by Franca Rame
translated by Ed Emery
All rights reserved. This text shall not
by way of trade or otherwise be copied,
reproduced or recorded in a retrieval
system. Nor shall it be lent, resold, hire out or otherwise circulated without the owners' specific
written consent.
For performance rights, please contact:
ed.emery
[@] britishlibrary.net
Please be aware that this translation can only be
performed with explicit permission in writing from the agency representing
Dario Fo and Franca Rame, the Danese-Tolnay agency in Rome.
Original text copyright © Franca Rame
Translation copyright © Ed Emery
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
by Franca Rame
translated by Ed Emery
INTRODUCTION
[This is usually omitted or adapted
by English-language performers.]
Because of the stupid attitudes
that we find in Italy today, we're still in the position where a woman's best
chance of making people believe that she's suffered sexual violence, is if
she's "lucky" enough to appear before the relevant authorities
bruised, beaten and covered in blood. If she turns up DEAD, so much the better!
A corpse with the marks of rape
and physical violence is regarded as fairly acceptable proof!
In the past week there have been
seven cases of sexual violence before the courts.
Women students attacked on their
way to school or college; a woman patient attacked in a hospital; separated
wives physically overpowered by their husbands, confident of their marital
rights within the law.
You will certainly be aware that
the proposed new law against sexual violence has been completely mutilated in
Parliament by the amendment proposed by the Christian Democrat Member of
Parliament Casini. His amendment alters the definition in Clause One from
"crime against the person" to "crime against the sexual liberty
and dignity of the person". Once again, the familiar hotch-potch of a
non-specific, generalised sexual crime.
But the most obscene aspect is
the terroristic ritual to which a woman is subjected by policemen, doctors,
judges and prosecuting lawyers, when she has been raped, and when she presents
herself to the authorities under the delusion of demanding justice, and with
the illusion of expecting to get it. It's one whole filthy, sniggering ritual
of mockery.
DOCTOR: "Tell me, Miss – I'm
sorry, are you married? – during the incident, did you only feel disgust, or
did you also feel a certain pleasure.... an unconscious satisfaction....?"
POLICEMAN: "Didn't you feel
flattered that so many men, four in all, I believe, felt such a powerful desire
for you, felt such a HARD passion?"
JUDGE: "Did you remain
passive throughout, or did you, at a certain point, participate?"
DOCTOR: "Did you feel
yourself involved? Sexually aroused?"
PROSECUTING LAWYER: "Did you
feel yourself becoming moist?"
JUDGE: "Did you not think
that your groans, which were undoubtedly due to your suffering, could have been
misinterpreted as expressions of pleasure?"
POLICEMAN: "Did you
experience sexual gratification?"
DOCTOR: "Did you experience
orgasm?"
LAWYER: "If so, how many
times?"
The piece which I am going to
perform now comes from a personal account which was printed in Quotidiano
Donna [Women's Daily]. We have put the account into a theatrical form,
while completely respecting its content. We dedicate this piece to our Member
of Parliament, Mr Casini.
A radio's playing. I don't notice
it at first.
It takes a while to sink in –
someone's singing....
Yes, a radio. Pop music: love, moon,
June, stars above.... love....
I've got someone's knee, just one
knee, planted in my back, as if the person behind me is kneeling on the floor.
He's holding my hands with his,
twisting them tightly back.
My left hand, especially.
I don't know why, I find myself
thinking that maybe he's left-handed.
I've completely lost my grip on
what's happening to me.
I'm so terrified that I feel I'm
about to lose my mind, my voice.... I can't speak.
Only incredibly slowly do I
realise what's going on....
Oh God, my head is spinning!
How did I end up in this van? Did
they push me, did I climb in myself? Or did they lift me up, and throw me in?
I don't know.
I can't think for the racing of
my heart, pounding against my ribs, and the pain in my left hand, which is
becoming unbearable.
Why are they twisting my arm so
hard?
I make no attempt to move.
I'm frozen rigid.
Now the one behind me hasn't got
his knee in my back any more.He's got himself into a better position.... He's
sitting down, and he's got me held from behind.... between his legs.... like
they used to do when they took children's tonsils out.
That's the image that comes to
mind.
Why are they holding me so
tightly?
I don't move, I don't scream....
my voice is gone.
I've completely lost my grip on
what's happening to me.
The radio's playing. Not
particularly loud.
Why music? Why have they turned
it down, now?
Maybe it's because I'm not
screaming.
In addition to the one holding
me, there's another three.
I look at them: there's not much
light.... not a lot of space either.... Maybe that's why they've got me half
sitting up.
They seem calm. Very sure of
themselves. What are they doing? They're lighting a cigarette.
What's going on? Smoking? At a
time like this? Why are they holding me like this and smoking?
Something's about to happen. I
sense it.... I take a deep breath.... and another.... and another.
It does nothing. I can't get my
mind clear.... I've no understanding. Only fear.
Now one of them comes towards me.
Another sits on my right, and the third on the left. I see the red glow of
their cigarettes.
They're breathing heavily. Theyre
horribly close.
Something's about to happen. I
sense it.
The one who's holding me from
behind tenses all his muscles.... I can feel them, wherehe's holding me. He
hasn't tightened his grip, only tensed his muscles, as if getting ready to hold
me tighter.
The first one who moved towards
me gets down between my legs.... kneeling.... he forces my legs apart.
It's a precise movement, and the
one behind me seems to expect it, because he immediately hooks his legs over
mine, to keep them apart.
I've got trousers on. Why are
they spreading my legs with my trousers on? I feel worse than if I was naked!
My mind's taken off this feeling by
something which at first I don't know what it is.... a burning sensation,
slight at first, then sharper, and finally unbearable, on my left breast.
A burning, piercing pain.
Cigarettes.... against my
sweater, burning through onto my skin.
I find myself wondering what
you're supposed to do in a situation like this. I'm incapable of doing
anything, not even crying, or saying anything.
I feel as if I'm outside of
myself, standing at a window, being forced to watch something horrible.
The one on my right lights the
cigarettes, takes two draws and then passes them to the one between my legs.
One after another. The smell of burning wool must be irritating them: they've
got a razor. They cut through my sweater, lengthways, down the front.... they
cut my bra too.... the blade leaves a razor gash across my chest. An eight-inch
gash, according to the medical report.
The one between my legs, the one
who's kneeling, grabs my breasts with both hands. I feel the cold of him
against my burns....
Now they undo the zip on my
trousers, and they pull at my clothes. Only one shoe. Only one trouser leg.
Only.
The one holding me from behind is
getting excited. I can feel him rubbing up against me.
Now the one between my legs
pushes himself into me.
I want to be sick. I must keep
calm, calm.
"Move, bitch. Fuck me."
I try to fix my mind on the words
of the song; my heart is bursting inside me, I don't want to know what is
happening. I want to stay in the confusion I'm in. I don't understand....
language, words, mean nothing to me.
Another cigarette.
"Move, bitch!"
I am as if turned to stone.
Now the next one pushes into me.
He drives harder inside me than the first one. I feel a deep pain. "Move,
bitch!" The razor that they used to cut my sweater slashes across my face.
I can't feel whether it's cut me or not.
"Move, bitch. Fuck me."
Blood is running down my ears,
from my cheeks.
Now it's the third one's turn.
It's so horrible to feel these
animals getting pleasure inside you.
I manage to get out a couple of
words: "I'm dying. I've got a heart condition." They believe me....
They don't believe me.... They start arguing. "Let's get rid of her....
" "No.... " "Yes." Someone hits someone. They crush a
lighted cigarette onto my neck, just so as to stub it out.
At that point I think I finally
fainted.
I feel them moving me. The one
who was holding me from behind dresses me, with precise movements and with no
embarrassment. He has to dress me.... I'm no use for anything. He's the only
one who's not got undressed.... I mean, who's not had his trousers open. He's
edgy, and irritated that he's not "screwed"; he's complaining like a
spoilt child.... but I can feel that he's in a hurry, he's scared.
He doesn't know what to do with
my torn sweater. He tucks the two ends into my trousers.
The van stops for just long
enough to let me get out.... then it drives off.
I'm standing in a road. With my
right hand I hold my jacket shut over my bare breasts.
It's almost dark. Where am I?
Trees, grass.... I'm in the park.
I feel sick.... in the sense that
I feel I'm about to faint.... not just because of the physical pain in my body,
but also out of disgust.... because of the humiliation.... because of the feeling
that somebody's spat into my brain a million times.... and because of the sperm
that I feel spilling out of me.
I rest my head against a tree....
even my hair hurts. Oh yes.... they were pulling my hair to stop me moving my
head.
I run my hand over my face.... It
comes away covered with blood. I turn up my jacket collar.
I walk, I wander aimlessly....
Almost without noticing it, I
find myself in front of a police station.
I lean against the side of a
building opposite. I stare across at it, for a good while.
I think of what I would have to
face if I went in.
I can hear their questions.
I can see their faces.... I can
see them laughing....
I think for a moment or two.
Then I decide.
I'm going home.
I'll report it tomorrow.
[BLACKOUT]
Ends