The Pixel Project

Thoughts about rape

After talking with friends on Twitter, this is what I want to emphasise:

Rape is forced sex without consent.

If your partner cannot say no to sex, it is rape.
If your partner does not understand what sex is and its consequences, it is rape.
If your partner is unable to say no because they are scared of you, it is rape.
If your partner is too drunk or passed out to say yes or no, it is rape.

Only if your partner is a adult who understands the consequences of that sex act and is willing to still have sex with you, is it a yes.

And yes, this applies to both men and women. Rape is not a gender-based crime. It is a tool used by rapists to silence their victims, to assert power, to satisfy their own selfish desires and egos. “Lust” is simply an excuse used by irresponsible people to force themselves on others.

Rape culture is an extension of that. It blames its victims and puts the onus on them to defend why they were raped instead of the rapist.

Rape is rape. That is all.


I often speak my mind without thinking of the consequences. My emotions often get the best of me, and I say things, unaware of how much it hurts that person until I’m told. When they lash out, I often react defensively.

Today though, was something that I needed in a long time. I had a blowout with a friend, and it left me open. It made me realise something I had been refusing to look in the face, to accept that I had no power. That my voice, for all the good my writing and my talking did me, was useless.

It was admitting that whatever my reaction to the Penan rape, nothing would change. No one would remember the Penan case in a few months, and they would be forgotten, lost in the mists of time.

Like Melissa Audrey. Like Nurin. Like Sharlinie. Like that boy Asmawi, was it? Like the boy Ho Ping. Like Ching Poon.

So many names. So many forgotten. Innocent lives.

I joined the Pixel Project out of shallow reasons. It was just because I thought it would look good on my resume. It was also a cause I could identify with. But it wasn’t until I actually started writing properly for it that I realised just how screwed up it all was.

Which is why tonight, the first in a long time, I gave into my despair. I cried like a child. For the evil done by women to themselves. By the evil done by men to women. Does what I say, do, or write really matter? My words are only words. They are no substitute for actual, physical action.

This helpless rage, this helpless fury, this impotent anger… Tonight, I give in to it.

Tomorrow, I overwhelm them.