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
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
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]
Однажды человек пришел.
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
Ты продала меня. Я побежал быстро.
Дети бегут от мужчин
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
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.