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Raportul din jurul crimei lui Grace Millane i-a pus viata sexuala in proces – mai degraba decat criminalul. Intrucat barbatul in varsta de 27 de ani, care este inca fara nume, este condamnat la viata in inchisoare pentru uciderea ei, Nell Frizzell spune ca modul in care a fost raportata moartea ei ar trebui sa ne rusineze pe toti.

In vara lui 2015 am petrecut trei luni calatorind prin Noua Zeelanda, singur. Eram single, cumparasem o bicicleta si faceam bicicleta in jurul celor doua insule, imi vizitau familia, inotam, mancam inghetata si, desigur, facusem relatii sexuale cu oameni pe care abia ii cunosteam si ii cunosteam.

Am intalnit un barbat care urcase pe un vulcan intr-o camasa hawaiana; Am urcat spre nord ca sa stau intr-o coliba ​​de plaja cu un barbat care mergea la pescuit la sfarsit de saptamana; M-am intors acasa cu un barbat care s-a intamplat sa fi petrecut odata un an in Anglia urmand scoala mea superioara; Am baut vin alb si am comandat serviciu in camera in timp ce vizitasem un barbat mai in varsta in camera lui de hotel. M-am simtit minunat.

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Nu este noroc; asta este dreptul meu. Femeile tinere au dreptul sa faca sex si sa aiba aventuri fara teama pentru siguranta sau viata lor.

Ati putea dori, de asemenea

Un mesaj tuturor celor care indraznesc sa spuna ca femeile nu ar trebui sa calatoreasca singure

Asadar, este cu groaza si repulsie, acum imi dau seama ca, daca as fi facut sex cu unul dintre acei necunoscuti, greutatea mass-mediei britanice ar fi putut inconjura cadavrul meu. S-ar putea sa fi ridicat fara suflare cele mai amanunte detalii ale vietii mele sexuale si a poftei de mancare, in timp ce abia se deranjau sa puna la indoiala dovezile barbatului pe care l-as fi murit alaturi. 

Tatal lui Grace Millane la o conferinta de presa in Noua Zeelanda.

The tabloids may have printed photos of me pulled from Instagram, CCTV stills of me standing in a lift, a picture of the patch of earth where my body had been discovered, perhaps even my graduation photo.

They may have printed these under the sort of headlines, captions and stand firsts that practically salivate over the details of how, and with whom, I choose to have sex.

The message is clear: die as a young woman away from home and it may well be your sex life that overshadows your whole life.

Moartea Grace Millane este, desigur, ingrozitoare. Este copilul cuiva; ca un copil a fost tinuta si infasurata si avea nasul sters. Avea prieteni, mergea la scoala, probabil ca mergea la lectii de inregistrare si avea fotografii incadrate pe pervazul ei. Avea si un corp pe care obisnuia sa calatoreasca, sa aiba experiente noi, sa gaseasca placere. Imi pare foarte rau pentru cei dragi ca nu mai este aici. Sper intr-adevar ca intr-o buna zi pot gasi un anumit confort, un sentiment de dreptate si un anumit confort.

But, as a journalist and a woman who has travelled and had sex, I am also angry. I am angry that the British media was once again pushing their noses down the grubby seam of someone’s sex life, instead of using their language and their power to remind us of that person’s humanity. That they plastered the internet with words like ‘sex games’ and ‘naive’ and ‘kinky’ instead of forcing us to remember that we all have a private life, that we all deserve respect, that we can all fall victim to pain and fear and death, and that we all deserve justice and truth and honour. I am also furious that once again, a young female body was blamed for the acts that were wrought upon it, rather than interrogating the person who committed those acts. 

A vigil is held for Grace Millane shortly after her murder.

Innocence is a state of law, before it is an expression of sexual experience. We are all innocent until proven otherwise. But when someone is choked, their body is forced into a suitcase and then buried, they are not just innocent but also deserving of our sympathy and grief. This is what happened to Grace Millane. 

The 27-year-old man who killed her has now been convicted of her murder. This man had sex with Grace, failed to call the emergency services when she died, and tried to hide her body, yet he has had his identity protected and still cannot be named in the press. I only wish that such respect, such privacy, had been afforded to the woman who died at his hands.

When I read this story I, of course, asked myself: could that have happened to me? Has the choreography of porn become so ubiquitous and unquestioned among young people, that what was once considered dangerous is now expected? How much control do we really have over our safety? Are young people with particular sexual appetites more readily seen as vulnerable by those who may seek to cause harm? Has the commodification of the female body under capitalism caused us to see women’s necks, legs, vulvas, anuses, mouths and breasts as objects of sexual pleasure, rather than the physical evidence that they are people, just like you and me? Is a single woman travelling in a new country really taking a greater risk than a man? For some people, is sex just a disguise covering a true hunger for violence? And do we, the reading public, really find it so hard to pick apart the two?

These questions cannot, of course, bring a young woman back to life. They cannot force the truth to the surface, and nor can they bury a family’s pain. I wish this story didn’t exist to write about. I wish it had never happened. I do not know how to make it better. But I do know that when somebody dies, we should search for more than just titillation. I do know that the way this young woman’s death has been reported should shame us all.

This article was originally published on 20 November 2019

Images: Getty

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