| | | The California Senator on why the GOP bill is terrible for women, and more. | | | | | | | | | |  | | | | June 27, 2017 | Letter No. 92 | | | | | | | | | | | | Dear Lennys,
Superficially, I seem pretty cynical. I think anyone who crows constantly about their amaaaazing spouse is probably having an affair; I bet you anyone who spends many hours perfecting their Instagram photos is probably trying to sell you something (usually detox teas and/or "healing oils"). But deep down, I want to believe that most people are acting in good faith. I believe this even about people I disagree with on issues that I am passionate about, like abortion rights.
The absolute cruelty of the Senate Republicans' health-care bill really punches my inner Pollyanna right in the face. Besides the fact that their bill would reportedly cap funding for chronically ill children and probably bankrupt their families, and it will kick your grandma out of the nursing home, the part I find most galling is that the thirteen allegedly "pro-life" men who drafted the bill specifically took away the mandatory maternity coverage that was part of Obamacare, to the tune of an estimated thirteen million pregnant women becoming uninsured.
I would be wallowing at the bottom of the pit of despair were it not for advocates like Senator Kamala Harris, who we are so thrilled to have fighting for women's lives in the Senate, and just as honored to have in Lenny. She reminds us that we all need to stand up together and rage against this petty, garbage bill — which will not only take maternity coverage away from a lot of women who need it, it will also keep women on Medicaid from getting their health care at Planned Parenthood.
So along with the great Senator Harris, we are urging you to do whatever you can to push back. Start by calling your senators, especially if you live in Alaska, Nevada, West Virginia, Maine, Ohio, Colorado, or Louisiana and have a vulnerable Republican in office who may be persuaded to vote against the bill (here's a handy list with their phone numbers). Here's a list of other Republican Senators who haven't expressed support for the bill — you should call them, too. Hell, here's every damn Senator's phone number, go crazy. Here's a script from Indivisible about what you might tell your senator if you get one of their staffers on the horn.
It's not maudlin to say that people will die if this bill is passed, because they will. I might not have faith in the decency of the opposition anymore, but I have faith in you to act.
xo,
Jess Grose, Lenny editor in chief | | | | | | | | | | | | The Senate Health-Care Bill Would Be Absolutely Terrible for Women | | | | By Senator Kamala D. Harris | | |
I was thrilled when Lenny Letter first asked me to write about the Senate health-care plan. But then I realized — how do you write about a bill hardly anyone has seen?
See, for six weeks, thirteen Republican senators — all men — wrote a health-care bill in secret. Several senators complained that even as members of the health-care working group they hadn't seen the legislation. The bill they crafted would affect the lives of nearly every American and restructure one-sixth of our economy. But unlike the authors of the Affordable Care Act (known as the ACA), who held more than 100 hearings over the course of a year, the proponents of this health-care plan held no hearings, engaged in no debate — nothing. Radio silence.
Then, last Thursday, they released the bill just a week before they wanted us to vote on it. That's barely enough time to print out the bill, let alone read it and discuss it with experts and constituents. But even with only a few days to review this proposal, one thing is very clear:
The Senate Republican health-care plan is, as the young people might say, a "hot mess." It's every bit as bad as the harmful bill passed by the House in May, and it would be nothing short of a disaster.
I'm a big believer that we should always show the math on these issues. So let's go through the ways the Senate health-care bill would make Americans worse off. And there are a lot of them.
Just yesterday, we learned that 22 million more Americans would be uninsured over the next decade including 15 million Americans next year. This bill would take away health care from millions of Americans. People who have insurance won't anymore. They'll end up in the ER, probably sicker and more costly to treat.
It would raise costs for middle-class families and seniors.
It would cut hundreds of billions from Medicaid, which — many folks don't realize — doesn't only help low-income Americans afford health care but also pays for everything from treatment for substance abuse to support for children with special needs.
And — not surprising when certain senators question why men should even be paying for mammograms — this bill would be absolutely terrible for women.
For starters, it makes it so women on Medicaid, young and old, can't go to Planned Parenthood clinics for health care. And about half of the 2.5 million patients Planned Parenthood sees every year rely on Medicaid.
The bill also gets rid of the ACA requirement that insurance companies cover certain essential health benefits. Many of these benefits — like maternity care and birth control — specifically help women.
And what about people with preexisting conditions? If certain states take advantage of a loophole in the Republican plan, insurers won't be required, like they are now, to cover your birth control or maternity care if you become pregnant, which means you'd have to pay extra to have that coverage. In my home state of California, that could mean a "pregnancy tax" of more than $1,000 a month.
Confronted with this catastrophic health-care proposal, all of us have a choice. It's a little like the choice Diana faces in Wonder Woman, which I saw a few weeks ago and loved. Do we steer clear of the troubles of the world? Or do we join the fight?
For me, the answer is easy: Join the fight. Make your voices heard. Because this is not a drill.
Actually, we've seen this movie before. Back in March, Republicans in the House of Representatives made their first attempt to pass their own draconian health-care bill. And what happened? The American people pushed back — hard. Congressional offices were flooded with calls, letters, and emails unlike anything anyone had seen before. Support for the House bill collapsed. The Speaker of the House, Paul Ryan, chose not to even bring the bill to the floor for a vote.
This week, we have a chance to defeat it again. And every one of us needs to speak up and speak out.
If your senator opposes the bill, thank them and ask them to continue doing everything possible to stop it. Reach out to friends in states with senators who are still on the fence. Maybe even have some tough conversations with friends or family members who oppose the bill about the actions they should take to make sure it gets defeated.
If your senator supports the bill or is undecided, explain how this bill will impact you or your loved ones. Tell your story. Tell them that if they vote for people to lose their health care, they should — and will — lose their jobs.
Be persistent, be passionate, and be persuasive.
In recent weeks, I've sat in some Senate hearings that called for seriousness and critical analysis. But some have suggested those moments instead called for "courtesy."
Well, I disagreed then and I disagree now.
If this health-care proposal becomes law, it could literally have life-or-death consequences for families. This vote represents an inflection point for our country.
So this is not a time for courtesy. This is a time for courage.
Kamala D. Harris represents California in the United States Senate. | | | | | | | | | | | | Lena Gets Real with Janet Mock | | | | By Janet Mock | | |
It was the first time we had met IRL. We had spent months exchanging DMs and emails after reading one another's memoirs. I sat nervously across Lena, who was at ease, completely herself. I admit that I was trying my best not to side-eye her as I wondered why the hell this white girl from HBO wanted to break bread with me.
I had admired Lena from afar, deeply envious of her consistent productivity, from Tiny Furniture and Girls to her best-selling book and her New Yorker essays. Still, the headlines documenting her public fuck-ups often times overshadowed her work. But Lena eventually disarmed me largely by being herself — open, eager to do well, and more willing than most to own her shit, shut up and listen, learn, and aim to do and be better.
In the end, though, she's just a good friend. Lena's the first to send a congratulatory text, the first to like your glowing Instagram selfie, the first to lend you her exclusive VIP shopping-discount codes. Over the past three years, we've grown into the kind of friends who swap gossip and Rihanna updates and the kind who check and challenge one another.
Lena and I have never spoken publicly about our relationship — partly because most of my followers cannot stand her — but largely because it's ours. It's something we hold close as women who do much of our work under the public's gaze. And yet, Lena is the executive producer of Never Before. She's the woman who pushed me to create the space that I wasn't being given on television for intriguing, full-fledged, unapologetically political pop-cultural conversations.
So it was only fitting that I have a talk with the woman who was integral to the show's creation. Below is an edited excerpt from Lena's episode on Never Before, where we embark on every controversy, every learning moment, and every apology. I've always been curious about what accountability looks like when you mess up so publicly and so often — so I go there with Lena as we discuss Odell Beckham, her sibling, Grace, and that time she said she wished she had had an abortion (this is only a taste of the episode. To get all the juicy bacon grease, you have to listen to the podcast).
We begin our conversation by talking about the effects of Lena's early success.
Janet Mock: Girls launched you into this hyper-visible space where you were seen as an emblem of an entire generation of young women. I wonder, does fame stunt you in a way that you're stuck at 24 forever in a sense?
Lena Dunham: In ways, I feel 100 years old. When you take a lot of public heat ... I've had public scandals around my family, around my sexual assault. Both public scandals around things that were and weren't a result of my own ignorance. I will take full responsibility for all the times that I popped off on Twitter and didn't think about what I was saying, but there was also a lot of times where my very identity and the core of who I was were questioned, and it really felt like being steel stuck in a fire and you're made stronger.
Over the last six years, I have had really serious health problems because I have endometriosis. When you undergo five or six surgeries in your twenties and have the experience of your body basically revolting against you — I was on enforced menopause for two years. I'd looked around at other twentysomethings and I felt 100. I remember once going to a book fair with my dad and looking at a couple who were eating tacos and buying comics and just crying because I was like, I never was that, and I'll never be that. My boyfriend and I will never have that experience. We'll never sit anonymously on a corner eating tacos.
There's the ways in which I feel wise and ready, and then there's also the ways in which I feel like my friendships that I had when I started the show until I finished the show this past August, I didn't have any ability to look at them critically. I felt like socially, I was a creature trapped in amber who would accept anybody who was interested in me. I allowed a lot of energetic leeches into my life. At the time, I didn't think I was taking in all the criticism, but I felt so beaten down by it that anybody who would say to me "I like you. You're a good person," I let those people in, and I think it made me sicker.
JM: Why do you still care what people think of you? I feel like a lot of people who don't know you and who aren't in life with you don't understand that piece of you that cares so much. There's a deep investment in ensuring that folk are included or heard and wanting to be seen. Not to justify any of the public missteps and mistakes, which you've rightfully owned up to, but there is a part of you that's like a bleeding-heart progressive liberal who wants everyone to feel included. Where did that come from in your own experience?
LD: I think a few things. One is I was raised in a really liberal community. The New York art world is a super-white community, but it's a community that has a strong investment in making sure people's stories are heard. My mother lived through the civil-rights movement and Vietnam and was protesting her face off before Roe v. Wade. Those are values that we were raised with. I also think when you feel disenfranchised as a young person that you can go two ways. You can grow up and become a fucking bully, or you can grow up and feel a really, really strong need to not see other people suffer that way.
It's not like I think of myself as some angel who wants everybody to have a chance. Clearly, I'm like very, almost selfishly, devoted to my own work, and to my own voice, and to my own style, but it really, really matters to me that mine's not the only voice. In many ways, after six years of Girls, I'm sick of my own voice, but I've also always wanted to be really careful that I didn't try to project … I didn't try to seem like I was making up for my sins by bringing everyone—
JM: You didn't want to perform wokeness or perform—
LD: No, because it's like, people are smart. They would get it if I was on my fucking Twitter with a bunch of Haitian children and a Black Lives Matter poster. That'd be so wack. All you can do is put it into action.
JM: Something that I've always found so intriguing about the particular space you take up in the cultural and political conversation is that you're equally as polarizing on all angles of the political spectrum. Except for your core audience who loves you endlessly, which would be largely young white women who are fighting for reproductive justice, who are feminists, who are struggling with body issues.
LD: A lot of people who relate to me are people who are dealing with issues of body positivity and fat-shaming. Also, I think a lot of people who have suffered in abusive relationships or experienced sexual assault have come forward and and talked to me about how my being vocal has meant a lot to them. Besides that, bets off as to who's down and who's not.
JM: I admire your willingness to not just be open and vulnerable, but to make mistakes publicly. What is your process like when you fuck up?
LD: Obviously, I'm defensive like everybody else and I don't like to be called out. It doesn't feel good. Ask my boyfriend or my parents, I don't handle criticism well. If my parents found my homework and it wasn't finished, they'd be like, "You didn't finish your homework," and I'd be like, "You're terrible parents and all you do is travel." I would always turn it around on them, so it's really been an education for me to be like, OK, messing up is a part of being human and it doesn't take away from your humanity. In fact, it adds to it.
Usually I do a gut check. I read through the criticisms, and I just go, like, Do I feel in my bones that these people are right and this warrants an apology? Both intellectually and spiritually.
JM: What constitutes a strong, fair, redemptive apology for you?
LD: I never really think about the concept of being redeemed because, to be totally frank, I feel like I'm so far past that with so many people. I don't think about it as a way to get people to like me again. I think if you do that, something really inauthentic comes out of you. I just think about it as a way to show that I understand. The first thing that I say is "I'm sorry," because you need to say that clearly without any ifs, ands, or buts.
JM: It's not like a Real Housewives apology of "I'm sorry if that hurt you"?
LD: It's not "I'm sorry if that hurt you, but you were really rude to me and you didn't serve enough Chardonnay." It's "I'm sorry. Here's why I'm sorry. Here's the critique, and here's what I recognize about the critique. Here's how I'm going to do better in the future." That to me is just the road map. I don't then look at the comments to hope that everyone goes, "You're forgiven." A lot of the comments are "You're still a piece of shit," and I'm like, "Great, but at least I've told you that I hear you."
I really don't have anger at women who don't like me. I think the biggest thing that's important for me to say is if you like me, if you hate me, I am here, and until I die, I will be here for you. I'm here for you if you wrote a shitty thing about me on Jezebel. I'm here for you if you don't know who I am. I'm here for you if you think I'm a racist, and I'm here for you if you think I'm a downtown New York delusional piece of shit.
JM: Delusional diva.
LD: Even if you think I'm a delusional downtown diva, I love you. Even if you don't want my love and I'm a creepy foster mom whose love you don't want, I still love you.
This interview has been condensed and edited.
To hear the entire interview, click here to subscribe to Never Before With Janet Mock.
Janet Mock is the author of Redefining Realness and the new memoir Surpassing Certainty. | | | | | | | | | | | | A Leg of Lamb to Start Your Summer | | | | By Jessica B. Harris | | |
OK, it's confession time. The Garland professional oven in my New York house has been on the blink for more than a year, and with all of my to-ing and fro-ing, I just can't seem to find the time to get it repaired. I miss it, but I also recognize that these days, I do most of my entertaining in New Orleans, or in the Instagram-perfect carpenter gothic "gingerbread" house that my parents bought almost 60 years ago in Oak Bluffs on Martha's Vineyard. There, the dining table is an antique oak one that is even more venerable than I am, scarred with rings from untold glasses of red wine and marked where the bread knife sawed through the tablecloth one evening. I love it because it wears its age well, and each imperfection is a testimonial to the decades of meals shared and friendships made. It is my summer table.
When the weather ratchets up to sweltering in New York City, I look forward to my annual migration to that home on the Vineyard: rented SUV, filled to bursting with boxes of books for my latest project, the current generation of squalling cats, enough condiments and staples to stock a pantry for a family of twenty, CDs, DVDs, and more — I am not a minimalist! Each year, I celebrate my arrival on island with a Bastille Day dinner: the red, white, and blue theme still works, and some Independence Day–themed items are even reduced at the local party shop. Plus, I've got ten additional days after the Fourth of July to settle in before it's "showtime"!
A whole leg of lamb is always the meal's centerpiece, and for many years I noodled around with the recipe. One year, I added dried lavender flowers from my garden to the spice mixture and garlic with which I normally season the lamb. Another, I came up with the stupid, simple, but wonderfully delicious sauce that combines traditional mint jelly with rum and jalapeño chilies. A few years back, my friends told me to stop playing around — perfection had been achieved. So now I stick to the recipe and serve it accompanied by whatever fresh vegetables I find in the farmers' market, crusty bread from my favorite bakery, and several bottles of a good Pinot Noir.
It's my start-of-the-summer salute to memories of the past and friends of the present. It's not static, though, because each year I try to include a new guest or two at the table. For while I honor the past and celebrate the present, I look forward to the future and want to keep my tradition going.
Leg of Lamb With Spicy Mint Sauce
Serves four to six
1 shank-end, half-bone-in leg of lamb, 4 or 5 pounds
6 large garlic cloves
1½ teaspoons dried lavender flowers
1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves
1½ tablespoons finely ground sea salt
2 tablespoons mixed peppercorns
1 tablespoon dried rosemary
1 tablespoon herbes de Provence
Preheat the oven to 450°F. If the butcher has not already removed the fell (parchment-like membrane) from the lamb leg, trim it away along with all excess fat. Using the tip of a sharp knife, make 15 or so small incisions in the leg, spacing them evenly.
Place the garlic, lavender, and thyme in a small food processor and pulse until you have a thick paste. Poke a bit of the paste into each of the incisions in the lamb. Place the salt, peppercorns, dried rosemary, and herbes de Provencein a spice grinder and pulse until you have a coarse mix. Rub the mix all over the lamb, covering it evenly. Place the lamb on a rack in a roasting pan.
Roast the lamb for 15 minutes. Lower the heat to 350°F and continue to roast for about 1 hour, or until a thermometer inserted into the thickest part away from the bone registers 130°F for rare, 140° to 145°F for medium-rare, or 160°F for well-done. Cooking times will vary depending on the shape of the lamb and the consistent heat of your oven. Remove the lamb from the oven and let it rest for 15 minutes before carving.
Carve the lamb parallel to the bone in long, thin slices and arrange the slices on a platter. Transfer the warm sauce to a sauceboat and serve immediately.
Spicy Mint Sauce
Makes about 1 cup
1 (8-ounce) jar mint jelly
1 small jalapeño chili, seeded and minced, or to taste
¼ cup dark rum, or to taste
While the lamb is resting, combine the mint jelly, chili, and rum in a small saucepan over medium heat. Cook, stirring occasionally, for about 5 minutes, or until the jelly liquefies and the sauce is warmed through.
Excerpted from My Soul Looks Back: A Memoir, by Jessica B. Harris. Copyright © 2017 by Jessica B. Harris. Published by Scribner, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. Reprinted with permission.
Jessica B. Harris is a professor, lecturer, and consultant who lives between New York City, New Orleans, and Martha's Vineyard; her most recent book is My Soul Looks Back: A Memoir. | | | | | | | | | | | | Boxing Underground | | | | By S.J. Pendergraft | | | |
Before I joined the Army, my parents had not allowed me to do karate. They thought that the fighting arts were too physical for my clumsy body and not entirely appropriate for a girl. During my initial enlistment at Fort Monmouth in New Jersey, I joined a boxing club to overcome exercise plateaus and improve my fighting skills and learn how to dodge attacks from an opponent. For the first time in my life, I had the self-confidence and strength to enter a fight and not back down. I wanted to keep feeling that way, forever.
In the summer of 2009, I entered West Point as a plebe (freshman) and tried to take Plebe Boxing, at the time a requirement for all male cadets. However, the administration stated it "wasn't safe for women" and that all female cadets had to take Female Combatives, an alternate course. Unlike boxing for the men, Female Combatives was broken into five different units of fighting styles (judo, grappling, boxing, wrestling, and military hand-to-hand); while female cadets were introduced to more than one martial art, they had less time to learn and practice within a specific area. Because female cadets had to learn five different styles and were expected to become halfway decent with very little time, they were unable to build self-confidence and get over beginner's fear, something that is focused on in the boxing class but not in the fighting class women took.
Although I hated the Combatives class, I was undeterred and found a group of like-minded female cadets who wanted to box, and we trained together after hours. We called ourselves the Underground. The senior who led our group fought on our behalf with the administration, trying to gain recognition and allow us equal use of the equipment. But the male officers and administrators refused to listen, saying we would hurt ourselves, that we couldn't handle the pressure, and at one point claiming we would be too smitten with the male boxers to concentrate on our training. Finally, the senior persuaded them to allow us a slot in the annual Brigades, a boxing competition technically open to the entire Corps of Cadets, but at which only men competed. However, they would only allow one fight, between me and my friend, B.
I had met B. through the Underground, and because our heights and weights were similar, we were matched up for sparring. She was older than me by several years, having enlisted and done a tour overseas before coming to the Academy. She was a more experienced, and hence better, boxer than me; her hooks and jabs were very technical, always hitting the mark. I was the brawler, not as controlled when throwing a punch but fighting through the hits and blood (I have what is called a glass nose, meaning it bleeds easily when hit, so just about every match ended in a gusher for me). When we weren't beating each other up, we often exercised together, running or lifting in the gym. We were excited to represent the women's team in proving our worth to the men.
The lead-up to the fight was fraught; twice the men's head coach tried to block us with loopholes or regulations, even going so far as to make B. and me fight practice rounds to prove our competence. But we prevailed and fought in the Brigades. Our fight was the biggest draw of the event: cadets and officers packed the small gym. As the better boxer, B. took the victory with more points, but I knocked her down with a hook. After the fight, we thought for sure the Underground would be recognized. We were wrong. They still wouldn't let us join the men on the team or form our own.
Their reason? None of us had taken Male Plebe Boxing.
Now, as I mentioned, only the male cadets took boxing. In fact, it was the only boxing course held at West Point; to graduate, men had to pass this class, and it was usually only taken during the first year. Afterward, unless they joined the team, male cadets never boxed again. And since women couldn't take the course, the administration used it as a technicality to reject our application for team status.
But then fate stepped in.
| (Photo Courtesy of S.J. Pendergraft) |
Due to a computer error, B. had been assigned as a male in the system and was automatically slated for the class in spring. Knowing this, I visited the offices, where it was just the secretary, and asked to enroll in the class. When she said no other woman was taking the class, I told her to look up B. Seeing the female name taking the class and thinking it was approved, she put me in.
Either no one bothered to check or the scheduling people were on our side, but come spring classes, B. and I showed up with our schedules, and the instructors had no choice but to let us in. They had only one rule: the women would fight only each other, no men.
The first three classes are spent on the floor shadowboxing, learning the basic movements: jab, cross, and hook. When the time came to pair up and actually hit, our instructor put me and B. in the ring, grudgingly admitting we had "some experience," and told us to hit at 25 percent. The men, having never fought or trained, were to hit at 10 percent. There was just one problem: the male cadets were too scared. As we practiced, the instructor yelled out "Punch, damn it!" and "You two in the ring, slow down!" for five minutes straight, until finally he blew his top.
"For God's sake, you motherfuckers, Pendergraft ate it for three fucking rounds! And she's still eating solid food! Now stop being pussies and hit each other! And you two in the ring … don't kill each other."
After that day, the instructors' attitudes changed. Now, B. and I were brought forward to demonstrate movements. When they did an exercise known as the Round Robin, we were allowed to punch the men. The first time I stepped in the ring with a guy, it took three hits to the face before he realized I wasn't going easy on him. Then he and the rest of my male classmates stopped going easy on me.
During the last class, the instructors brought B. and me aside to inform us of our grades: B-. Frankly, we were surprised. We fully expected an F, or a D if they didn't want to be accused of bias. What shocked us next was our instructors' apology. They had wanted to give us A+s, as befitting the best boxers in the class! But the head coach and administration had found yet another loophole: having fought only each other in the graded bouts, B. and I had not shown improvement or tenacity in facing a different opponent; a B- was all they could give. But we didn't care. We were the first; we had opened the door.
Sadly, the women's boxing team did not fare as well as we did. The administration still wouldn't let us join the men's team, but we were allowed to form our own as a "hobby team." But this meant we could only use the boxing equipment after the men's practice. And we weren't allowed to talk or socialize with the male cadets on the team, as they believed it would lead to fraternizing (sexual relations between cadets) and potentially destroy morale on both teams.
Over the years, the team itself suffered from a lack of support both internally and externally. In the end, I left the team my junior year, as training under impossible conditions and fighting among team members took its toll on my academic standing at the Academy. Ultimately, I had a choice: be a boxer or graduate from West Point. I chose graduation. I wasn't the only one who quit, and our former teammates would avoid me and the women who left, instructing the younger members to not talk with us. It was as if all I had fought and sacrificed for no longer existed.
After my class graduated in 2013, the team broke up, and it seemed as if women's boxing at West Point was just a blip on the screen.
Then, in December of 2015, Brigadier General Diana M. Holland, West Point class of 1990, was named the 76th Commandant of Cadets, the first female to be the ranking officer over the Corps of Cadets at the United States Military Academy. And by the start of the 2016, Male Plebe Boxing simply became Plebe Boxing, finally integrated after 199 years. According to General Holland, she had wanted to box as a cadet but couldn't take down the administration.
It has taken a long time, but female cadets are now training with the expectation they will enter the combat zone, and all plebes must pass boxing if they are to graduate. I'll admit, I thought I wouldn't see a female Commandant of Cadets until my year-group started reaching the upper echelons. Seeing a woman from a previous generation shows we are further along than expected, that equal status is gaining ground, however slow it may seem. And while I don't miss my cadet days, I envy the female cadets who are taking Plebe Boxing now. They're not boxing because they have to prove they have the right to be in the ring but because they want to graduate from the United States Military Academy. And I know they are kicking ass.
S.J. Pendergraft is an Army vet with lots of stories to tell. You can read her column "Webcomic Wednesdays" at capelesscrusader.org. | | | | | | | | | | | | If You Meant to Kill Me | | | | By Saba Imtiaz | | |
At a film screening in Amman, Jordan, the crowd's chatter dies down as the theater lights dim. A silhouetted woman appears on-screen and begins to speak. It doesn't matter that you can't see her face and don't know her name. Her account — a story of brutality, prison, and a life of perpetual fear — is powerful, urgent, and deeply disturbing.
Her story and those of the film's two other unnamed women are the driving forces behind Jordanian-Spanish filmmaker Widad Shafakoj's documentary If You Meant to Kill Me. The film looks at how women in Jordan are put into preventive detention in order to "protect" them from becoming victims of "honor crimes" (loosely defined as murders of women perpetrated by family members who believe they have "defiled" the family's "honor" in some way, often over a mere accusation of a romantic relationship).
These women are detained under the Crime Prevention Law, which authorizes governors to arrest individuals under suspicion of a crime. But instead of prosecuting the criminals, the law is used to detain the potential victims. These women can spend extended periods of time — sometimes years — in custody for a crime they did not commit.
At the film screening in Amman, a man in the audience declared that some women deserved to be victims of honor crimes. Shafakoj, barely raising her voice, responded that perhaps the law should be used against men like him. The room burst into spontaneous applause.
In her films, Shafakoj takes the issues that are staring us in the face — the people on the streets, unquestioned norms, and the marginalized on the sidelines of a crisis — and puts them front and center. Her work has been transformational and controversial. Shafakoj's first documentary, ID:000, was a team project for a filmmaking course. It tells the story of abuse in an orphanage in Jordan, of how orphans are assigned an ID number — "000" — that marks them as orphans. They are assumed to be illegitimate children and inevitably face harassment and discrimination both on the streets and when they try to find work.
As a result of the film, Shafakoj says, the orphans featured in ID:000 were issued different ID numbers, effecting change in the negative stigma against them. "I saw the power of making a documentary," Shafakoj says, "and I was like, I know what I'm going to be doing for my whole life."
I met Shafakoj in Amman, where she's currently finishing her next film, on female Jordanian footballers. We talked about honor crimes, the deep-rooted need to fundamentally change how people see women's lives, and why people often ask her, "Why do you always have to show negative things?"
| (Still from "If You Want to Kill Me," courtesy Widad Shafakoj) |
Saba Imtiaz: What I find really interesting is that your work is about very public things that other people just don't notice. Is this a conscious effort?
Widad Shafakoj: Not really. I think when I made ID:000 and saw its impact — that these orphans were then able to go to the interior ministry to actually apply for proper ID numbers and got them — it was incredible to know that I helped create change for people who needed it. I felt so powerful to be able to do that. And I'm just a filmmaker, not a politician or a social worker. [This issue] was just something I was passionate about.
SI: So many of these films are made and nothing happens in terms of legislation or policy change. Do you see your work as a form of activism, a call for reform?
WS: You know, last year I was asked to run for Parliament in Jordan, which was really hilarious. I thought about it a lot and said no, not now, not this year. Maybe in four years I'll be more prepared. I don't ever want to go to Parliament and get asked a question I don't have an answer for.
SI: ID:000 is fascinating. These are things we don't think about when we're secure in our identity.
WS: I'm part of the society in Jordan that lives in a bubble, and I was truly shocked to learn these stories. I'd met the orphans through a friend who was working with them in a personal capacity. They had wanted to talk to someone for so long, and nobody would hear them. But making this film was very difficult. The kids were put in prison for a couple of days for investigation. We had to send the footage to Syria with a team member (this was before the crisis) because we were scared it would get taken away.
SI: How did people react at the ID:000 screening in Amman?
WS: We all knew about orphans and that they were probably being abused, but we had no idea about the ID numbers. Everyone reacted so wonderfully [at the screening]; the kids were there, and people offered them a lot of help.
I then met a journalist who had seen ID:000 and told me about women who are abused and put in prison [to prevent crimes against them]. That shocked me. It was the same shock I'd felt with the orphans. There was no way I was going to sit back. I thought, I must do something about this as well. But that was hell for me. It was so difficult to get in touch with any of the women.
SI: How long did it take to make If You Meant to Kill Me?
WS: A whole year of production and around four years of research, which was very necessary because there are so many laws and stories involved.
SI: Honor killings are such a deeply entrenched issue. Do you think it can change?
WS: I know what needs to be changed — that crime-prevention law needs to go. They can't detain all of a woman's brothers and cousins, so this is what they do. At least put the women in a proper place. She is a prisoner in there. Her clothes might be a different color [than other prisoners'], but she spends her waking and sleeping moments with them. This topic frustrates me so much. It makes me crazy — I cannot believe we even have to face this issue.
SI: The whole idea to "protect" a woman from a crime — she's not the one at fault.
WS: At the screening, I was asked by a TV station what the alternative is. I said it's to put the men in prison, because that just makes fucking sense.
| (Still from "If You Want to Kill Me," courtesy Widad Shafakoj) |
SI: You had to hide the women's identities, but you reenacted some of their stories with actors. Those scenes carried on from the testimony really well, like the scene where the woman is walking with her kids, retelling the story of how she left her home and no one will take her in or help her. You show the actors against a bleak landscape … I thought it was the same real-life woman being interviewed.
WS: It gave me chills to think about how this really happened when I was filming that. It felt so, so strange that this happened to someone. Even the actress went home one day and couldn't sleep and kept crying, because she was really living these stories. I'd tell her the exact story about what happened [to the woman] before she acted it out. She was really messed up by the end. She felt their pain a lot … which was great. Because we need to feel their pain, otherwise we will never understand.
SI: The women are living in a state of insecurity. Do they feel speaking about this can make a change?
WS: They wanted to share what happened to prevent this from happening to other women. Their pain and suffering, it can damage your soul and kill your spirit. One of the girls was supposed to be in prison for just three days; the governor was supposed to get her out, but he forgot about her for eight years. She still can't believe this happened and how hard she tried to get out. She would talk to any social worker who visited the prison.
A lot of women didn't want to leave the prison, though. There are three ways to get out: your family comes to take you and they sign a document that they won't hurt you; you get married to someone and he signs you out; or you get sent to another country. I met this girl who was raped so many times by her brother. She was pretty and threw acid on herself so she could look less attractive to him and he wouldn't rape her. Her case was very difficult, and Sweden wanted to take her. The social worker would tell her, "You're such an idiot. You can leave and start a new life in another country. Why do you still want to be here?" And she said, "I just want to smell the soil of my country every morning."
A girl whose brother came to take her and signed [the document] shot her nine times after her release. Someone else I met married a stranger. [When you're released] you're completely frightened all the time. One girl would change jobs every five days. She was always scared; she'd think [her family] knew where she was and would come after her and kill her. One of the girls lives in the desert, in the middle of absolutely nowhere. There are no streets, and it's this tiny little house. That's where she lives, surrounded by absolutely no one. She said this is the only place she could live in because no one will ever find her. It's very messed up. These women will most probably die with a lot of pain. They are living with injustice. No one deserves to live like that.
This interview has been condensed and edited.
Saba Imtiaz is a freelance journalist and author currently based in the Middle East. She writes about culture, urban life, religion, and food. Visit her website, sabaimtiaz.com, and find her on Twitter @SabaImtiaz.
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