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Thinking through lesbian rape
- Modjaji Books
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A(5,3,46=60*,:-9644@166 Last year, I also had the opportunity to interview a perpetrator of lesbophobic hate crime, a rapist. He gave me much sought-after insight into what motivated his, and perhaps any rapist’s, hate crime. This rare exchange between a black lesbian (and one time potential target of his rage) and a man who made the conscious decision to control lesbian women through rape was not lost on either of us, despite the unplanned and spontaneous nature of our exchange. The following is what “Xolani” (pseudonym) confessed [3.141.24.134] Project MUSE (2024-04-18 18:39 GMT) A(5,3,4630 to me. I use the word confessed here because I neither requested the interview with him, nor prompted him to explain his actions. He simply asked if he could speak to me because he had something on his mind. It happened in 1996 when me and three of my gangsters raped a lesbian friend of ours... We all knew that she was a virgin, but we wanted to prove her wrong – that she was not a man... One day she came to us after school, to hang out like always... We had already planned what we wanted to do... We took turns raping her and told her that if she reported us to the police we were going to kill her family. She did not go to the police as she was scared for her life. I repent for what we did and wish I could apologise to her for what we did. It was just ignorance that led to that brutality.6 As he continued to speak I turned the tape recorder on and listened. What could I say? What I needed to do was process. <57(*205./(;,*904, As I have listened to the life journeys of the women of my community in their struggle to claim and live their identities, I am filled with a deep sense of sadness and respect for them. For a long while now, I have had the need to unpack the very specific acts of sexual violence against the bodies of black lesbian women. I have begun this process with my friend, colleague and writing mentor for the Writing Program, Sabine Neidhardt. Despite coming from very different social backgrounds and experiences, we have each been able to use our unique experiences and knowledge to move beyond simply telling the story of black lesbian rape. I am a Zulu lesbian from the “global South” – Umlazi township outside of Durban to be exact. My political education dates back to watching my mother get up in the early morning hours in the service of 6 The interview between the author and “Xolani” took place in a township outside of Johannesburg. The interview was conducted in Zulu, translated by the author herself. ;/05205.;/96<./3,:)0(59(7, caring for someone else’s children and home. I am an activist, photographer of women, and a reporter within the Gauteng LGBT community. Sabine is a lesbian “whitey” from the “global North”. She became a closet feminist at the age of 8 after she told her father to stop beating her mother, though now, at the age of 30, she works openly as a feminist in the academic hierarchy. This need we both feel for getting beyond telling the stories, has been motivated by our dissatisfaction at the lack of attention paid to the realities of many black lesbian lives. I feel this dissatisfaction with the LGBT and the women’s movement; Sabine feels it within academia. We increasingly recognise that ongoing conversations about differently positioned women’s experiences of violence need to take place inside and outside South Africa between grassroots organisers and intellectuals, between anti-racist, gender rights and queer rights activists. Moreover, we recognise that transnational feminist solidarities are a necessity in order that a politics of decolonisation within women’s and feminist organising, globally and locally, can take place to push us beyond conceptions of rape as violence against the generic category of women. Amina Mama (in Alexander et al, 1997) argues: ... prevailing gender ideologies have much bearing on the types of violence that are manifested in a given context. As such, we believe that as we share the stories of black lesbian realities, we need collectively to begin to interrogate how gender is structured through race and sexuality, and class. Why do we witness black butches contracting HIV from heterosexual men who rape them? Why, in the postcolonial gender trajectory of South African township life, does heterosexual black masculinity appear to be invested in raping black lesbian women? These are important questions we need to ask ourselves. According to many anti-colonial feminists, all patriarchies, whether operating in colonialist or neoliberal capitalist periods, function on “sameness” and on the persistence of fixed identity – heterosexual/homosexual, women/men, femininity/masculinity, black/white, coloured/Indian. They argue that patriarchies must function in this way in order to consolidate masculine dominance within colonial and capitalist processes. Sabine and I would like to [3.141.24.134] Project MUSE (2024-04-18 18:39 GMT) A(5,3,4630 position the lesbophobic rape of black South African women into such a framing of patriarchies, and suggest that it is the disruption of this sameness and the challenge posed by black lesbian women to the fixity of what is an “African woman” (in itself an identity imposed by a colonialist order), that makes non-heterosexual women’s gender, sexual, and erotic autonomy so disturbing. It appears to us that it is this constructed and artificially fixed identity of “African woman” that Xolani and Kid’s rapist need to police and to enforce as they rape lesbians. The rape of black lesbians reconsolidates and reinforces African women’s identity as heterosexuals, as mothers, and as women.7 Amina Mama’s work theorises contemporary violence against women in Africa by linking this violence to the continent’s history of imperialism and colonialism. If we accept, as anti-colonial, antiracist feminists, that colonialism itself was out of necessity a violent and gendered process, we must subsequently trace the current expressions of violence against African women – and black lesbians – back to precisely that period which saw a marked decrease in African and non-white women’s social and political status, and a marked increase in violence, particularly sexual violence, against black female bodies (in Alexander et al, 1997). Consequently, we believe we must look at how western colonialist and imperialist conceptions of heterosexuality and gender, both historically and in the various current postcolonial contexts, have been and are still employed to stabilise racialised and gendered hierarchies. These hierarchies consistently position white heterosexual men at the top of the hierarchy while feminising (which in a heteropatriarchal social order means subordinating) all other identities: non-white men, queers, straight women, butches and so on. To ignore this trajectory is to come dangerously close to treating race, gender, 7 I wish to thank Sabine Neidhardt for her intellectual contributions to this point. My own entry into theorising lesbophobic hate crimes has been informed by the ongoing conversations with Sabine, who is presently researching and writing her dissertation on the politics of (re)heterosexualisation , structural violence and race in post-colonial South Africa. She has also shared with me many of the black feminist and post-colonial texts that have influenced her own thinking. ;/05205.;/96<./3,:)0(59(7, class and sexuality as mutually exclusive categories of experience and analysis that have no historical context to them. We must begin, in other words, to systematically address the intersecting categories and multiple embodied experiences of women. And that will only happen when we speak and listen to differently positioned women, whether heterosexual, lesbian, coloured, transsexual, white or poor. My location as an activist and community worker within the lesbian community of Gauteng allows me to testify to the constant revictimisation that lesbians face after experiencing the trauma of rape. I see first-hand how these women’s sexualities and their genders are questioned and interrogated by police, doctors and the media. I hear my wider African community deny these women the right to live their sexual and gender identities. I know that the rape of black lesbians is a weapon used to discipline our erotic and sexual autonomy. I also can appreciate that the silence within the township lesbian community about lesbophobic rape is partially responsible for the disconnection between these women and those gender rights and feminist activists who work to stop violence against women. However, I wish to extend an invitation to those who work against gender-based violence to come into dialogue with black lesbian women so that we can collectively create the kind of world in which we all feel safe. 9,-,9,5*,: Epprecht M (2001) ‘What an Abomination, a Rottenness of Culture: Reflections upon the Gay Rights Movement in Southern Africa’, in Canadian Journal of Development Studies (XXII), 1091-1107. Gevisser M (2000) ‘Mandela’s stepchildren: homosexual identity in post-apartheid South Africa’, in P Drucker (ed) Different Rainbows, London: Gay Men’s Press. Mama A (1997) ‘Sheroes and Villains: Conceptualising Colonial and Contemporary Violence Against Women in Africa’, in MJ Alexander and CT Mohanty (eds) Feminist Genealogies, Colonial Legacies, Democratic Futures, New York: Routledge. Morgan R (2003) ‘So It is African Although they were Hiding it: Same-sex Sangomas and the Indigenous Oral Archive’, in Comma, 1, 75-82. This article was originally published in Agenda, Vol. 61, 2004 [3.141.24.134] Project MUSE (2024-04-18 18:39 GMT) ...