CHARMAIN NAIDOO: One small slap, one giant leap for kind men

I have been hit exactly twice in my life, both times unexpectedly, hard, across the face.

The second slap came in February 1981, from a friend with whom I was arguing about parking possibilities for guests to her 21st birthday party.

Without warning, Moira let out an exasperated shriek, raised her arm and slapped me sharply across my cheek. I can still feel the sting of it. I was utterly astonished. My eyes were wide, my mouth an “O”, my hand raised to my smarting face, now hot and red. Red from the slap, yes; but also, I realise now, from shame — giving meaning to the term red-faced.

Moira stared at me in utter amazement, shaking her head when she said: “That was weird. You didn’t even try to duck.”

Apparently you’re supposed to duck when someone takes a swing at you, making a counter move to their aggression. How would I know the rules? I’d only ever been hit once before. By my lovely dad.

That first slap was life-changing and forever set my compass for the way men should behave towards women. I was 15 and in the throes of romantic fever — my first brush with the possibility of love.

I have to explain the rules here: there was no such thing as dating in my community back in the early 1970s. Indian girls didn’t date. When I went to Rhodes University, I was astonished that my white friends’ parents encouraged dating. It was an activity that was not frowned on.

I never saw my father cry, but on that day he looked as dejected as any man possibly could when he told me, as he apologised, that no man should ever — ever — raise his hand against a woman or a girl. Ever

Not for me. Flirting was considered vulgar and distasteful in the Naidoo home — and, indeed, in our neighbourhood. It was a form of sluttish behaviour from women with no shame. Slut-shaming began early in Ladysmith. Virtuous women were demure. Bodice-tightening decorum was applauded. And, of course, decent women needed a sedate wardrobe.

I once bought, with my mother, a mildly revealing white broderie anglaise top that teamed up nicely with a plum-pink midi-skirt, fashionable at the time, and knee-high boots. I put it on, my father shook his head once, I stomped my feet and huffed and puffed but took off the top and disappeared it into my “dad disapproves drawer”, stuffed with clothes my father thought inappropriate.

The custom in my family was to reward good behaviour and good grades with a Friday afternoon movie. It was sort of our tentative foray — supervised of course — into the big world. I say big, but mean that the movie house was no more than 5km from our front door. My dad drove us to the cinema for the 2.30pm movie, and was outside to fetch us when we emerged at 4.30pm. There was no wiggle room. To quote Col Pickering from My Fair Lady, “Every time we looked around, there he was the hairy hound.”

On this particular Friday afternoon, we were there to watch Death Wish the first Charles Bronson film (four more would follow). I was 15, in Standard Nine; painfully naïve and utterly unprepared for the world outside of 7 Buckingham Street, home. And so when Brian, charming, in matric, 16 going on 17, asked me to sit with him, I gulped in gratitude and nodded.

I seated Shaun and Antonette, my, respectively, four- and six-years younger siblings, in the seats directly in front of me. Brian held my hand while Charles Bronson, frenzied after the rape of his child, goes on the offensive. Occasionally, during the violent bits, I hid my face in Brian’s shoulder.

It was as innocent as that.

My dad didn’t see it like that. Inevitably, my little brother and sister ratted me out when we got home, though really, there was nothing untoward about my harmless tryst. My father’s response was angry; how dare I behave in such a shameful way. I was defiant. His anger turned to rage.

He reached across and hit me hard against the face. What happened next will stay with me forever.

There was complete silence in our dining room. I was stunned, yes, but in that moment I was also fully aware of the reactions of everyone around me. I will never forget the look of utter horror mingled with regret and remorse on my lovely dad’s face.

Sent to your room

I can still see the astonishment turn to fury on my mother’s face. Shaun and Antonette were wide eyed with fear. It was a shocking event, you see, because nobody had ever been hit in our home. Being sent to your room with a book after a stern lecture was about as tough as punishment got in our family.

My mother’s response was swift. She took my hand, and said to both me and my dad: “We’re going for a walk. When we get back, your father will apologise to you.” And we, with the two younger children silently in tow, went for a walk to the river.

I never saw my father cry, but on that day he looked as dejected as any man possibly could when he told me, as he apologised, that no man should ever — ever — raise his hand against a woman or a girl. Ever.

And so I am perplexed by the senseless crimes against women that have been reported in the last week.

A young woman, a student at UCT, goes to collect a parcel at the post office where she is raped and bludgeoned to death. A woman who is the world karate and SA boxing champion is shot and killed, apparently by her policeman boyfriend — against whom she had an utterly ineffectual protection order.

A six-year-old child is kidnapped and then let go in the early hours of the morning in a rough neighbourhood! Is that even human?

The stats are horrific:

• At least three women a day are killed by their partners — men who are supposed to love them.
• Violence against women and children has spiked in the last decade.
• The country’s femicide rate is now five times higher than the global average.
• More than one in five women experiences physical violence.
• More than one in three women are physically abused in low-income areas.
• Gender-based violence (GBV) is bad enough in SA to merit a mention in the state of the nation address in which President Cyril Ramaphosa called it a national scourge that had to be eradicated.

But when all is said and done, when we’ve exhausted dedicating a month to highlighting the issue, when we’ve used up cardboard banners and flags covered in slogans denouncing men’s bad behaviour — women still get killed. And raped and beaten and humiliated. Women feel unsafe.

If there is a solution, we have not found it yet. We continually tell women to protect themselves. But, I suspect, it is up to men to find solutions on how to combat this scourge, as the president calls it.

Where are the “real men” conferences and lekogtlas and workshops and bosberaads and prayer groups in which men discuss topics suchg as why men hurt women and how to stop.

I’m so tired of the rhetoric. I’m so tired of women having to fight this fight, over and over again. It’s time for men to take control and work towards a solution.