The harsh reality is that I am here in
this city, June 1994, listening to Peter’s cruel revelation. He
was sitting on the wicker chair looking sternly in my direction, trying
to get an answer from me. I was lost in yesterday when I would do anything
for him. Anything from holding a dead embryo on my palm when I was lying
in a hospital in Kenya, to believing that he would love me for ever. I
had been travelling to unknown destinations wherever he wanted to take
me. Wouldn’t you do the same for love?
“Sige noget fa helvede kvinde”, he suddenly shouted in Danish.
Say something damn it woman. This was Mr. Hyde speaking. I didn’t
want to look at him. I was wrapped in the comfort of yesterday. I felt
speechless. Couldn’t form words. Lying there making myself helpless
in front of him. I started to fumble about, trying to formulate an answer,
feeling clumsy. Then I heard voices again. Sharp, clattering, determined
and clear voices of other women. They seemed very close. No, I am not
schizophrenic. These were real voices from the past.
“Do you have anything to say”? asked the
women, reminding one of the men of a specific episode years back.
“Can’t you remember?”, the man was asked. If he could,
it was bad enough. But if he couldn’t that was really bad. They
were interrogating all the men in the organisation. They would ask men’s
lovers and wives as well, how the men had behaved at home.
Before we go further, before you get confused, we have to do the hopscotch.
Backstage, Denmark in the late 70's. Peter became more and more confused
as his political studies became more complicated. Confusion forced him
to take up hobbies he had neglected in the past. "I think its in
my blood. I am always restless. I always wanted to do something meaningful.
But now I want to delve into my artistic talents. Maybe I will feel happier,"
he declared.
To fulfil that side of his character he took three months leave from his
work to invest money and time on art. Lots of money. As a faithful partner,
I supported and encouraged his artistic vision. The result was an exhibition
in a small, private art gallery. He received no publicity, but many people
visited the gallery. His mission completed. His artistic desires satisfied.
His technique was purely surrealistic and that wasn't the trend at that
particular time, but he was a good artist.
Many of the paintings were then given away as gifts to family and friends.
Meanwhile the crisis in the organisation KAK became more and more visible.
Members started questioning the leadership.
In order to divert their attention, Anna started campaigning and mobilising
the female members. She raised the issue of women's roles in the organisation.
Most of the female members took up the fight against their male comrades
for being male chauvinist. It was decided, they needed to be reformed
and the reformation strategy was put in to practice. All the male members
would be invited one by one to face their female counterparts.
“Do you remember that evening in the meeting when we were in Sweden,
you forgot to mention my name? You bloody male chauvinistic pig”,
Hanne would ask the question to Niels.
All men would be reminded of their bad behaviour in the past, given examples
of how they had disrespected their women comrades.The men had to go through
criticism and self criticism and had to show the willingness to reform.
Apology and contrition were mandatory. The meetings were five women to
one man. Women members would note down every sin the men had committed.
The men had no chance to prepare themselves against accusations. They
didn't even dare tell each other what harsh methods were used to extract
their confessions.
None of the men dared to alert other male comrades for the fear of being
exposed in public as a male chauvinist. Marxists being male chauvinists?
That would be the biggest shame for them to admit. Instead they let themselves
be insulted throughout the meetings and promised to reform themselves.
Most of them were physically beaten up by the women until they "gave
in". Peter was considered one of the worst male chauvinists who needed
that reform. Some of the men were so clever that they devised tactics
to get away with having only the 'mild' treatment, which meant they only
attended 3 or 4 of those terrible meetings where as others had to go through
20 to 30 of them. Peter attended about 15 of those meetings. He was interrogated
and beaten up, physically with fists and slaps by his own dear women comrades!
Oh, Peter how ridiculous you looked returning home tearfully from those
encounters. Just as you were beginning to slap me, you were being slapped
yourself.
Dr. Jekyll was slapped by the women and Mr. Hyde was slapping Svera. Those
women were not physically big, yet Peter submitted to 'interrogations'
through a warped sense of duty. What a pity that duty never extended to
his wife and children. He would come home to me every night, frightened,
crying and humiliated. I was furious to witness my husband in that state.
I took to him as if he was a child. I nurtured his soul, like a mother.
There were some men without support from anybody. They simply broke down.
One committed suicide. The leaders were ruthless, hardcore, aggressive
Marxists. After several clashes during factional fighting, some of the
members rebelled and formed a new group with new leadership. I protected
him. I gave him the courage in my blinkered state. I couldn't believe
that my own husband was a male chauvinist. How wise those women were!
How strange I felt in front of this man sitting here sheepishly not being
able to utter a word, only reviving memories. I Couldn’t express
my anger while he was interrogating me.
"Answer me, Svera. You have nothing to say about this?"
The strangeness spread further upon my soul. I could not conceive, even
words which would reflect what I wanted to say. I became weak and mute.
I gathered enough strength to rise and left the room, leaving Peter in
splendid isolation. Perhaps he might beat himself up if he spent enough
time in his own company. I stood outside the door feeling unable to walk
but amazingly my feet then dragged my weight downstairs, towards my favourite
lounge, to seek commune in isolation. When I am alone, its a comfort zone.
I needed to ponder over things, to wonder, to gather together my strength.
I couldn't. I couldn’t meditate. Neither could I seek advice from
my inner conscience, nor from Guru Gobind Singh.
Thereafter, I found myself outside the house, on the patio. I looked above.
The night was blue. Mad clouds hung down over the garden like giant dream
catchers. It was cold out there, but my body burned slowly in agony. Quivering
in a dim, silent fire, I started shaking. Then the flames began to rise
higher, higher and even higher. For a moment I saw myself turn into a
wild crazy woman with a huge dagger in my hand, cutting Peter’s
body into pieces and then jumping into the burning pyre, like a Sati.
The whole house was caught in those flames. Everything was burning.
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