An account of the recent rally in Dublin City Centre, “End Victim Blaming in the Courts”, November 14th, 2018.
November 14th is a gray, damp day. I get out of bed to go to a protest in the city centre, something that happens more often than not these days. I take a look at the stack of the posters I have accumulated over the last couple of months, but nothing seems to work. I check my watch; the bus is in an hour. Just enough time to put something together. I think for a second about what slogan I am going to use. What tone do I want to convey? The thinking is simply an act, even if it’s just for my own benefit. I’ve known what I wanted to say since the story broke.
A 17 year old girl was raped by a 27 year old man. But in the man’s defense, claims his lawyer, “does the evidence out rule the possibility that she was attracted to the defendant and was open to meeting someone and being with someone? You have to look at the way she was dressed. She was wearing a thong with a lace front.” Of course, he was found not guilty. It’s 2018, and inanimate objects such as clothes still somehow have a louder voice in our courts than women.
I’m sitting on the bus on my way in, holding the sign that I’ve made. The clouds are beginning to spit rain, and I know my quick work isn’t going to hold up. I’ve already attracted a few uneasy stares from people at the bus stop; maybe my choice of words was too blunt. Unsurprisingly, I don’t really care how they feel about the matter. A friend gets on the bus and we have a sprightly and fun conversation about life. We talk about different projects our group has planned, different things happening in politics, she tells me about her kids. We’re saving the anger for later, for when we need it to fuel our voices.
We jump off the bus at Bachelor’s Walk and head quickly to the Spire. Another friend meets us there, and we marvel at the work that she’s put into her poster. It perfectly illustrates the point we are here to make: clothes are not consent.
We get to the Spire where Rosa, an incredible feminist activist group, have organised a protest in solidarity of the girl in Cork. On this day protests are being held around the country. By the end of the week, Cork, Limerick, Belfast, and Galway will have stood in solidarity. The crowd is mixed, full of different ages, nationalities, and genders. We listen to a number of speakers, all of whom express anger and disgust at how the system continues to tell women that their voices are less important than their choice of clothing. Notably, Ruth Coppinger, the TD that pulled out a thong in Dail Eireann, is there. She holds up the same thong, and asks us to join her. Dozens of thongs are raised in the air, and chanting ensues. This is not consent. This is not consent.
The energy of the crowd is reminiscent of Repeal marches. There is electricity here, as well as fury. It’s not only about changing the courts, but about changing society. The reason that an argument such as ‘a lace thong equals consent’ can be used and work is because society believes it. When we spread these messages in our day to day life, they become part of societal narrative. But the truth is, women wear clothes for the same reason that men do. Because they are comfortable, because they like how it makes them look, because they want to wear that particular outfit on that particular day. And the important message to drive home here is, even if she did go to see this man with the intention of having sex, she has the unshakeable right to change her mind. Women are allowed to decide, at any point, that they do not consent. There is no point of no return, and that point certainly doesn’t lie in the type of underwear we are wearing. Consent can be given, just as it can be taken away.
We leave the protest feeling energised, and angry. Here we are having the same conversation again, but we will continue to have this conversation until it becomes history. Two men from India stop us and ask what the protest is for. They shake their heads knowingly, and say that it’s the same where they come from. They shrug their shoulders and say it will never change, that’s just life. We tell them that change happens when you fight for it.
The crowd breaks up. The three of us stand on Henry Street, discussing the morning’s events. A man steps between us and stops to look at me. He stares at me for a few seconds and then blows a kiss and walks away.
And the fight goes on.
Written by Julia Crowe
Instagram: @Julia
Kildare Feminist Network 