I appreciate this post and your reflection. I agree that talking about this openly is proactive. I understand the instinct to focus outrage on the clear perpetrators.
At the same time, I struggle with the idea that we should be careful not to let our outrage spill beyond “monsters.” When multiple respected teachers are exposed, and when we have seen cases where the men involved were ordinary and well regarded in their communities, it becomes harder to draw a clean line.
In the Pelicot case, the men were not powerful elites. They were nurses, teachers, firefighters, fathers. Hundreds more saw and did nothing.
I am honestly trying to understand how we distinguish between a few aberrant individuals and a broader cultural problem without minimizing the scale of harm. How do you think about that?
(See: “What would a woman do to an unconscious man if she thought no one would find out?” - Anna Wharton, Dec 19, 2024
“There’s an interaction I think back to every time we are collectively confronted with the utterly habitual nature of male violence against women. It was at a conference a year or so ago by Le Monde journalist Lorraine de Foucher, who won a Pulitzer for her coverage of the porn industry, child prostitution and sex trafficking in France.
The Pelicot trials came up during the Q&A, and a seventy-something man in the front row timidly raised his hand. You could tell he was carefully phrasing his question and choosing his words as he was saying them.
He said: « So, let me get this right. In the fairly small town of Mazan, Dominique Pélicot easily found 90+ men willing to rape his wife while she was drugged and unconscious. Hundreds more saw the messages on the forum and not one decided to tell the police about it. »
At that point, a lot of us were kind of bracing for either a dismissal of the facts, or some convoluted explanation for how those men were unique. But no. He continued:
« So, does that mean that in every town, every village in our country, there are just as many men willing to rape an unconscious woman? »
Lorraine de Foucher replied, « Yes. »
« But then that means that there are thousands, tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands! » (You could hear at that point the wheels turning in his head).
« Yes », she nodded again.
« But… that’s abominable! It’s a catastrophe! It’s a national emergency! »
On teaching, I keep thinking about something I read by Rita Segato. She uses the term “pedagogy of cruelty.” A pedagogy is a teaching philosophy, a way of instructing people about how the world works.
She argues that sexual violence is not only an act against one person. It is a form of communication. It teaches. It signals power. It instructs others about who has control and who does not.
That framing unsettled me. If violence teaches, then it is not private. It is addressed to all of us. It tells men what power looks like. It tells women what vulnerability looks like. It tells communities what silence looks like.
As teachers, that raises a hard question. If cruelty is teaching something, what are we actively teaching in response? What counters that lesson?
I would be curious how you think about that in your role as a teacher.
Segato says:
Sovereign power cannot assert itself unless it can sow terror. To this end, it addresses other men in the vicinity, the victim’s guardians or those who are responsible for her, those within her domestic circle and those who are charged with protecting her as representatives of the state. It addresses the men belonging to other fraternities, whether they are allies or rivals, in order to demonstrate the many kinds of resources that it commands and the vitality of the network that sustains it. It confirms, for its allies and business associates, that its control over the territory. is total, that its network of alliances is cohesive and trustworthy, and that its resources and contacts are unlimited.”
I appreciate this post and your reflection. I agree that talking about this openly is proactive. I understand the instinct to focus outrage on the clear perpetrators.
At the same time, I struggle with the idea that we should be careful not to let our outrage spill beyond “monsters.” When multiple respected teachers are exposed, and when we have seen cases where the men involved were ordinary and well regarded in their communities, it becomes harder to draw a clean line.
In the Pelicot case, the men were not powerful elites. They were nurses, teachers, firefighters, fathers. Hundreds more saw and did nothing.
I am honestly trying to understand how we distinguish between a few aberrant individuals and a broader cultural problem without minimizing the scale of harm. How do you think about that?
(See: “What would a woman do to an unconscious man if she thought no one would find out?” - Anna Wharton, Dec 19, 2024
And
https://celestemdavis.substack.com/p/epstein-files-patriarchy?r=1k2f4&utm_medium=ios
That references a note from Magdelénat:
“There’s an interaction I think back to every time we are collectively confronted with the utterly habitual nature of male violence against women. It was at a conference a year or so ago by Le Monde journalist Lorraine de Foucher, who won a Pulitzer for her coverage of the porn industry, child prostitution and sex trafficking in France.
The Pelicot trials came up during the Q&A, and a seventy-something man in the front row timidly raised his hand. You could tell he was carefully phrasing his question and choosing his words as he was saying them.
He said: « So, let me get this right. In the fairly small town of Mazan, Dominique Pélicot easily found 90+ men willing to rape his wife while she was drugged and unconscious. Hundreds more saw the messages on the forum and not one decided to tell the police about it. »
At that point, a lot of us were kind of bracing for either a dismissal of the facts, or some convoluted explanation for how those men were unique. But no. He continued:
« So, does that mean that in every town, every village in our country, there are just as many men willing to rape an unconscious woman? »
Lorraine de Foucher replied, « Yes. »
« But then that means that there are thousands, tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands! » (You could hear at that point the wheels turning in his head).
« Yes », she nodded again.
« But… that’s abominable! It’s a catastrophe! It’s a national emergency! »
« …… Yes. It is. » - Mélina Magdelénat
.
If you’re not grateful, you’re not paying attention.
Love this
On teaching, I keep thinking about something I read by Rita Segato. She uses the term “pedagogy of cruelty.” A pedagogy is a teaching philosophy, a way of instructing people about how the world works.
She argues that sexual violence is not only an act against one person. It is a form of communication. It teaches. It signals power. It instructs others about who has control and who does not.
That framing unsettled me. If violence teaches, then it is not private. It is addressed to all of us. It tells men what power looks like. It tells women what vulnerability looks like. It tells communities what silence looks like.
As teachers, that raises a hard question. If cruelty is teaching something, what are we actively teaching in response? What counters that lesson?
I would be curious how you think about that in your role as a teacher.
Segato says:
Sovereign power cannot assert itself unless it can sow terror. To this end, it addresses other men in the vicinity, the victim’s guardians or those who are responsible for her, those within her domestic circle and those who are charged with protecting her as representatives of the state. It addresses the men belonging to other fraternities, whether they are allies or rivals, in order to demonstrate the many kinds of resources that it commands and the vitality of the network that sustains it. It confirms, for its allies and business associates, that its control over the territory. is total, that its network of alliances is cohesive and trustworthy, and that its resources and contacts are unlimited.”
I am grateful you are here and wrote this Daniel. Here with you. ✨