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Harassment can kill. Hasn’t it killed some part of you?

As a woman, it’s killed a part of me that loved to dance in the first shower of summer – since the ‘concerned’ cousin offered to help my mum by rubbing me down so I didn’t catch cold. It’s killed a part of me that enjoyed singing loudly- when I first realised the sounds were words, had meanings, meanings aimed at me. It’s killed a part of me that loved to make friends – when I realised that looking into people’s eyes was an invitation. It’s killed a part of me that loved a wind that could sweep me off the floor – when I was told that the shape of me was a provocation.

I’m sure it’s killed a part of every man too. The boy who needs to die if the man is to come alive. The connection which needs to be stifled if authority is to be gained. The sensitivity that needs to be choked off before it makes you effeminate. The conscience that needs to be excised if you are to sleep at night.

Harassment kills.

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