Eliana Arnò
front of me was C. She had just henna and her hair from dark red to mahogany smells good. I enjoyed blowing in your hair and watch them mischievous and courageous return to their place. Behind me was leaning a girl. I do not remember the name: I thought only that he should not be much taller than me, I felt her boobs on my shoulder blades.
We were lined up and waited for the signal B. that we would put side by side. The signal came, and available as expected, I found myself in front of a battered tree trunk. It was time to leave behind the tickets we held firmly in hand so tightly his hands trying in vain to escape the cold. She was beautiful the idea of \u200b\u200bthe card set in the trunk of the Val Rosandra. So, after some maneuvering, I left that piece of paper that says "I walk alone " there alone, to reflect on that day, while all eyes were on us, not for him.
There were few, in piazza O. Five, maybe six ... almost all of them with sleepy faces. In fact it was already eight-thirty in the morning, but all dreamed the same thing: a leader in b. After a while the bus arrived and the rest of the girls. That day we would go in Muggia, Bagnoli, Trieste, Opicina, Duino, and there we marched. A girl came to Venice the night before the parade was accompanied on the accordion, the only voice of the group.
The idea was to walk in a line along the streets in silence, simply wearing the clothes you the ropes of Cassiopeia we had adjusted him. Auction the proceeds of our clothes would have been given to a woman victim of violence.
We were happy brigade from eleven to fifty years. It was fun to see us together: those busy to change, to those who wear makeup, some to escape the sickness .. not to mention the usual talk of a woman, the mundane and tasty judgments on the last frontier of the absorbent.
Well, that day started well: we were reading, euphoric, despite the gray damp of the city and carrying the weight of that date: it was Nov. 25. Forty-nine years before
three sisters, a little less silent parade of our light-footed, had been brutally massacred. The noise of their death was so strong that years later it was decided that day to remember and to give it a name: International Day Against Violence Against Women .
Gender violence is all too silent, however: the cases of violence do not exceed the reported cases in which the woman found the strength to speak.
I met a person some time ago. He told me that she realized that she was raped only after talking with some friends. His "No, I do not want" a silly evening spent between alcohol fumes and smoke, it seemed almost too unconvincing that she felt responsible for the incident. How can a woman do not understand to have been raped?
I can hardly understand it. Perhaps the shame of recognizing that the situation could be created this was avoided by making her feel responsible. Ruining this shame that leads straight to the sense of guilt. If a woman gets to feel responsible, the world revolves around that should make you feel like the red apple of temptation, as a primitive and ancestral guilt. The company has eyes and head of a man but a woman's body, one is accustomed to give the blame to the victims. The problem is twofold. The woman is the prey of this male-dominated society that is both judge and victim of herself, brought up by the same principles that oppress, but the intimate thoughts that a person's self is a thousand times more dark and endless as any other. While
fashion show, a man breaking the silence we carry said: "If you went around dressed as always, would not you be afraid of rapes. Bravo, bravo." Our clothes were blacks mixed with cream. The skirts came below the knees, shawls or capes covered us back, the shoes simple: the ornaments were not very conspicuous, there were curved seams that crept into the tissues. Only an idiot would confuse the dignity of our clothes with fake armor. Besides being in bad taste, is a clear manifestation of how commonly is seen violence against women, that is as pure physical fact, obscuring or even ignoring the violence so as to be deafening silence, that which is sustained over time, hidden in the corners of houses half-closed shutters, a muted violence that bears the name of indifference.
The parade ended in front of the Teatro dell 'ex opp. Each of us had a sentence to read: phrases chosen from among the many written by women against violence that afflicts us. Start
B. then to read, bypassing C., after that it's my turn, and jump over the voice the words that flew in the air.
Like a row of dominoes, took off one after another, until the whisper became buzz, the buzz and roar, and the roar became a voice, a voice.
(my) films this month: Marriage Italian Style, Vittorio De Sica, 1964.
front of me was C. She had just henna and her hair from dark red to mahogany smells good. I enjoyed blowing in your hair and watch them mischievous and courageous return to their place. Behind me was leaning a girl. I do not remember the name: I thought only that he should not be much taller than me, I felt her boobs on my shoulder blades.
We were lined up and waited for the signal B. that we would put side by side. The signal came, and available as expected, I found myself in front of a battered tree trunk. It was time to leave behind the tickets we held firmly in hand so tightly his hands trying in vain to escape the cold. She was beautiful the idea of \u200b\u200bthe card set in the trunk of the Val Rosandra. So, after some maneuvering, I left that piece of paper that says "I walk alone " there alone, to reflect on that day, while all eyes were on us, not for him.
There were few, in piazza O. Five, maybe six ... almost all of them with sleepy faces. In fact it was already eight-thirty in the morning, but all dreamed the same thing: a leader in b. After a while the bus arrived and the rest of the girls. That day we would go in Muggia, Bagnoli, Trieste, Opicina, Duino, and there we marched. A girl came to Venice the night before the parade was accompanied on the accordion, the only voice of the group.
The idea was to walk in a line along the streets in silence, simply wearing the clothes you the ropes of Cassiopeia we had adjusted him. Auction the proceeds of our clothes would have been given to a woman victim of violence.
We were happy brigade from eleven to fifty years. It was fun to see us together: those busy to change, to those who wear makeup, some to escape the sickness .. not to mention the usual talk of a woman, the mundane and tasty judgments on the last frontier of the absorbent.
Well, that day started well: we were reading, euphoric, despite the gray damp of the city and carrying the weight of that date: it was Nov. 25. Forty-nine years before
three sisters, a little less silent parade of our light-footed, had been brutally massacred. The noise of their death was so strong that years later it was decided that day to remember and to give it a name: International Day Against Violence Against Women .
Gender violence is all too silent, however: the cases of violence do not exceed the reported cases in which the woman found the strength to speak.
I met a person some time ago. He told me that she realized that she was raped only after talking with some friends. His "No, I do not want" a silly evening spent between alcohol fumes and smoke, it seemed almost too unconvincing that she felt responsible for the incident. How can a woman do not understand to have been raped?
I can hardly understand it. Perhaps the shame of recognizing that the situation could be created this was avoided by making her feel responsible. Ruining this shame that leads straight to the sense of guilt. If a woman gets to feel responsible, the world revolves around that should make you feel like the red apple of temptation, as a primitive and ancestral guilt. The company has eyes and head of a man but a woman's body, one is accustomed to give the blame to the victims. The problem is twofold. The woman is the prey of this male-dominated society that is both judge and victim of herself, brought up by the same principles that oppress, but the intimate thoughts that a person's self is a thousand times more dark and endless as any other. While
fashion show, a man breaking the silence we carry said: "If you went around dressed as always, would not you be afraid of rapes. Bravo, bravo." Our clothes were blacks mixed with cream. The skirts came below the knees, shawls or capes covered us back, the shoes simple: the ornaments were not very conspicuous, there were curved seams that crept into the tissues. Only an idiot would confuse the dignity of our clothes with fake armor. Besides being in bad taste, is a clear manifestation of how commonly is seen violence against women, that is as pure physical fact, obscuring or even ignoring the violence so as to be deafening silence, that which is sustained over time, hidden in the corners of houses half-closed shutters, a muted violence that bears the name of indifference.
The parade ended in front of the Teatro dell 'ex opp. Each of us had a sentence to read: phrases chosen from among the many written by women against violence that afflicts us. Start
B. then to read, bypassing C., after that it's my turn, and jump over the voice the words that flew in the air.
Like a row of dominoes, took off one after another, until the whisper became buzz, the buzz and roar, and the roar became a voice, a voice.
(my) films this month: Marriage Italian Style, Vittorio De Sica, 1964.
The title of the article is taken from the movie mentioned above.
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