War Time Rapes.

War time rapes have never been limited to any particular era or part of the world. In ancient times, it was used as a reward to the champion. In more modern times, it became a random phenomenon mostly controlled by the local regime .

One might think as time proceeded, humans rights became more pronounced, thus this phenomenon would have subsided. Shockingly, in this most modern era, rapes are done more systematically. If you look at the statistics from wars that occurred, during the 20th century, in different countries around the world , you will see that rapes were done in a very organized way and mostly with a motive. Nazis raped Jews; Japanese raped Chinese; Americans raped Vietnamese; Serbians raped Bosnians. Sri Lankans, Kashmiris, Bengalis, Burmese, Somalians, Ugandans...the list can go on for ever. You can get a whole list along with years at this link: http://www.religioustolerance.org/war_rape.htm

I never really understood how a woman might feel after she has been raped: what goes through her mind, what does she think in private, what new fears does she have, does she have feelings or what happens to her inner self, untill I read Vagina Monologue, written by Eve Ensler. Again this is a book, I picked up while lazily gazing through the shelves of the public library, looking for "something" to read. I thought, naughty sounding title; being naughty myself, I went for it. I felt very very naughty reading it too, in the public with people walking past me all the time, till I reached this chapter called: My vagina was My Village. It made me cry. Sitting on a small plastic stool, in that narrow alley, with stacks of books towering over me on both sides, I struggled to control my tears.

Before I proceed, let me give a brief introduction about the book. This book is a collection of monologues with various women across the world and how they related to their vaginas. Among the women, some were raped, some were sexually abused in childhood, some embrassed their sexuality completely, and some were even angry at their vagina. She used to ask them, "If you are given a choice to name your vagina, what would you name it?". There are chapters that would make you laugh like crazy, some makes you blush, but some will make you cry like a baby.

So, someday, when you are feeling open minded and naughty, like how I felt that day, pick it up and read it, I am sure it'll take you by surprise. If not, go to YouTube, there is a whole series done by SFSU. Oh yeah, the one and only San-Francisco!!!

The chapter, My Vagina was My Village is based on the testimonies of a Bosnian women, who was gang raped by soldiers. Of course, since then, the topic: war time rapes, horrifies me. But its the way its written that left me dazed. Somethings makes you feel so heavy at heart, you can hardly express it. Rather than talking more about it, I'd say read it yourself and tell me: did it make you feel, how it made me feel??

An extract from the book, The Vagina Monologues written by Eve Ensler, a playwright and feminist.

In 1993, when I returned to New York after spending 2 months interviewing the Bosnian women refugees in Pakistan and Croatia, I was in a state of outrage. Outraged that 20,000 to 70,000 women are being rapped in the middle of Europe, as a systematic tactics of war, and no one was doing anything to stop it. I couldn't understand it. One of my friends asked me, why are you surprised. Over 500,000 women are raped every year in this country, and in theory we are not at war.

This monologue is based on one women’s story. I wanted to thank her for sharing it with her. I was in awe of her spirit and strength, as I was in awe with every woman I met who survived these terrible atrocities in the former Yugoslavia. This piece is for the Women in Bosnia.

Chapter: My Vagina was my Village.

My vagina was green, water soft pink fields, cow mooing, sun resting, sweet boyfriend touching lightly with soft piece of bland straw.

There is something between my legs. I do not know what it is. I do not know where it is. I do not touch. Not now. Not anymore. Not since.

My vagina was chatty, can’t wait, so much, so much saying, words talking, can’t quit trying, can’t quit saying, oh yes, oh yes.

Not since I dream there’s a dead animal sewn in down there with thick black fishing line. And the dead animal smell cannot be removed. And it’s throat slit and its bleeds through all my summer dresses.

My vagina singing all girls songs, all goats bells ringing songs, all wild autumn fields songs, vagina songs, vagina home songs.

Not since the soldiers put a long thick rifle inside me. So cold, the steel rod canceling my heart. Don’t know whether they’re going to fire it or share it through my spinning brain. Six of them, monstrous doctors with black masks shoving bottles up me too. There were sticks and the end of a broom.

My vagina swimming river water, clean spilling water over sun bathed stones over stone clit, clit stones over and over.

Not since I heard the skin tear, and lemon screeching sounds, not since a piece of my vagina come off in my hand, a part of the lip, now one side of the lip is completely gone.

My vagina: a live wet water village. My vagina my hometown.

Not since they took turns for seven days smelling feces and smoked meat, they left their dirty sperms inside me. I became a river of poison and pus and all the crops died, and the fish.

My vagina a live wet water village.
They invaded it. Butchered it and burned it down.
I do not touch now.
Do not visit.
I live someplace else now.
I don’t know where that is.