Some pontificating, with extra medieval sauce
At some point when I'm back in the UK, I want to go through all of the (decently translated, I'm not a masochist) early medieval Insular law texts and gather together what they say about women. I remember bits and pieces: there's one Anglo-Saxon law code which specifies that rape which happens within an inhabited area can only be considered rape if the woman screams. If she keeps silent, she has no legal protection. There's also a ridiculous procedure for accusing a man of rape somewhere in the medieval Welsh laws, where the woman has to place one hand on an altar and one hand on the penis of the man she's accusing, and swear that this is the penis which raped her. (This may not have reflected what actually happened! The transmission of the Welsh laws means that they're a bit of a mess, and quite jumbled up from different periods.) (If you want to know anything more about any of the above please just ask, I will expand WITH GLEE if I can.)
The bits and pieces I remember just remind me how much I love this stuff as an object of study and speculation and intrigue. Not as a model for life, obviously, which is actually what set me thinking about this. I was reminded about that attempt made in the US to restrict federal funding for abortions for victims of rape to victims of 'forcible' rape only, which made me think about all of the things you are expected to do and say and be before, during and after your rape or sexual assault for it to be accepted, which reminded me of the Anglo-Saxon law above. It's not a new idea, the idea that there is a right way and a wrong way to be raped, and if you, the victim, 'do it wrong' then you are probably to blame, but it is pretty depressing that we're still at that point. As exceptionally awesome as the Anglo-Saxons were, we should probably be a little more evolved in our thinking by now.
Since we are talking about the awesomeness of the Anglo-Saxons, though, it is ALWAYS APPROPRIATE to link to my favourite Old English poem: The Ruin. (A note on the translation: without my dictionaries and library access and the support of my Old English lecturer and all of the hideous paraphernalia that I left behind last year, I cannot say for sure, but I can only see a few points where I would possibly want to translate the poem quite differently from what is translated there.) It beats out some seriously strong competition, because I pretty much love most OE poetry. Every time I read it, it grabs my throat with its melancholy, the image of the poet wandering through a deserted and broken and ruinous Roman city, interacting with the ruins in the same way that people centuries later would interact with the ruins of the poet's own society. It's a glorious and extraordinary reminder that history was lives which were lived, always easy to forget when you spend too much time thinking of causes and effects, dates and names.
Wrætlic is þes wealstan, wyrde gebræcon; ||
This masonry is wondrous; fates broke it
Also posted on Dreamwidth at http://kenovay.dreamwidth.org/3022.html. Comment wherever you like.
The bits and pieces I remember just remind me how much I love this stuff as an object of study and speculation and intrigue. Not as a model for life, obviously, which is actually what set me thinking about this. I was reminded about that attempt made in the US to restrict federal funding for abortions for victims of rape to victims of 'forcible' rape only, which made me think about all of the things you are expected to do and say and be before, during and after your rape or sexual assault for it to be accepted, which reminded me of the Anglo-Saxon law above. It's not a new idea, the idea that there is a right way and a wrong way to be raped, and if you, the victim, 'do it wrong' then you are probably to blame, but it is pretty depressing that we're still at that point. As exceptionally awesome as the Anglo-Saxons were, we should probably be a little more evolved in our thinking by now.
Since we are talking about the awesomeness of the Anglo-Saxons, though, it is ALWAYS APPROPRIATE to link to my favourite Old English poem: The Ruin. (A note on the translation: without my dictionaries and library access and the support of my Old English lecturer and all of the hideous paraphernalia that I left behind last year, I cannot say for sure, but I can only see a few points where I would possibly want to translate the poem quite differently from what is translated there.) It beats out some seriously strong competition, because I pretty much love most OE poetry. Every time I read it, it grabs my throat with its melancholy, the image of the poet wandering through a deserted and broken and ruinous Roman city, interacting with the ruins in the same way that people centuries later would interact with the ruins of the poet's own society. It's a glorious and extraordinary reminder that history was lives which were lived, always easy to forget when you spend too much time thinking of causes and effects, dates and names.
Wrætlic is þes wealstan, wyrde gebræcon; ||
This masonry is wondrous; fates broke it
Also posted on Dreamwidth at http://kenovay.dreamwidth.org/3022.html. Comment wherever you like.