Tears Without Water

How do I find words for the depths off my grief? How do I express all that was stolen from?

In this post, I speak to that, I speak not for me but for so many exited women who grief is so deep, they cannot remember how to cry.

I shall try to write to the huge gaps and silences that we carry with us.

We may be silent, we may be living in a world of silence – but we are not passive, we have not forgotten, we are not destroyed.

Our silence is because words cannot fit fully our memories, our pain and certainly not our deep grief. All I say is sketches of what it was that we make wordless.

A huge part of our grief is we live in an environment where women and girls disappeared. They vanish into a horrible silence.

The evil of the sex trade is make the prostituted class so sub-human that we could not feel, could not let ourselves see, would hear no language about no words of those who were gone – and had no words for what we knew must me true.

We knew in our deadness – that to be disappeared was to move on to more violence, to be disappeared is to a suicide, to be disappeared is to be murdered and thrown away.

We knew we were nothing in lie – so why would our deaths count?

All we could do was to fall into silence, and think at least it was not me.

We harden our hearts, coz it was all we could do. Even as those we had felt some love or some inkling of affection for disappeared, we survived by closing down our hearts.

But then those who have never been in our shoes – say look see the hard-hearted whore, she doesn’t know how to cry.

I never cried when my best friend committed suicide, not able to handle one more rape, one more battering, one more pimp sending her into sadism, one more sexual torturing, one more words of hate.

I had not space to cry, I had lost water in my eyes – I never cried, but I grieve her every day, and rage for such a terrible waste.

I could not cry as I heard or read of murders of the prostituted – and saw missing women or girls round.

I could not cry, I could not let myself know – I keep myself dead to somehow get through the day.

I was dead as punters would laugh saying –

Bet she dead, bet she’s been cut up.

Another dead whore – who would give a shit.

You could be next – you could be next – you could be next.

No wonder we survived by falling into silence.

We knew we were disposable, we knew we were just goods with a sell-by date – so we knew silence may of made us safe for a sort while.

The deepest silence come from the endless repetition of how we were made sexual goods – the endless ways to sexual torture us, the amount of men that consumed our bodies, the cynical selling us off to the higher bidder.

It is the silence of the slave, silence of those so abandoned they cannot even imagine any help.

It is the silence of hurt beyond words, it a silence terrified to speak for the rage is too overwhelming, a silence from centuries of betrayal and pain.

When and if exited women speak to that routine of hell – they must find their own language – not just the language of feminism, not just the language of the  Left, not just the language of morals – no it must our words, and our control over our truths.

A start is moving away from language of rape into the language of torture, language of being made into goods, language of slavery, language of repetition.

That is why the language of poetry, the language of fiction, the language of ghost stories, the language of survivors of long-term torture, the language of soldiers in front-line war areas, language of concentration camps survivors, language of fairy tale – are all part of learning how to speak to our truths.

It is not the language of statistics, not the solid language of fact – all that is controlled by profiteers and consumers of the sex trade.

They use “fact” to prove that exited women must be deluded, must be too damaged to understand their own realities.

They use “fact”, to say if the prostituted stay controllable and stay in their role, then there is nothing wrong with the sex trade.

Exited women have to break that language – and go to the heart and drag out empathy to bring about real change.

It is the voice of the poet, the voice that connect into the spirit, the voice that connects with the prostituted from all times and all cultures – that can and does change hearts and minds.

Those voices become so powerful – and do make a change that can only go forward.

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3 responses to “Tears Without Water

  1. rmott…. Thanks for sharing, again…. I know that you realize your sharing will help someone, somewhere, and this post proves that…. I’m going to re-blog this, if you please, as I do for most of your posts… it’s little enough, and I only wish I could do more to help…. Take care, sister, and Blessed Be….

    Like

  2. Reblogged this on gigoid and commented:
    Here is another post from a survivor of the sex slavery trade… please share this with all of your followers as well… This atrocity will never end until we all join these women in their fight… Free our sisters, Free Ourselves….

    Like

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