MARCH 28, 2008 entry taken from my previous blog
The other evening I attended the Vagina Monologues at my old alma mater. This was my second year to attend the event and I have to say I was looking forward to it. My BFF and her sister are truly passionate about women’s rights and how to prevent violence against women, so the Vagina Monologues were right up their alley.
I remembered the majority of monologues, but there was one that made me cry last year and got me bawling this year. As you may have noticed, I have a great respect and interest in Kosova. I have had the great pleasure of meeting people from this now independent country and have been even more fortunate to have these people share their stories. Now this next story is extremely sad in my eyes, but it depicts some of the horrific experiences women have had to experience…especially in times of war.
So this is dedicated to the brave women of Kosova…
My vagina was my village
An extract from Eve Enlser’s Vagina Monologues
My vagina was green, water soft pink fields, cow mooing, sun resting, sweet boyfriend touching lightly with soft piece of blonde straw.
There is something between my legs. I do not know what it is. I do not know where it is. I do not touch. Not now. Not anymore. Not since.
My vagina was chatty, can’t wait, so much, so much saying words talking, can’t quit trying, can’t quit saying, oh yes, oh yes.
Not since I dream there’s a dead animal sewn in down there with thick black fishing line. And the bad dead animal smell cannot be removed. And its throat is slit and it bleeds through all my summer dresses.
My vagina singing all girl songs, all goat bell ringing songs, all wild autumn field songs, vagina songs, vagina home songs.
Not since the soldiers put a long thick rifle inside me. So cold, the steel rod cancelling my heart. Don’t know whether they’re going to fire it or shove it through my spinning brain. Six of them, monstrous doctors with black masks shoving bottles up me too. There were sticks and the end of a broom.
My vagina swimming river water, clean spilling water over sun-baked stones, over stone clit, clit stones over and over.
Not since I heard the skin tear and made lemon screeching sounds, not since a piece of my vagina came off in my hand, a part of the lip, now one side of the lip is completely gone.
My vagina. A live wet water village. My vagina my hometown.
Not since they took turns for seven days smelling like faeces and smoked meat, they left their dirty sperm inside me. I became a river of poison and puss and all the crops died, and the fish.
My vagina a live wet water village.
They invaded it. Butchered it
And burned it down.
I do not touch now.
Do not visit.
I live some place else now.
I don’t know where that is.
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