italian-studies: Scholarly discussions in any field of Italian studies

21 February 2001

Regarding rape statistics and the reporting of rape in Italy.

I have asked permission to post the following from list owner George
Ferzoco, and this has been granted. George has asked me to point out that
some of what appears below is not pleasant reading, and to request that any
discussion arising as a result of this post be civil and scholarly.

The most cogent position on this was stated by Franca Rame, in her dramatic
monologue "Lo Stupro".

I attach my translation of that text, in case it may be of interest.

For many years the true inspiration of that piece was not known. The
circumstances were revealed publicly a couple of years ago. I preface the
translation with a summary of the aricle that appeared in "Le Monde"
newspaper.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++



THE RAPE

by Franca Rame


[Trans. Note: On 20 February 1998, "Le Monde" newspaper carried the
following
report:

On 9 March 1973, in the evening, on via Nirone in Milan, France Rame is
returning home. A van stops nearby. Five men get out of it, hold a gun to
her head and force her to get into the vehicle. One after another, they
rape her, while one of them holds her. "Move you whore... make me feel
good..." They stub out cigarettes on her breasts. They cut her hair with
razors. "If you tell anyone, we'll kill you." This act of collective rape
lasts for three quarters of an hour.

Finally Franca Rame reached home. She said nothing to her husband - today a
Nobel prizewinner for literature - or to her son Jacopo. "It was something
too painful for my family, too nightmarish for me. I had to keep it as an
inner suffering. It seemed to me that if I had told people, if the
newspapers had got hold of it, it would have brought pleasure to too many
people. And I didn't want to give the fascists that satisfaction." So she
said, in a recent interview with La Repubblica.

The rape had been carried out by militants of the far Right. This was the
period of the "strategy of tension". Franca Rame was part of a Leftwing
organisation - Soccorso Rosso, or Red Aid. Dario Fo was already writing
plays that castigated the powers-that-be, the Christian Democrat Party, the
corruption... Both of them were seen as a major threat to public order.

A RAPE WHICH COMES UNDER THE STATUTE OF LIMITATION

Five years later, in 1978, Franca Rame created a theatre piece out of this
nightmare experience - "Lo Stupro" - "The Rape". But it was still too
early. The memory of it still hurt. Then, in 1987, a repentant neo-Fascist
by name of Angelo Izzo made a public reference to this dark episode of the
"Years of Lead", and he explicitly blamed the Carabinieri.

But nobody believed this psychopath, who was in prison on a murder charge.
It took the confession of another "repentant" terrorist, Biagio Pitarresi,
giving precise details, before a magistrate by name of Guido Salvini took
an interest in the case.

Pitarresi's revelations are shocking. The "punishment" of France Rame was
allegedly inspired directly by a number of Carabinieri of the Pastrengo
division in Milan. These accusations are corroborated by Nicolo Bozzo, a
retired general, who at that time was a captain in Milan. He remembered
clearly how the news of Franca Rame's rape was received at the barracks
"with euphoria". "Everyone was happy" - and particularly the commander
Giovanni Battista, a member of Licio Gelli's P2 masonic lodge, who was
subsequently suspected of having manipulated certain judicial inquiries.

But Pitarresi's revelations have come much too late. By the time the
examining judge had put together his dossier, the event was already covered
by Italy's statute of limitation, making legal proceedings impossible.

This was why, on 16 February 1998, Dario Fo picked up his pen and wrote
directly to the President of the Republic, Oscar Luigi Scalfar. He says
that he finds it strange that "nobody wanted to look into this case until
the point where legal proceedings became impossible." He calls for
investigations in order to uncover "the truth about the crimes of the
past".

Materials from Le Monde, 20 February 1998.]

++++++++++++++++++++++

THE RAPE

INTRODUCTION

Because of the stupid attitudes that we find in Italy today, we're still in
the position where a woman's best chance of making people believe that
she's suffered sexual violence, is if she's "lucky" enough to appear before
the relevant authorities bruised, beaten and covered in blood. If she turns
up DEAD, so much the better!

A corpse with the marks of rape and physical violence is regarded as fairly
acceptable proof!

In the past week there have been seven cases of sexual violence before the
courts.

Women students attacked on their way to school or college; a woman patient
attacked in a hospital; separated wives physically overpowered by their
husbands, confident of their marital rights within the law.

You will certainly be aware that the proposed new law against sexual
violence has been completely mutilated in Parliament by the amendment
proposed by the Christian Democrat Member of Parliament Casini. His
amendment alters the definition in Clause One from "crime against the
person" to "crime against the sexual liberty and dignity of the person".
Once again, the familiar hotch-potch of a non-specific, generalised sexual
crime.

But the most obscene aspect is the terroristic ritual to which a woman is
subjected by policemen, doctors, judges and prosecuting lawyers, when she
has been raped, and when she presents herself to the authorities under the
delusion of demanding justice, and with the illusion of expecting to get
it. It's one whole filthy, sniggering ritual of mockery.

DOCTOR: "Tell me, Miss - I'm sorry, are you married? - during the incident,
did you only feel disgust, or did you also feel a certain pleasure.... an
unconscious satisfaction....?"

POLICEMAN: "Didn't you feel flattered that so many men, four in all, I
believe, felt such a powerful desire for you, felt such a HARD passion?"

JUDGE: "Did you remain passive throughout, or did you, at a certain point,
participate?"

DOCTOR: "Did you feel yourself involved? Sexually aroused?"

PROSECUTING LAWYER: "Did you feel yourself becoming moist?"

JUDGE: "Did you not think that your groans, which were undoubtedly due to
your suffering, could have been misinterpreted as expressions of pleasure?"


POLICEMAN: "Did you experience sexual gratification?"

DOCTOR: "Did you experience orgasm?"

LAWYER: "If so, how many times?"

The piece which I am going to perform now comes from a personal account
which was printed in Quotidiano Donna [Women's Daily]. We have put the
account into a theatrical form, while completely respecting its content. We
dedicate this piece to our Member of Parliament, Mr Casini.

THE RAPE

A radio's playing. I don't notice it at first.

It takes a while to sink in - someone's singing....

Yes, a radio. Pop music: love, moon, June, stars above.... love....

I've got someone's knee, just one knee, planted in my back, as if the
person behind me is kneeling on the floor.

He's holding my hands with his, twisting them tightly back.

My left hand, especially.

I don't know why, I find myself thinking that maybe he's left-handed.

I've completely lost my grip on what's happening to me.

I'm so terrified that I feel I'm about to lose my mind, my voice.... I
can't speak.

Only incredibly slowly do I realise what's going on....

Oh God, my head is spinning!

How did I end up in this van? Did they push me, did I climb in myself? Or
did they lift me up, and throw me in?

I don't know.

I can't think for the racing of my heart, pounding against my ribs, and the
pain in my left hand, which is becoming unbearable.

Why are they twisting my arm so hard?

I make no attempt to move.

I'm frozen rigid.

Now the one behind me hasn't got his knee in my back any more.He's got
himself into a better position.... He's sitting down, and he's got me held
from behind.... between his legs.... like they used to do when they took
children's tonsils out.

That's the image that comes to mind.

Why are they holding me so tightly?

I don't move, I don't scream.... my voice is gone.

I've completely lost my grip on what's happening to me.

The radio's playing. Not particularly loud.

Why music? Why have they turned it down, now?

Maybe it's because I'm not screaming.

In addition to the one holding me, there's another three.

I look at them: there's not much light.... not a lot of space either....
Maybe that's why they've got me half sitting up.

They seem calm. Very sure of themselves. What are they doing? They're
lighting a cigarette.

What's going on? Smoking? At a time like this? Why are they holding me like
this and smoking?

Something's about to happen. I sense it.... I take a deep breath.... and
another.... and another.

It does nothing. I can't get my mind clear.... I've no understanding. Only
fear.

Now one of them comes towards me. Another sits on my right, and the third
on the left. I see the red glow of their cigarettes.

They're breathing heavily. Theyre horribly close.

Something's about to happen. I sense it.

The one who's holding me from behind tenses all his muscles.... I can feel
them, wherehe's holding me. He hasn't tightened his grip, only tensed his
muscles, as if getting ready to hold me tighter.

The first one who moved towards me gets down between my legs....
kneeling.... he forces my legs apart.

It's a precise movement, and the one behind me seems to expect it, because
he immediately hooks his legs over mine, to keep them apart.

I've got trousers on. Why are they spreading my legs with my trousers on? I
feel worse than if I was naked!

My mind's taken off this feeling by something which at first I don't know
what it is.... a burning sensation, slight at first, then sharper, and
finally unbearable, on my left breast.

A burning, piercing pain.

Cigarettes.... against my sweater, burning through onto my skin.

I find myself wondering what you're supposed to do in a situation like
this. I'm incapable of doing anything, not even crying, or saying anything.

I feel as if I'm outside of myself, standing at a window, being forced to
watch something horrible.

The one on my right lights the cigarettes, takes two draws and then passes
them to the one between my legs. One after another. The smell of burning
wool must be irritating them: they've got a razor. They cut through my
sweater, lengthways, down the front.... they cut my bra too.... the blade
leaves a razor gash across my chest. An eight-inch gash, according to the
medical report.

The one between my legs, the one who's kneeling, grabs my breasts with both
hands. I feel the cold of him against my burns....

Now they undo the zip on my trousers, and they pull at my clothes. Only one
shoe. Only one trouser leg. Only.

The one holding me from behind is getting excited. I can feel him rubbing
up against me.

Now the one between my legs pushes himself into me.

I want to be sick. I must keep calm, calm.

"Move, bitch. Fuck me."

I try to fix my mind on the words of the song; my heart is bursting inside
me, I don't want to know what is happening. I want to stay in the confusion
I'm in. I don't understand.... language, words, mean nothing to me.

Another cigarette.

"Move, bitch!"

I am as if turned to stone.

Now the next one pushes into me. He drives harder inside me than the first
one. I feel a deep pain. "Move, bitch!" The razor that they used to cut my
sweater slashes across my face. I can't feel whether it's cut me or not.

"Move, bitch. Fuck me."

Blood is running down my ears, from my cheeks.

Now it's the third one's turn.

It's so horrible to feel these animals getting pleasure inside you.

I manage to get out a couple of words: "I'm dying. I've got a heart
condition." They believe me.... They don't believe me.... They start
arguing. "Let's get rid of her.... " "No.... " "Yes." Someone hits someone.
They crush a lighted cigarette onto my neck, just so as to stub it out.

At that point I think I finally fainted.

I feel them moving me. The one who was holding me from behind dresses me,
with precise movements and with no embarrassment. He has to dress me....
I'm no use for anything. He's the only one who's not got undressed.... I
mean, who's not had his trousers open. He's edgy, and irritated that he's
not "screwed"; he's complaining like a spoilt child.... but I can feel that
he's in a hurry, he's scared.

He doesn't know what to do with my torn sweater. He tucks the two ends into
my trousers.

The van stops for just long enough to let me get out.... then it drives
off.

I'm standing in a road. With my right hand I hold my jacket shut over my
bare breasts.

It's almost dark. Where am I? Trees, grass.... I'm in the park.

I feel sick.... in the sense that I feel I'm about to faint.... not just
because of the physical pain in my body, but also out of disgust....
because of the humiliation.... because of the feeling that somebody's spat
into my brain a million times.... and because of the sperm that I feel
spilling out of me.

I rest my head against a tree.... even my hair hurts. Oh yes.... they were
pulling my hair to stop me moving my head.

I run my hand over my face.... It comes away covered with blood. I turn up
my jacket collar.

I walk, I wander aimlessly....

Almost without noticing it, I find myself in front of a police station.

I lean against the side of a building opposite. I stare across at it, for a
good while.

I think of what I would have to face if I went in.

I can hear their questions.

I can see their faces.... I can see them laughing....

I think for a moment or two.

Then I decide.

I'm going home.

I'll report it tomorrow.

BLACKOUT

THE END


trans. Ed Emery, 1983

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