Many commentators reminded us on Monday afternoon, and well into the evening, that we would have to accept the judgement in the Jacob Zuma case. It is not as if we have much choice. The judgement is a fact.
After what Zuma had said about how women ask for sex and rape in their manner of dress, after his ugly and convenient use of culture against African women and after he had set public discourse on HIV/Aids back a decade, there were ululations in some streets. In the aftermath of weeks where the second most powerful man in the country accepted women- hating support with a public smile, some leaders attacked as ”opportunists” people who had spoken in advance of the verdict.
But what do we think, and what do we do? Shortly after the judgement, many women I know left work early, feeling too fragile to pretend nothing had happened; some of us paused in the middle of deadline-chasing to rein in our emotional chaos. All the while, women I had seen stand up unflinchingly to the fiercest forces surrendered to voices that cracked mid-conversation, and SMSed their despondence.
A woman passionate about her country, who speaks constantly of our glorious transformation, of the creative energy and collective goodwill, asked, ”What the hell do I defend now? How do I defend a country that tells me constantly how much it hates me as a black woman?” Another, who had previously taken up arms and pen in defence of her country-folk, wrote, ”I have not been able to move since I heard the judgement,” and another still: ”What do we celebrate on the 10th anniversary of the Constitution? What do we mark on the ninth of August?” The most hopeful came from a sister who insisted that ”those of us who love freedom must find another way in the midst of the blatant hatred”.
These responses reflected what I’d heard from women whose names I do not know: the two young women at the bookshop who spoke of how ashamed the entire trial made them feel and the woman at the supermarket who worried aloud about her daughters. Most of these women were not surprised by the judgement or the condescending manner of its delivery. That did not make the rage and pain any less raw.
Perhaps we had all continued to hope against reason that there would be some acknowledgement, no matter how small, of what it means to live under the siege we do as South African women. We had allowed ourselves to believe, however naively, in the Constitution that says we matter, even as we witness rampant misogyny.
Mostly, the case has left me with a spate of unanswered questions about how to live my life in a democracy that wages an unacknowledged war against those who look like me. I wonder what to tell my daughters, nieces and younger sisters about a legal system that tells them at every turn they do not matter. How do I, in good conscience, advise another woman to lay charges when she is raped or sexually harassed, after Makhaya Ntini, Benedict Vilakazi and Zuma?
In the midst of this madness, I value the voices of Redi Direko, Nomboniso Gasa, Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela, Pregs Govender, Phylicia Oppelt and Gail Smith. I am reassured by the principled black men who spoke out loudly against the misogyny, who courageously rejected hatred spoken in their name. Perhaps there is hope for our sons, nephews and younger brothers in the faces and hearts of such imperfect courageous men: Barney Pityana, Njabulo Ndebele, Justice Malala and Tembile Yako.
In this country, where so much is made of how far we have come, I am saddened that on the day on which we celebrated the anniversary of our Constitution, on this year of the 50th anniversary of the most amazingly visible collective ”NO” by women, a woman who dared lay rape charges against a powerful man may be exiled from her country. I feel sadder still that more women will endure secondary rape in courts across this land as our Parliament further stalls the Sexual Offences Bill.
While we were told repeatedly, by the kind of men the media love to ask for opinions, that we should accept this judgement, it is interesting to note their silence on the high numbers of black women that suffer ”curative” rapes or who are killed because they are lesbians. Or the women that are raped and sexually harassed in the organisations they lead. I wonder what they think we will do except continue to bleed on the streets we pay taxes to maintain. Perhaps now we will do more and very differently; perhaps we will sculpt new tools to defend ourselves against the status quo they uphold, and against them.
Pumla Dineo Gqola is extraordinary associate professor of English literature at the University of the Western Cape. She writes in her personal capacity