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harborshoreA Woman in Berlin by Anonymous. Warning for discussion of sexual assault and war crimes under cut. Also warning for commentary that is not very coherent.
This is one of the best books I've ever read. And it is one of the most harrowing. I'd gotten to the point of the Russians being close to Berlin before and stopped, because I knew what would happen from the introduction (estimates say about one hundred thousand women were raped in Berlin after the Russian Army came in) and I didn't think I could bear it. I read the rest tonight, sitting in a hostel on a bunk bed, unable to move until I had finished.
Oh, my heart. God, it is breaking. I hate war. I hate the fact that sexual assault is used as a systematic tool to punish the conquered nation through its women. I hate that national shame makes it so hard to speak of afterward. I hate that nothing is ever as simple as "they were in the wrong." I so wish that it was that simple, because then wars would be easier to understand. And I'm not saying WWII wasn't necessary to stop Hitler and stop the Holocaust, but there is no part of me that isn't hurting for the gang-raped German women right now. And there is no part of me that isn't amazed at their resilience. Bearing what should not be necessary to bear.
She writes that "How many times?" became a standard form of greeting between the women. And despite the horror of that, there is my relief, because at least during the war (not after, as the introduction tells us) the women would talk to each other about it. It was no one's secret; it was happening to all of them except the very few who were able to hide in an attic or in a flat disguised as a typhus quarantine or those who were too old. They helped each other, even if later it was made into a thing they didn't speak of.
She doesn't describe the worst of it, only talks about being in pain, only briefly describes the horrors that happen to other women. The thing that stays with me is their resilience. It should be obvious by now that I have no idea how to review this book. I don't know what to say but that I'm glad it was written, I think it should be read, I'm glad I read it even if I'm caught in horror at the moment, and I'm so angry.
I'm so sad and I'm so angry, because as Margaret Atwood wrote: This has been happening. This happens. WWII didn't mark the end of genocide or systematic use of sexual assault in war. When the HELL are we going to learn, tell me that. When the fuck will we learn?
This is one of the best books I've ever read. And it is one of the most harrowing. I'd gotten to the point of the Russians being close to Berlin before and stopped, because I knew what would happen from the introduction (estimates say about one hundred thousand women were raped in Berlin after the Russian Army came in) and I didn't think I could bear it. I read the rest tonight, sitting in a hostel on a bunk bed, unable to move until I had finished.
Oh, my heart. God, it is breaking. I hate war. I hate the fact that sexual assault is used as a systematic tool to punish the conquered nation through its women. I hate that national shame makes it so hard to speak of afterward. I hate that nothing is ever as simple as "they were in the wrong." I so wish that it was that simple, because then wars would be easier to understand. And I'm not saying WWII wasn't necessary to stop Hitler and stop the Holocaust, but there is no part of me that isn't hurting for the gang-raped German women right now. And there is no part of me that isn't amazed at their resilience. Bearing what should not be necessary to bear.
She writes that "How many times?" became a standard form of greeting between the women. And despite the horror of that, there is my relief, because at least during the war (not after, as the introduction tells us) the women would talk to each other about it. It was no one's secret; it was happening to all of them except the very few who were able to hide in an attic or in a flat disguised as a typhus quarantine or those who were too old. They helped each other, even if later it was made into a thing they didn't speak of.
She doesn't describe the worst of it, only talks about being in pain, only briefly describes the horrors that happen to other women. The thing that stays with me is their resilience. It should be obvious by now that I have no idea how to review this book. I don't know what to say but that I'm glad it was written, I think it should be read, I'm glad I read it even if I'm caught in horror at the moment, and I'm so angry.
I'm so sad and I'm so angry, because as Margaret Atwood wrote: This has been happening. This happens. WWII didn't mark the end of genocide or systematic use of sexual assault in war. When the HELL are we going to learn, tell me that. When the fuck will we learn?
(no subject)
Date: 2011-01-14 02:49 pm (UTC)I feel like that is actually quite a lot, even if we haven't necessarily gotten to the part where the courts have the power to actually impart consequences yet: because if there are definitions, it's going to get easier to discuss it. And for the victims, god, and for the societies who are trying to put themselves back together, that's definitely somewhere to start. Better access to information about the way these things work is essential, and it's so much easier if the information exists. Does that make sense? It's like talking about it but on an epic and societal scale.
Blargh. It's hard to make sense. But I really agree with you about the Steinbeck, too--it was a very compassionate scene, and she was, yes. That whole book has so much compassion, I think it's why it resonated so much with me. (On an irate literature major note: WHY don't they teach that instead of Mice and Men?