Poornima Manco

Author

caution

What’s that all about?

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Blame it on my age, but I’m truly at a loss here. What on earth gives anyone the right to ‘cancel’ anyone else? Yes, I’m talking about the phenomenon of ‘cancel culture’. For those who don’t know what this means, here’s the definition according to Mirriam-Webster: the practice or tendency of engaging in mass canceling as a way of expressing disapproval and exerting social pressure.

The long list of people cancelled in recent years include the likes of Liam Neeson, Ellen DeGeneres, Jimmy Fallon and J. K. Rowling. What have they done, you might ask, that merits this kind of social (media) ostracism? Well, some have said some inappropriate things, while others have maybe consorted with the enemy, and others still have held an opinion that is contrary to the public tide of the moment. I won’t spell it out, because Google will do that bit for you, if you’re interested. My point is, while none of them are squeaky clean, what gives anyone the moral authority to pass judgement on these people?

The reason this trend bothers me so much, and why I’ve felt the need to express it on my blog, is twofold. One, there is something sinister in how free speech and opinions that differ from the mainstream, are suddenly being held up to social scrutiny that is at best, infantile and one-dimensional, and at worst, policing that harks back to the censorship wielded by totalitarian regimes. Two, where is the scope, in all this moral grandstanding, for people to make mistakes, to learn, to grow and repent? None of us are born perfect, but if you’re a celebrity, you’d better never have put a foot wrong, because that will come back to haunt you at some later stage in your career. At that point, not even a grovelling apology and a promise to do better could redeem you.

In all fairness, some people need calling out on their obnoxious behaviour, their toxic beliefs and their gruesome opinions. But let’s do it in a fair manner, a manner that befits a society that believes in debate, in conversation, and not in clamping down and deleting a person just because they did not adhere to the popular motif of the moment.

There is a cruelty to ‘cancelling’ someone that is tantamount to a public stoning. A cruelty that doesn’t consider the mental anguish, the financial fallout or failure to allow the person a chance at redemption. Even the law states that a person is innocent until proven guilty, so a cancel culture that rubs out a person swiftly without due process, is no less toxic than whatever abhorrent deed the person in question may have been accused of.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, who penned a blistering article on how social media denizens act as moral guardians of the rapidly changing landscapes of what is right and what is not, said it best:

“We have a generation of young people on social media so terrified of having the wrong opinions that they have robbed themselves of the opportunity to think and to learn and to grow,” Adichie writes. “I have spoken to young people who tell me they are terrified to tweet anything, that they read and reread their tweets because they fear they will be attacked by their own. The assumption of good faith is dead. What matters is not goodness but the appearance of goodness. We are no longer human beings. We are now angels jostling to out-angel one another. God help us. It is obscene.”

It is obscene, and it is ridiculous. Go ahead, cancel me now. See if I care.

 

The ubiquity of abuse

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I was having coffee with a bunch of ladies I didn’t really know. A common hobby had brought us together and as we met (some, for the first time) and chatted and ordered coffee and cake, the conversation veered off course as it inevitably does when you put women together. This wasn’t a business luncheon, it was very much a ‘getting to know you’ do. Our common hobby had brought us together, but we wanted to know if there was something else, beyond that, which could connect us.

As we talked backgrounds, languages, cultures, careers, husbands and children, we delved into each other’s lives, hesitantly at first, and then boldly, asking forthright questions and receiving some compelling and often hilarious answers. A sisterhood was emerging right there in that little coffee shop.

Interestingly, because we were, in effect, strangers to one another, there was a frankness and a candour to our conversation. There was no previous baggage nor was there any judgement. Each one was free to divulge as much or as little as they wished. Which is perhaps why some shocking truths emerged.

I have thought long and hard about writing this blog post. Am I betraying these ladies’ confidences if I do? Is this a kind of treachery to the very sisterhood I espouse? Am I worthy of being a confidante if I am unable to zip my lip?

However, upon reflection, I decided that yes, I would indeed write about it. No names or details of the women in question will be revealed here. That is not the purpose of this post. The purpose is to highlight the vulnerability of young children and how, it is so important for us as adults – parents and carers, to be vigilant about any possible signs and symptoms of abuse.

70% of the ladies at that table had been subject to some kind of sexual abuse as children. This ranged from an elderly relative using his trustworthy position in the family to inappropriately touch a child, to older children molesting a young girl in their midst, to a cousin leveraging his way into his sister’s affections to try and rape her.

Where were the adults when all this happened? Oblivious, too trusting or incapable of translating the traumatised child’s words and actions as a symptom of their ordeal.

Following on the heels of the #MeToo movement, the awareness of society’s ability to use and discard vulnerable adults has emerged strongly into the forefront. Yet, child abuse is so much more rampant and ubiquitous than anyone of us could have imagined.

All of these women were educated, erudite professionals who had carved out amazing careers and on the outside looked as put together as anyone else. Yet, fragments of their abusive past still lingered, making them feel ‘less than’ and handicapped in ways that even they could not articulate. If our pasts are the foundations to our future, it must have been doubly hard to build their future on the quicksands of trauma, betrayal and abuse.

I have spoken freely about the kind of sexual harassment I encountered growing up in India. Thankfully, because my mother was a very forward thinking individual, she was particularly circumspect about the adults who had access to me as a child. I had been told time and again to tell her if anything inappropriate was said or done to me. I was amongst the lucky few.

How many others had to stay ‘schtum’ because of the joint families they were growing up in wouldn’t tolerate any rent in its fabric, even if the casualty was a child’s innocence? How many parents believed that shrouding the truth or simply disbelieving the child were the only ways forward? How many ‘uncles’ or manservants got away scot-free because the ‘good name’ of the family was far more important than offering the victim love, support, understanding and challenging the perpetrator’s dirty deeds?

Too many.

Which is why it is so important that we talk about childhood sexual abuse. Children have nothing to be ashamed of. They are completely innocent of any wrong doing. It is the sick and depraved adults who choose and groom their victims alongside their families, that need to be brought to task.

I hope there comes a day when that coffee table conversation will not be limited to the tales of abuse suffered by young children, but will go on to elaborate the punishment society accorded to the abuser, and the counselling that was offered to the child to overcome that early trauma. As things stand right now, most children have to find their own coping mechanisms and unlike my ladies, can and do, spiral into self destructive behaviours.

I am not naive enough to believe that we will eradicate child sexual abuse completely. Wherever there is a power imbalance, abuse will exist and thrive. Sadly, there will also always be individuals with a sexual predilection for children. A multi-pronged approach that includes awareness, education, therapy, counselling, stricter laws and most importantly, a gradual erosion of patriarchy, may bring about the much needed change that will protect our children and ensure a safer future for them.

 

 

The Call of a Siren

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Life is full of its wonders and pitfalls. As a young adult in your mid-20’s, you commence the real journey of your life’s procession. Some are fortunate and exit this decade without anything as much as a blemish. The more fortunate ones will exit with experiences to help protect them against the inevitable misfortunes of the future. The following is one such incident. The lesson learned from this fraction of my life, has served as my moral compass to this day.

As a young adult, having already completed four years of military service and self supported myself through four years of university study, I was inclined to think I knew most everything and all else was probably fallacy. Then, after graduating, I encountered some vulnerable years. During such times you can be prone to making decisions that could unwittingly alter the course of your life. One such incident follows.

Living in a major metropolitan city that flaunts all the trappings of success can leave an ambitious, struggling new graduate feeling ‘lesser than’, thus becoming easy prey to the temptations of fast money.

I received my university degree in Mass Communication/TV production. Shortly after graduating I managed to clench a coveted position in a major television studio as a stage manager for a weekly televised show. It was beguiling, fast-paced and professionally gratifying. However, it was also a position that garnered paltry wages.

While working on the job I was befriended a lovely young co-worker named Andrea. She worked in the Sales and Marketing department for the studio. She was a fusion of style and sophistication, married to talent and ambition. We had a mutual admiration and appreciated the unique quirks in each other.

In time, Andrea and I  became fast and furious friends. We shared the same sense of humour, were equally quick witted and could unleash sparkling repartee upon demand. I’d found my stride on the studio floor and Andrea was surpassing her sales goals. The future seemed favourable. Then… suddenly on a Friday afternoon, a company email was released announcing that our parent company was sold and most positions in the company would be eliminated. Andrea and I would be unemployed soon. We were summarily introduced to the cruel reality of corporate downsizing.

The few remaining weeks were were punctuated with commiseration and angst. Personally I wondered if I would find another job like this, having had such little experience and no contacts in the industry to call upon? Would I be able to maintain my apartment? And what of our fledgling friendship?

Just before our last week with the company Andrea told me she had a proposition to make some quick, easy money. She assured me there would be little or no risk as she had already accomplished the act twice before. To have any details revealed I first had to agree to become the third person in this scheme. I said Ok, count me in and the plan was revealed.

Andrea had a friend named Lynn. They had become very good friends while attending university. They shared similar social backgrounds and both had fathers who were prominent local politicians in their respective cities. Lynn had a middle management job in the wire transfer operations of a bank on the opposite coast. Andrea confided that she had made eight thousand dollars very easily with Lynn’s help. So, “Are you interested in making an extra few thousand dollars with me?” This sounded alluring and rewarding.

I was blinded to the obvious. I was a kid raised in a very traditional, moral, religious family. Never in trouble, not even a traffic ticket; served in the military, supported myself through university but I was blinded to the obvious. As Odysseus, I succumbed to the siren call of my own Calypso and said, “Yes…” and in an instant any obvious criminal implications were obliterated by the prospect of making a few thousand dollars.

The plan would be initiated by Lynn who would issue four bank money orders amounting to seven thousand dollars and then send them via the post to Andrea. Lynn was able to reconcile her sections figures to conceal any amount she decided to take (when I now consider all of the federal crime implications involved, it’s almost paralysing!). Andrea would cash the bank cheques and distribute the proceeds. I was young, vulnerable, too trusting – all for the possibility of a financial windfall. Whenever I began to waver, Andrea would reassure me that everything would proceed seamlessly. She had already accomplished the same deed two weeks prior without any snafus.

Within a few weeks the day arrived and our plan was put into action. Andrea and I were to rendezvous at a cheque cashing office she’d  previously used. She had in her possession five cheques (two for 3 thousand dollars and three for 1 thousand) which she would cash-out over a one week period. I simply had to accompany her to the cheque cashing store and pose as a lookout to get paid. Seemed easy enough. In reality, I was aiding and abetting, amongst other things.

We arrived at the place, trying to look as nonchalant and inconspicuous as possible. Andrea was, as per usual, Vogue chic and even had the movie star dark glasses. I wore a crisp white shirt paired with Levi jeans and a dress jacket. Our amateur attempt to go casually unnoticed… in one of the poorest parts of city! We were certainly not seasoned grifters.

Andrea entered the store alone and I followed soon thereafter. I was situated close to the door, acting as the lookout while waiting for her to conclude the day’s transaction. When she was about sixth in line I experienced an intuition akin to a wobble or a flutter in time. Even though all was serene inside the room, I instinctively felt something was slightly amiss.

By now my senses were highly acute. I thought I could hear a faint buzz of a distant helicopter, however this was a common sound at any given time in major metropolitan areas. I could feel those tentacles of dread and remorse coiling around my limbs. “What am I doing here?” It was at this point the sensation of mild panic began to rise and every one of my senses became more attuned. Then suddenly, the level of intensity rose to alarm. Every molecule in my body was screaming, “IT’S NOW OR NEVER… GET OUT NOW!!” But what to do about Andrea? I couldn’t simply abandon her… How could I warn Andrea without incriminating myself? And, of course, we had no established signal of “abort”!

I wanted to telepathically will Andrea to simply turn and look at my panicking eyes, but with her back to me, her concentration was solely on the act at hand. By now she’d made her way to the window and was initiating the transaction. What choice could I make? How strong was my fidelity to the siren call of Andrea? Could I save the both of us or just myself? All these thoughts and more, poured through my body like molten lead from an erupting volcano, while simultaneously the hovering sound of the helicopter grew closer and closer. I quietly stood up and without any further procrastination exited through that fateful door, thus abandoning Andrea to her fate.

Once outside, as hastily as possible, I had to create as much distance between myself and Andrea and the cheque cashing place. This was when my own harrowing ordeal began to take place. Countless scenarios careened through my mind. What were my options? I dared not run, as I knew for certain this would attract attention from the, by now overhead, hovering helicopter… and I was not going to wait outside whilst the situation unfolded inside… So I steeled myself and extinguished every temptation to panic. I walked away, as calmly as possible, from the building, resisting the temptation to look up at the hovering Medusa. I continued walking calmly towards my freedom.

As I was walking, it occurred to me, that the worker in the cheque cashing place had alerted the police and provided a description of the culprit. I immediately removed my jacket and shirt as I walked. I now wore my jeans and a t-shirt. Then, to my utter horror, I noticed two people walking directly towards me. They were two uniformed policemen dispatched to arrest us. I was in their direct path. Suspecting they already had a description of me, inwardly I became petrified with fear. As they approached me, I thought my my heart was going to explode. Any attempts of evasion would be to no avail. I deliberately walked towards them, all the while imagining  the pitiless grip of steel handcuffs clasping around my wrist. Inconceivably, as we brushed pass one another, I said “Hello” and they smiled and responded in kind. Then, with not so much as a second glance, they continued on their mission.

Now, I walked at a slightly more quickened pace, as I was desperate to put distance between myself and what could have been a horrendous fate. As I slipped around the corner, they entered the building and Andrea was apprehended.

I skulked into a back alley hiding amongst the rats and the rubbish of those giant green trash bins used by the shopping mall stores. All the while I was hearing the whirring of helicopter blades and the piercing blare of the police car sirens on the front side of the building. At that very moment I made a solemn oath to God and myself. I said  … “GOD, IF YOU INTERVENE AND FREE ME FROM THIS MAYHEM, I PROMISE I WILL NEVER EVER SUCCUMB TO THIS SIN AGAIN…”

I remained quivering there until the evening fell and the din of police noise had long dissipated. I eventually summoned the courage to venture out to the nearest public telephone and made the most succinctly urgent call of my life to my best friend. My words were simply this, “It’s me… please come and rescue me. I’m at Grand and Lincoln Street… I’ll explain later and bring a bottle of the strongest alcohol you can find.” He immediately sensed the severity of my situation. My saviour of a best friend was there in 10 minutes and ferried me to the refuge of my home.

As he sat before me in a state of stupefied amazement, I recounted the entire saga step by step. I still don’t know what astounded him more… the astonishing details of my misadventure or the alacrity with which I was consuming straight vodka directly from the bottle… lol. I sheltered in my apartment for five days. During this self-imposed incarceration, every minute of every hour I expected a visit from the police and thanked God when it didn’t come to pass. Eventually, I returned to my daily life. However, things turned out differently for Andrea and Lynn.

Lynn was dismissed from the bank and because the bank didn’t want to court such negative publicity, all charges of local and interstate felonies were dismissed. I had heard, following Andrea’s arrest, she was jailed for a short period of time and released on bail. There followed a court trial, she was found guilty, convicted and later exonerated due to her family’s political connections, and her father’s ability to afford the best attorney in the area. I still harbour a small but nagging sense of having betrayed her.  But, I never spoke with or saw Andrea again.

I wasn’t afforded such family connections or financial indulgences. If I had not listened to my instinct, and but for the grace of God, in all likelihood, I would have been jailed for a number of years and my life would have been forever adversely altered. In reality though, it is altered, as I became a finer, higher quality man.

As I reveal my secret saga, rivers of remorse, betrayal, incredulity wash over me. Why was I too afraid to call out to Andrea and offer her a last chance out? Why did I not see the obvious crimes and consequences associated with this action? Why did I chance my fate at the behest of someone I barely knew?

I am forever thankful that I survived this scandalous lapse of judgement. From that day onward, I believe, anything not generated through honesty, should be avoided at all cost.

My life now is better than I could have ever imagined. I have a wonderful occupation, possessions, homes, and the freedom to travel. All of this would have been inconceivable, had I succumbed to that one stupid and immature decision.

I urge you to Always follow that small voice inside of you that encourages you to never deviate from doing the right thing.

Live well and Love well. Thanks for reading…

XX

 

Because of the subject matter L.H. has chosen to remain anonymous, however, this is him in a nutshell: in late 40’s, in a relationship, starting a property developing business, and still living in a major metropolitan area.

A cautionary tale

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A colleague mentioned that she wanted to binge watch ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ and I had to advise her that it wasn’t the best approach to watching this series. As gut wrenching and traumatic as it is, I do advise people, particularly women, that they MUST watch it. Just not watch more than one episode at a time.

Margaret Atwood’s dystopic novel written in 1984 has been adapted into a movie before, but this Television series has gone much further than the source material, and filled in the very many blanks between Offred’s departure in the novel to the epilogue of the scholars’ study of the rise and fall of Gilead. Needless to say, the blanks are filled with horrifying details that seem almost designed to shock or manipulate the viewers’ emotions. From the legalised rape, to the forced illiteracy of women, to the subjugation of the wombs of the handmaids and the horror of the colonies, none of the women in this story escape unscathed in the state of Gilead. Yet, as Atwood has repeated in many of her interviews, none of these atrocities are of her imaginings alone. She just had to look at History and  the various forms of torture against women in various ages and various nations, and bring it all together under the umbrella of Gilead.

To those who are unfamiliar with the premise of ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’, simply put, it is the rising of a theocratic state within the United States of America. In a land where population levels have fallen to scarily low levels, a Christian group referring to the Bible as their saviour, plot and overthrow the government, establishing the Commanders as the supreme rulers of the land. The Commanders are all male, their wives the blue robed aristocracy reduced to playing the role of consorts, yearning for the fulfilment of the biological destiny that has been denied to their wombs. The handmaids are the fertile women indentured to the different commanders and raped in a ritual ceremony, held down by the wives and penetrated by the husbands. All other women are either Marthas (cooks/cleaners/general dogsbodies) or eco wives, married to the men in the lower echelons of power.

Why, you might ask me, should one watch something this horrifying or depressing? Well, aside of the fact that it is brilliant television- the writing, the casting, the acting- it also serves as a cautionary tale to those of us who are complacent in the face of all that is wrong today.

Only a hundred years ago, women suffragettes were fighting for votes in Britain. Over two hundred years ago, women in the West were still considered mens’ chattel and had no rights to their own lands or property. Women in Saudi Arabia have only just begun to drive legally, and women and children in Afghanistan are still denied an education. Child marriage is rampant in many parts of the world and human trafficking, particularly of young women and girls is at epidemic proportions.

Can we, as women, really take our freedoms for granted?

The inherent irony within ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ is that one of the visionaries at the helm, a lead architect of Gilead is herself a woman. A woman who is so convinced of her mission, so immersed in the teachings of the Bible that she constructs the downfall of a state that has enabled her education and her sedition. As soon as Gilead comes into being, she pales into insignificance and gets relegated to the background. Her intelligence is forgotten and/or deliberately ignored. She is a prisoner of her own making.

It is hard not to see the parallels in today’s world. Governments and leaders that are openly misogynistic are propped up by women who feel they are doing the right and moral thing. Women eroding other women’s rights, supporting laws and lawmakers that are threatened by a woman’s civil liberties, her intelligence, her rights over her womb. But to what end?

‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ might be fiction, but it is fiction rooted in reality. The best kind of fiction always is. It also serves as a warning to those of us who are passive in the face of  the misery of others, secure in our belief that none of it will touch us. We are safe and we are protected. But for how long?

Watch ‘The Handmaids Tale’ and learn how quickly everything can be lost. Watch and learn and absorb the messages within. Watch and learn to fight for not just your own, but others’ rights as well. Or else, in the words of the German Lutheran pastor Martin Niemoller, there will be no one left to speak for you….

 

First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—

      Because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.