On Fighting

When I came home from Afghanistan, I swore my fighting days were over. But if you flew over Managua in a helicopter two days ago, you might have seen a strange, bearded, white guy on the corner of a busy street in Managua, holding a sign that read, “El acoso callejero no enamora” or “street harassment is not love”. Darting among the cars stopped at the traffic lights, myself and the other volunteers pressed the palms of drivers and pedestrians with anti-harassment flyers.

It was a local initiative – started small at the University of Central America; a grassroots movements among students, intellectuals, artists. Kate discovered the group advertising and roped me in, along with our friends Paul and Jody. The day in question, if you’re still hovering above, is a rally centred around the creation of anti-harassment graffiti by a  spray paint artist; I can tell he’s passionate because not only does he paint murals, his whole body is inked, as if he ran out of canvas.

Fighting is never tidy, at least when it matters. In Afghanistan we couldn’t even say if we won or lost, or if it was worth it. And when Jody arrived at the rally, she noticed the entire complement was Kate, myself, two organizers, the sound guy, and Tattoo. “Hell, it’d be better if they had more locals – fewer white people”. While more locals eventually arrived, of course she was right. There’s a certain colonial presumption built into a bunch of white people going to Nicaragua and then rallying to change the culture, especially after North America’s many interventions in the struggling country.

But if not us, who? Many people immersed in the culture are too terrified to speak out on this issue. Half of the hundreds of people we engaged that day were young women and men who smiled at our signs, gave us the thumbs up, and yelled encouragement. The other half were men who glared stonily at me. One older gent with three boys in the back seat saw my “it’s not a compliment” sign, and let out a long, appreciative whistle. Three men in the cab of a transport truck stopped next to me to yell abuse; I responded by dancing. My how my weapons have changed in five years.

My comrades have changed, too. I can still see Paul – the ultimate sign post – standing in the median with his sign upraised as cars whizzed by. I can see Jody pulling the rolling paintbrush from Tattoo’s hands so she could help whitewash the mural. Paul and Jody are warriors of the word, the former a writer, the latter, journalist; I am proud to know them.

In Canada a “Masculine Feminist” isn’t a title that takes you very far, but in Nicaragua the role is key. I was happy to be a deterrent for any violence that might be leveled against the volunteers. My Spanish is graceful as a mudslide but I can still speak truth to men and be listened to because of how I look. This Thursday I’m volunteering at the women’s self-defence class and might become a training dummy. From all angles I have broken my oath to myself to lead a life of peace, and I’m dancing about it.

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