Be Careful

This argument is back. How can it be so boring? How can the gut-punch horror of a young woman dead in the grass of a familiar park have slid so quickly into familiar news-cycle hot-take territory? 

We get told to be careful a lot. We tell each other. We tell our friends. I hear it from my brother, my father, myself. It's a nice thing to hear. It means, I want you to be safe and happy. Text me when you get home safe.

But when a young woman is brutally raped and murdered just getting home at night, and the police tell women to be careful, these slow burning coals of rage and despair are fuelled into another blaze of fury. 

One side says “stop telling us to be careful, tell men to stop hurting us”. 

The other side says “brutal maniacs aren’t listening to advice, you have to deal with reality and be careful.” 

Some men say, “stop blaming me for the sins of my brothers.” Other men say “men are murdered too, at higher rates than women”. 

I don’t know what to say. On one hand, of course, most men aren’t dangerous and we shouldn’t be afraid of all men. It’s genuinely a terrible thing to be viewed with mistrust and suspicion. And of course men are victims of violence, and some women perpetrate violence and we shouldn’t live our lives in fear but of course also be careful. Of course.

The police are as helpless in the face of death as the rest of us, but it’s worse, because every breakdown of the social contract into violence is felt in some way as a failure of their service to the community. So they say “be careful”. 

The problem is that we know to be careful. I have to get home late at night all the time. My job requires it. And I'm so careful. I'm antisocial. I don't hang out after gigs very much, because I'm not very good at it. Even so, there are very few nights where I’m coming home that I don’t have at least one moment of fear. It's not noteworthy.

I’ve ducked behind walls, asked creepy drivers to drop me off a few streets away from my home so they can’t tell where I live. I’ve got off buses stops early to avoid the worrying dude on the bus, and got onto buses I didn’t need to avoid the guy trying to have a “friendly chat”. 

I’ve spent money I didn’t have on ubers and taxis for no better reason than a shadow in the night and a prickle on the back of my neck, and felt like an idiot for doing it. I’ve accepted lifts and refused lifts, balancing wariness, paranoia and risk in my mind. I’ve carried the kinds of weapons you can get away with carrying, while thinking I probably wouldn’t have the guts or strength to use them, and they’d probably be taken away and turned on me if push came inevitably to shove.

I’ve practiced being rude, because my default reaction is conciliation, because being polite is the best defence some of the time, and then sometimes it isn’t. I’ve laughed at sleazy bullshit in the middle of the night and felt sick about it, because not laughing feels dangerous. I’ve felt sick and scared being yelped at by groups of lads who were probably just having fun, and growled at by old men who were probably just grumpy grandpas with swollen prostates and bad knees. 

And sometimes I just walk home at night feeling strong and happy, knowing at least I’m one person out in the night who isn’t a threat. Sometimes I can't bring myself to be scared, because I just want to get home. Sometimes I'm not as careful as I could be, as I should be, because I shouldn't have to be. And I want to be the change I'd like to see in the world and I want women to walk home at night feeling safe. Not helpless.

But it’s not enough to tell us to be careful. Unless we are to be so careful that we don’t do certain jobs. Unless you want no women waiters, no bartenders, no females in the theatre, or comedy, or going to poetry nights, or going to movies after work, or drinks after work, or conferences, or working late, no women drivers or lawyers or journalists. No women going to dinner at a friend’s house unless they’re rich enough to own a car. No woman going out on dates, or hooking up, or having a boyfriend or ever being alone with a male friend who might find them attractive. Unless you’re genuinely advocating for women to be chaperoned at all times by (strong, armed, non-threatening) men, it’s not enough to tell us to be careful. 

It’s also not enough to tell men not to be violent, though it's probably worth saying. The violent ones aren’t listening, or not enough of them are, or not quickly enough to save us. I don’t know what’s enough. I don’t know what will help. And there's only so much we can do to help the women who have already been hurt. And there's nothing we can do to help the women who are dead. 

Of course, this isn't a story about me. My loss is nothing. This week, it's the loss of a bright and driven and promising colleague, a tragedy of lost opportunity.

I didn't ever get to know her. I'm sorry that I never will. Eurydice is a beautiful name, I remember thinking that when we met. My mum used to sing the song from Gluck's opera Orfeo e Eurydice "Che farò senza Euridice" around the house. Her 1985 apple mac had a recording of the phrase that it would sing when she turned it on. I remember saying that, and learning that her mother had also died. A very quick moment of connection, but a real one. I would have liked to know her better.