WeeklySA_AdminSILENCE: Many women humiliated daily but too ashamed to seek help
By Suzette Mafuna
IN CANADA
After so many years, it’s hard to remember the exact point and moment where and when I allowed myself to concede, reluctantly accept that he no longer had any interest in me. He was “working till late”, working on weekends, had deadlines to meet, emergencies…So many out- of-town meetings, pitch presentations – conveniently scheduled for early Monday morning.
I got accustomed to spending weekends alone – until one fateful weekend when I discovered that a young, Princess Diane look-like floosy – whom I’d accepted as a friend, mentor and protege in under-the-belt-female-business had his heart. Overtime, I had somehow managed to convince me that everything was as was expected in any marriage. I lost count of the many weekends I spent on my own, anxiously awaiting his return Monday evening – following a “series of meetings, seminars, presentations, client dinners/cocktails.
I still remember my legal representative’s scathing reprimand over my reluctance to start divorce proceedings against my ex. Tucker’s words only struck a chord as I lay in a hospital bed following the most brutal of “hubby’s” regular assaults. Thankfully, that would be the last time he ever laid his lethal hands on me. How could the same hands that have been so gentle, loving and tender when exploring the hidden jewels of my body become such lethal weapons intended to snuff the life out of me. I had just had a court’s restraining order against him after a vicious thrashing with his belt smack in the middle of Oxford Road after he had finally managed to block my path with his massive, motor machine.
The furious chase had started outside my work area, continued, right through the tight and narrow streets of suburban Rosebank. A court interdict against any further abuse didn’t save me from a near-death experience. The system failed me completely.
The moment
At the beginning of the year in 1988, I confided in a work colleague that this was going to be a very bad year for me. “I can feel it in my bones-especially January will be bad,” I said.
Not being one to dwell on matters of superstitious nature, I gave no further thought to my foreboding.
But later in January-swathed in bandages, suffering excruciating pain and just managing to hold on to my soul-I was to remember those words to my colleague.
Quite a bad beginning it turned out to be. The “angel of death” was constantly hovering very threateningly over me. But for the first time in my life, the idea of my death did not faze me-anything to still the pain was most welcome. I even called in a priest to administer the last rights. I was at peace with myself.
In contrast, my emotions were in turmoil and I was experiencing an abnormal kind of frenzied anger. There were feelings of bitterness, frustration, hate and humiliation. And of course, my ego had taken quite a bashing. All this being a good enough reason for one to wish for death.
Then I reached a turning point-thanks to the priest, my family, the doctors and nurses, my friends, my ward mate and complete strangers.
I have never been overwhelmed by such love and caring. Nothing conquers deep depression like love-and I had heavy doses of that, almost as much as the vast amounts of medication I was getting.
And the prayers-there is no way God could ignore that kind of praying!
For instance, my office helper told me: “I met Emma and told her about you. We cried and cried and cried. Then Emma started this hymn in Setswana, MaDlamini prayed in SiSwati and I prayed in Sesotho. Whenever we met, we prayed.”
When the hospital nun brought Holy Communion, she prayed in English, while father Xolile used a mixture of English and Xhosa. A fellow patient who was a Swazi based nun from the Dominican Order, made use of another mixture-Italian and Swazi. What a perfect example of people “talking in tongues”! There was the funny “ha,ha” side to it. There was a friend who decided to spend the night at the hospital with me-just in case the “angel of death” paid me a visit. Of course she had to lie through her missing teeth to convince the nursing staff to let her stay.
There was the “groovy” young nurse who faithfully came into my ward every night to demonstrate to me the latest in the party jiving, and the nursing sister who ran with terror from my ward when I threatened to scream if she touched me. There was the absolute horror of a very good friend who arrived to an empty bed after I had been transferred to another ward. And a strange man who, thinking I was unconscious, tried to kiss my bruised lips while whispering sweet nothing in my ear.
There was certainly as much crying as there was laughter. Much gossiping too.
Rumour had it that I was dead, that I would be crippled for life, that my face needed plastic surgery, that I’d gone nuts, that a hat was being passed around for donations towards my astronomical hospital bills; that my below-the-belt area was so badly burnt I needed an organ transplant, that I had had so easy that God had decided to punish me.
It will be some time before I recover fully, ages before I forgive and forget.
I’ve come to terms with my emotions-the bitterness is gone and so is hatred. Complete strangers have taught me things I could never have learned in a lifetime.There must be a million women out there who have been through what I have been through; women who feel humiliated but are too ashamed to seek help and others who have become used to accepting blame when they are not guilty of anything. I’ve been there, So I understand.
But I’m damn if I’m ever going to allow anybody to walk all over me.
LOOK AT SUZETTE
She wears a wide smile
that lights up her face
to cover a body
full of scars & lacerations
She wears a crown
of thorns
on a head
full of bloody memories
She speaks in soft tones
to tell her story
a history of violence
against women & children
a life of no regret
but full of question marks
Her once perfect skin
is a mark of lacerations
Bravo, she is who she is
a creative mind
with a mouth full of laughter
Her lungs are full of songs
& stories to fill a book
on bruised & battered women
She refuses to weep
or wallow in self pity
A broken man
can burn or bury the body
He cannot kill the soul
or erase the memory
of a sick mind
– SANDILE MEMELA
