Shame on me

This week I read a blog post about rape. It was not the first time, it probably won't be the last. It is part of being a feminist. I have to inform myself about what I want to fight against. Sexual violence is certainly one of the hardest realities women have to face; it is something I must contribute to eradicating. Thus I must know about it.

This week's episode of story-about-rape-induced-depression was particularly hard, though. Usually, I can recover after a few hours, but I have been emotionally down ever since I made myself read that full article. I couldn't figure out exactly why, until a few minutes ago. And the realization of the reason was very chilling for me. I was blaming that woman. Without realizing, I was trying to figure out, this whole time, why she chose to put herself in those situations where she was raped. I was, plain and simple, victim-blaming. Something in my mind blocked my usual solidarity to victims of rape, something related to my judgement of the correctness of her choices.

That is when I got really down.

I spend hours upon hours reading about anti-racist feminism and critical social sciences. I know about victim blaming, I know about the dynamics of privilege and about patriarchal institutions that undervalue women. And yet bigotry was my default reaction in the face of that very sad story, whose author had the courage to share, whose content I have no right to judge. I should know better. I failed my own principles.

It is not her fault. Of course it is not. And that is not any more true just because I acknowledge it now. It has never been her fault, nor any other victim of rape's fault. I don't have the right to ignore the responsibility of the rapists, and of patriarchy's role on shaping them. I failed because I was not courageous enough to just shut up my selfish judgement about this woman's choices. Because I let myself default to the normal mainstream response to all rape victims.

I should know better.