 

I fucked my own mother.

 

Let her be alone in her empty house.

 

I hope that cunt dies.

 

I will kill myself.

 

I will prove it.

 

This is the first time Kiril has ever worked with video. Kiril does not speak English. This is a short called A Man Arrived. It is dedicated to Kiril’s mother who sold him. Kiril has written many poems. He wrote this one especially for his video.

[English translation by Boris]

Поэзия Кирилла

Для мамы.

Однажды человек пришел.

Мама плакала.

Она продала меня.

У нас не было денег.

Мне пришлось бежать. Я бежал.

Человек поймал меня.

Нехороший пьяный человек.

Я ненавидел его дыхание.

Они  делали плохие вещи со мной

мама.

Ты продала меня. Я побежал быстро.

Дети бегут от мужчин

Бегите, дети,

Спасайтесь! Это было зимой.

Моя мать продала меня.

Сейчас я хочу уснуть

И замерзнуть в снегу.

До этого времени все было покрыто льдом.

 

Poetry by Kiril

for mom


One day a man came.

Mom was crying.

She sold me.

We had no money.

I had to run. I ran.

The man caught me.

This man was mean

and drank vodka.

I hated him breathing. They

do bad things to me, mother.

You sold me. I ran hard.

Children running from men

arriving. Run, children,

escape. It was winter

My mother sold me.

Now I want to sleep

frozen in the snow.

Until recently, it's been ice.

 

 

 

Consultation with the darkness unwilling to sell my soul even for love, by © Carolyn Srygley-Moore

 I am avoiding you, even you, whom I love desperately.

I have asked assistance from the darkness // with this helplessness I feel.

Short sentences do not avail me. The gills of fish. The primate thumb.

Flashes of orange light in the sky show me only that I do not know

a path of certainty. I am married to bats, scallop winged, leathery.

I am married to the yellow moth- lantern that defines them.

     I can teach my daughter nothing about swimming, for I have

so many poor habits. My stroke is strong, but imperfect.

I ask the darkness. The island obeah, with his dolls & pins. His taboos.

We duck into the barroom doorway, though I do not drink

any longer. I smell the scotch as the campy vampire

smells blood on the neck. He chants

they love you they love you they love you

& the snow begins to fall in tremulous

arcs & lines & the white snow begins to fall

& I open my mouth & lean backward

in an oceanic asana & I let it melt where thirst matters most

upon the breast where the heart strokes

as the butterfly strokes in glacier pockets of air.

 

I can teach her to float on her back, looking at suns.

 



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