My heart unsteady in my throat

I wake my son, curls and squinty eyes shield his face

Five more minutes becomes 10 or 15

Mornings sting for the strong-willed night owl

His shoulders stiff with ire

Wednesdays are heavy

He packs for his dad’s

I tread carefully

I hold my tongue

Any move triggers

Wednesdays are grenades

My sweet boy barbed in anger

We leave for school

He recoils from me

His head low, lips terse, eyes hard

He walks into school and does not look back

Wednesdays are goodbyes.

Joanne Fedler Media blog joins the global women’s campaign, the 16 Days of Activism against Gender-Based Violence, which starts from the International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women (25th November) up to Human Rights Day (10th December). We would love you to share these stories on social media (using the hashtags: #OrangeUrWorld #OrangeTheWorld #HearMeToo #EndVAW), with your girlfriends, mothers, daughters, friends and sisters.

During this period, Joanne Fedler’s book, Things Without a Name (10th Anniversary Edition), can be downloaded for FREE.

Download Things Without a Name E-book

(Please check your email after clicking Submit for the download link)

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I am who I am because of my father.

Early on, it was evident that we shared common interests – common connections.

He instilled in me a love of the theatre. I joined him on stage in amateur productions from the age of nine. Playing the lead role in high school plays was a highlight for me and a source of great pride for him. I have always attributed my acting ability to my father’s influence.

My musical taste was inspired by his choices – Beethoven, Gershwin, Rogers and Hammerstein. I learned early in life that I had musical talent and was encouraged to play instruments and sing in a variety of choirs. My capacity to find comfort in the strum of a guitar or escape into the world of song was due to his doggedness.

He knew the importance of a good education, having graduated from medical school later in life. A university degree was always going to be essential for my development. He showed me that with a goal, commitment and persistence, you can surprise even yourself with your achievements.

I followed in his military footsteps – he was an RAF pilot during the Second World War who suffered life-threatening injuries when his plane crash-landed in the Mediterranean Sea. He spent seven months in a Moroccan hospital. I became a Lieutenant in the Army Reserve, and I came to understand that finding a cause greater than self will give you a purposeful life. I also learned that through determination and resilience, you can overcome any of life’s physical and emotional scars.

Later, I became a helicopter pilot and felt the freedom that he would have known as the bonds of earth slipped away. I learned that, as a pilot, you have to be in control, that the fate of yourself and others lie in your hands. You have the power to shape your, and their, destiny.

Looking back, I know that it was my father’s actions and his passions that lay the foundations for my future – for the woman I was to become. You might say that he was grooming me.

In fact, he ‘groomed’ me from the age of eight. From that time onwards, he and I shared a terrible secret. Sometimes it was a secret of the daylight – but mostly it was a secret of the dark. Night after night, year after year, the secret was persistently and consistently reinforced.

For all my childhood years, the secret was kept. And because of my expertise as a ‘secret keeper’, it continued its buried existence long into adulthood.

My acting talent became an essential skill and my capacity to find joy in creative pursuits, a catalyst for resilience. I possess a determination to succeed in the face of great adversity and a resolve to shape my own destiny…

Three years ago, on the final day of my treatment for breast cancer, and eighteen years after I had severed all contact with my father, I received a letter from him. It was not quite an apology, but it was an acknowledgment of what he had done. I agonized over how to respond and eventually I decided to go and visit him.

I sat at my father’s bedside, a grown woman, beyond his reach. He was a shrivelled old man in his nineties, at the end of his life. I did not come to forgive my father. But that is what I did.

It was the first time I had seen him in nearly two decades and the last time I would ever see him.

He died ten weeks later.

Now I am close to finishing my memoir, His Daughter Remembers, in which I finally grieve the loss of my childhood and celebrate the woman I became, in spite of my father.

Joanne Fedler Media blog joins the global women’s campaign, the 16 Days of Activism against Gender-Based Violence, which starts from the International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women (25th November) up to Human Rights Day (10th December). We would love you to share these stories on social media (using the hashtags: #OrangeUrWorld #OrangeTheWorld #HearMeToo #EndVAW), with your girlfriends, mothers, daughters, friends and sisters.

During this period, Joanne Fedler’s book, Things Without a Name (10th Anniversary Edition), can be downloaded for FREE.

Download Things Without a Name E-book

(Please check your email after clicking Submit for the download link)

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When I was asked to curate a series of blog posts for 16 days of activism against gender violence, I quickly discovered I was unprepared.

I had to approach these stories like a child on the shoreline of a cold, dark ocean. I was scared to rush into the immensity of the overwhelming swells – afraid of being swallowed by the waters I did not know, and those frothing waves with which I am all too well-acquainted.

I procrastinated for a time, certain of my eventual plunge, yet hesitant to wade into unfamiliar currents. I examined the benign components – the seashells and sand castles upon my sweep of deserted beach – as I organized the posts, updated my files, and standardized formatting. I dipped my toes in when I scanned the pieces for the consistent use of italics and quotation marks, and pulled them out again when words like “bruised” and “attacked” and “rape” lapped too frigidly at my mind.

I was the first line of public sharing for these writers. Many of them had been dumped into the abyss as if abandoned suddenly in the middle of the ocean with no land, or even buoys, in sight. Some floated with loved ones; some gave themselves over to the tide for a time – a necessary preservation to find the energy to fight the breakers yet to come. Some are still struggling for breath against the seemingly endless cresting waves.

But every single one has found a way to offer respite to her capsized sisters. They are the life preserver.

They have been for me.

In sharing their traumas, they gift others with community. By opening up about difficult details and thoughts, they chip away at the isolations of abnormality. And through their stories of survival, healing, and reclamation, they contribute their voices to a conversation that gains resonance and power every day.

They lend others their strength.

I have spent a lifetime downplaying my experiences with violence. Unless speaking with close friends I have generalized my encounters, usually minimizing what I have been through by dismissively remarking, “I’ve experienced every type of abuse.”

Let me be precise.

I have been raped. I have been inappropriately grabbed on the bus. I have been choked to the point of losing consciousness. I have been sexually assaulted by someone I knew. I have been verbally and emotionally scarred. I have been beaten. I have had a stranger expose himself to me in a park. I have been dragged by my hair. I have been stared at by a naked man in a public pool. I have been threatened by a boyfriend at knifepoint.

Now, let me be clear about who I am.

I am loving. I am funny. I am intelligent and adventurous and beautiful. I am passionate. I am resilient. I am inspirational, educated, and tenacious. I am an ethical, hopeful spirit whose thoughtful treatment of the world and people around her will be a legacy for my children.

We are NOT defined by what we have been through.

Such experiences shape us; they draw their lines upon our faces and carve caution into our hearts. It takes courage to share the difficult parts of our past with others, especially with strangers and particularly in a public forum. It is the reason these stories have been gathered here: to spark dialogue. In curating this series, I have been an eye-witness to the rising up of phoenixes.

Joanne Fedler Media blog joins the global women’s campaign, the 16 Days of Activism against Gender-Based Violence, which starts from the International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women (25th November) up to Human Rights Day (10th December). We would love you to share these stories on social media (using the hashtags: #OrangeUrWorld #OrangeTheWorld #HearMeToo #EndVAW), with your girlfriends, mothers, daughters, friends and sisters.

During this period, Joanne Fedler’s book, Things Without a Name (10th Anniversary Edition), can be downloaded for FREE.

Download Things Without a Name E-book

(Please check your email after clicking Submit for the download link)

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They tried to bury us.
They didn’t know we were seeds.
– Mexican proverb

On days when I didn’t have to deliver a lecture to first year law students back in the late 1990’s, I worked at People Opposing Women Abuse. It was a volunteer job two days a week. I shared an office with the social workers in an icy little house that got no morning or afternoon sun, in a suburb in Johannesburg easy enough to reach from the townships by public transport.

I took notes by hand on a pad of lined paper. It gave me something officious to do. It seemed respectful. I wrote everything down – never sifting the legally relevant from the irrelevant. I’d often reach the end of a session and have no legal remedy to offer if a woman didn’t want to lay a criminal charge, get an AVO or sue for damages. Instead I’d offer her a biscuit and a cup of tea. I’d often break professional protocol and hug her. I’d tell her I was sorry for what she’d been through. That she didn’t deserve what had happened to her and I’d try to usher her out so I could get to my next appointment. I’d often see her back in our waiting room in weeks or months down the line. I never got used to this cycle of useless to-ing and fro-ing.

I was an efficient note-taker by day. Sometimes a chauffeur when a woman needed a ride to court. A hand-holder when she needed moral support. In my loftier self-aggrandizing moments, I thought of myself as ‘an advocate in the fight against gender violence.’ After two years, I was in therapy, suffering from secondary traumatization, a fancy word for anxiety-by-association; a mental saturation from too many stories for which there are no happy endings.

But by then I knew too much. After all those years, I understood the law and its limitations. I got how the system worked. So I set up a legal advocacy to end violence against women. I sat on a commission to draft new domestic violence legislation. I worked on a 900 page manual for paralegals to share everything I knew. I did this during my pregnancy and the year after my daughter was born. When she was six weeks old, I travelled with her to Cape Town, to make a submission to Parliament on some law or another designed to ‘protect women from violence.’ My baby started to cry just before I was called to speak. A kind woman offered to take her outside. Distracted and distressed by my baby’s cries which I could hear through the closed doors, I felt my breast milk soaking through my bra making wet patches on my dress. I don’t imagine I did much for the struggle against gender violence that day in my leaking incoherence.

I fantasized that by the time my little girl was a teenager, violence against women, like concentration camps and gas chambers, would be a shameful nightmare of history, a phase we’d look back on with lofty ‘it’s-hard-to-believe’s’ and ‘how-did-society-allow-it-to-happen’s?

It is twenty-one years later. At times it feels like we are circling the same hopeless strategies, never making it through this particular circle of hell.

When I quit my work at the frontlines of ‘gender violence,’ I swore I would never go back there again. I was done. I moved countries. I reinvented myself. I became a writer (all that note-taking came in handy at last). I would lose myself in stories and I’d teach others to do the same. But the fantasy we have about free will is that there is such a thing. Who we become is a negotiation between choice and the plans life has for us, whether you call it karma, destiny or good old unfinished business.

See, writing brings its own demands: tell the truth. Break silence. Write what you know. Write from your pain. So I did. I wrote, among other books, Things Without a Name, the story of Faith, a counsellor at a women’s crisis centre, who has given up on finding love, and who has to learn to love the one person most worthy of that love – herself. It was my way of making sense of those bleak years and of honouring all the stories I had borne witness to.

As I began to teach writing, what I never counted on was that in a single room, online forum or Facebook group where women writers gather, everyone has her own #metoo story. I ran as far as I could from the icy confines of that counselling room the sun could never reach, only to find myself up to my collarbone in secrets, shames and shattered spirits sourced in male violence.

The difference between the law and storytelling is that the law designates you as either the victim or the perpetrator – you can only ever be one or the other. In law you have to prove your suffering, sometimes at the expense of your sanity. Stories on the other hand, ask us to find who we are through the tangle of experience (no matter how horrifying), and to make our own precious meaning from it all. We dare never cower. We grab our stories by the balls and we tell them who we are because of them. Not the other way around.

In writing, we shape what we have lived and seen. We return to cruelties with questions we can only form as adults who have passed through the narrow passage of suffering and grief and with enough of a footing to look back. What really happened here? How did it shape me? What do I believe and trust in the light of this? From this vantage point we honour the self who endured, the self who survived and who now stands on the other side of it all, able to look back. Whether we find answers is neither here nor there, and no memoir is improved by an author’s resolution of doubt and the closures she crafts. The fact that we are alive and breathing and have the authority to be the one asking questions is a privilege and a cause for celebration. It is the mark of a person remaking herself. It is birth all over again, this time by choice.

It is in these sacred conversations with writers that I have remade my heart.

Today, 25th November, marks the beginning of 16 days of activism against gender violence worldwide. It lasts until 10th December, International Human Rights Day.

Every day over this period, the Joanne Fedler Media blog will feature the voice of a new writer in our community who has survived to rebuild herself. We would love you to share these stories on social media, with your girlfriends, mothers, daughters, friends and sisters.

I have also chosen today to relaunch the 10-year anniversary edition of Things Without A Name, first published in 2008, which I am giving away as a free e-book for the next 16 days. It has a new preface, in which I enumerate all the important changes I see in this last decade – the ones that inspire hope.

Please feel generously enabled to download the ebook of Things Without a Name and gift it to anyone you think needs to be recognized for having survived her life, or just because she’d love a good read.

Things Without a Name is about the power of naming things and the way we are defined by the things we cannot name.

No matter our histories (and let’s face it, some of us have survived a shitstorm) we are free to rechristen our experiences; to declare motherhood a form of leadership, self-love, a weapon of disarmament and storytelling, a superpower.

As the wonderful Hannah Gadsby says in her show on Netflix, Nanette:

‘Stories hold our cure.…’

She goes on to say:

‘I just needed my story felt, heard and understood… your story is my story and my story is your story…please help me take care of my story.’

As soon as we name our experience, we offer our story into the care of others.

For these 16 days, let’s take care of each other’s stories.