April 29, 2008

Real men are from M.A.R.S.

Posted by Henk Campher under cause, children, culture, family, hate, life, love, men, rape, women | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , |
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It’s just sick. Sick, sick, sick. Just last week I wrote how the women of this world are being raped and abused. How it happens each and every day. All over the world. By us men. Or people who would call themselves men. And now this. How sick can men get? How low can we go. We hit the bottom of the barrel and manage to go to a new low that is even more unimaginable. Yes, I am talking about the man from Austria.

I have been following this story since it “broke” late last week. I won’t go into details. That’s too hard. Follow the link above and search around a bit. But here’s the basics…

Elizabeth Fritzl was first raped and abused by her dad, Josef Fritzl, when she was 11 years old. And it continued from there. Regularly. Again. And again. And again. And Josef was planning and working on how to “institutionalize” this rape and abuse – while he was raping his daughter. So he build a dungeon in the basement. With soundproof rooms, electronic coded locks, no sunlight, a homemade kitchen, a makeshift toilet and a bedroom for rape and nightmares – 650 square feet of horror. Then he lured his daughter to the basement when she was 18 years old. And drugged and handcuffed her to subdue her. And kept her in the dungeon.

The rape and abuse got its own special place. A dungeon below the house. No one could hear the screams. No one could see the rape. And it went on and on. Rape after rape. For 24 years. Twenty-four years. 24 years.

You can read the rest. How he fathered 7 children with his raping of his daughter. How one died after a few days because of neglect. How he burned the body outside. How he forced his daughter to write letters saying she joined a sect. How he “adopted” a few of these kids. How some of them never saw daylight – ever. How his wife never knew about anything. How… how..

You fucking cowardly bastard, may you fucking rot in hell. I would kill him myself if I had a chance. I would torture him slowly so he could feel the pain for 24 fucking years.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s what us men want to do. Take the bastards and kill them. Take our anger out on them. Tear them apart. Shoot them. Strangle them. Torture them. Kill them. Because it will make us feel better. Because we with our shallow emotions don’t know how to talk to our wives or girlfriends or girl friends or daughters. I am not blaming us. I am just saying how it is. We are raw in our emotions. But don’t know how to talk about it. We don’t know how to talk about it. And we don’t know how to prevent it. But I know it hurts men. Men who don’t rape. The silent majority.

We want to say something. But we don’t know how to start. Because we want to make things better. It is just so in our bones and blood – to fix things. And we think and hope and pray that we can fix this by taking it out on the rapists. By killing them. We hope and pray that by taking it out on them our women will somehow feel better. Will somehow feel whole again. Will somehow trust us again. And love us. And applaud us for showing how much we care. Will look at us in awe for showing our strength. Anything that will make us not talk about it. Sorry guys. It just won’t do.

I don’t know the answers. I don’t even know the bloody questions. But maybe we can start small. Maybe we can start by doing just one little thing to start off with. Let’s form M.A.R.S. – Men Against Rape Society. Yes, Men are from M.A.R.S.

But I am going to need your help here. I don’t know what the rules should be. I don’t know what we can do. All I know is that I don’t want to do nothing. So help me here. I don’t want to be quiet anymore.

Look, I am not looking for some weird groups of touchy-feely guys. I am no metrosexual. I am a sport loving, beer drinking, cigarette smoking, ball scratching kinda guy. I am not that “in touch” with my feelings. I am just a regular guy who says no more. I say fuck you rapists. You are not men. I will still strangle you if I get hold of you. That will make me feel better. But I also want to do something to stop it. Stop rape. And I want to do something to show the women of this world that we can be there for them. Somehow be someone they can rely on for support when they are raped. Whatever that means. An ear, a shoulder, a hug – whatever they need (on their terms) from us. So I have no strict rules on this. Anyone welcome. Let’s just follow a few basic rules we can abide by. Rules for M.A.R.S. I’ll give it a first go.

1. Real men don’t rape.

2. Real men don’t have friends who rape.

3. Real men speak out against rape.

4. Real men teach their sons not to rape but to respect and love.

5. Real men listen and talk to their wives and daughters about rape.

6. Real men support and talk to all women who have been raped – on their terms.

7. Real men don’t keep quiet any longer.

Okay, that’s a start. A bad one, but at least a start. Let’s fill in the gaps. Let’s try and narrow it down to just five rules for M.A.R.S. Or increase it to ten (I like the metric system!) Let’s tell our friends. Let’s tell our brothers. Let’s tell our sons. Let’s start a sign-up. (How, anyone got an idea?) Let’s start a movement. Women of the world – we will need you for this. Help us do something. Men, start acting. Tell me what we will need to do. Let’s throw a pebble and see what happens. But let’s not do nothing and say nothing.

Let’s be from M.A.R.S.

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March 17, 2008

These are the good old days…

Posted by Henk Campher under activists, Africa, belief, campaigning, child labour, children, climate change, culture, dad, death, development, environment, ethics, family, global warming, health, human rights, life, love, mom, mother, school, slavery, sustainability | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , |
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These are the good old days. The good old days the way our parents remembered the days of old. The good things in life. Children playing in the streets and the fruits growing in abundance. Of days working in the fields with the sun shining on your back. The days of rockets to the moon. When families ate together and lived together. The days of peace, love and happiness. Those were the good old days.

But for my children today and tomorrow are the good old days. These are the days they will remember. The days when they were young and free. The days when they were happy and not a problem in the world. These are their good old days.

The days when they come home to another great supper made lovingly by their mum. The days when they come home and can play with their toys and tell their story on the Internet. These days when they celebrate their birthdays with the toys they hoped and prayed to get and they got. These days when they can fall asleep in their warm cosy beds and dream dreams of another beautiful tomorrow. These are their good old days.

These days when so many children do not have a home. Or warm bed and meal. These days when the toys they have are the lives they live. These days when they pray for another tomorrow. These days when they go to sleep and cry themselves asleep. The cries of fear and hunger. These are their bad old days.

These are the days when I can have my flu injection and hope it works. These are the days when my family can have their vitamin pills in the morning and know they are strong enough to play another day. These are the days where I can drive down the road and by some more at the pharmacy. These are the days when medicine is for me to have and for me to enjoy another day. These are their good old days.

These are the days when people die from Aids, TB and malaria. These are the days when you can get a Coke to reach far off places, but not the family down the road on the wrong side of the tracks. These are the days when we have medicine to solve so many diseases, but people die in the continent next to us from little things like diarrhea. These are their bad olf days.

These are the days I can love my wife. And respect her for who she is. Strong and a woman. These are the days when my daughters can be proud to be girls. These are the days when I can hear them laugh and giggle as they play. These are the days I can see the love in their eyes and the future in my heart. These are their good old days.

These are the days when a woman or child gets raped every 17 second in the country of my birth. These are the days when our mothers and sisters work the streets. These are the days when the love of our lives walk around with hurt on their bodies and hurt in their eyes. These are the days when woman and girls are hurt. In pictures and in health. These are their bad old days.

These are the days when my children are healthy and play outside. These are the days when they are strong and eat their food. These are the days when we keep them warm and their bodies and healthy. These are the days when they laugh so much and have the fever we can handle. These are the days when they are children with bodies strong. Strong enough to be the kids they should be. These are their good old days.

These are the days when every 3 second another child dies. These are the days when kids die from little things like a cold or the cold. These are the days when the milk dries up and another child cries. These are the days when so little food is good to eat and the water brings more disease. These are the days when children die. These are their bad old days.

These are the days when we have two kids. These are the days when my wife was strong and the doctor even stronger. These are the days when the hospital helps and the beds are good. These are the days when I smile and saw her bravery, knowing she will be fine. These are their good old days.

These are the days when mothers die. When mothers die from anything at birth. These are the days when the doctor is far or not to be seen. These are the days when the water is bad and the mothers suffer. These are the days when the water is gone and the milk followed. These are the days when the mothers suffer and die. These are their bad old days.

These are the days when my oldest girl is the brainbox at school. These are the days when she makes me proud and brings home straight A’s. These are the days when her sister learns to read and write and is having fun. These are the foundation for their days to come. These are their good old days.

These are the days when the children work the fields for the chocolate we eat. These are the days when the children walk the streets because the school is gone or never came. These are the days when the children work the machine for the shirt on my back. These are the days when a child works the job of a man. These are the days when a child is no child anymore. These are their bad old days.

These are the days when we play in the snow and sled and ski. These are the days when we wait for spring and the flowers it bring. These are the days we can go pick some apples and tap the maple. These are the days when we smile at the sun and catch the snowflake. These are the days of fun outside and mother nature oblige. These are their good old days.

These are the days when the rain has stopped and the crops don’t grow. These are the days when the polar bear starts to drown – the bergs starts melting. These are the days of tornado’s and floods. These are the days when the sun don’t smile but just starts to burn. These are the days when the heat it gives is to much to take. These are not the days of old.

These are the days when we play in packs. These are the days when we gather in groups and join hands in fun. These are the days when we help each other. Friends and foe. These are the days we stand together and face the world. These are the good old days.

These are the days we fight and look for wars. These are the days we break the bonds that makes us human. These are the days when we live in packs instead of communities. These are the days we take to anger and strike before we hug. These are the bad old days.

Yes, these are the days we make. We can decide what we want from this world. The good old days, or the days of yesterday? We have a choice. We decide what days these will be. No one but us. I made my choice. I know what I want to answer when my kids look at me and ask, “dad, what did you do in the good old days?”

Note: For those who didn’t pick it up – this piece is based on the UN Millennium Development Goals.

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