SIPHIWE MPYE, editor
Consent is a ‘ yes’, an agreement between you and your significant other to engage in any type of sexual activity. Personally, I believe that you should rely on explicit verbal communication before you move forward. Enough has been said about consent; men do understand verbal and non-verbal cues, which inform their decision to either continue or stop. Men generally don’t take kindly to the word ‘no’ – it’s a cultural problem drawing back to how society enables toxic masculinity, where young boys are taught to be strong and dominant. For decades, we have been facing an exaggerated sense of masculinity from as early as childhood, when we played ‘house’: by default, the boy would be the head of the house while the girl would take on the role of a mother, using toys to do her house chores, which involved cooking and serving the boy. This results in boys growing up believing they have power over girls.
People are being raped by their intimate partners; some don’t know it, others don’t report it because they believe it was their fault. Rape by an intimate partner is still not considered rape by others; this was brought to my attention when the news broke out that the late Khensani Maseko was raped by her boyfriend, and some people on Twitter asked, “How can you get raped by your own boyfriend?” People can misinterpret being in a relationship or having previously engaged with someone intimately as consent.
Do I think that it’s easy for the lines to be blurred between giving consent and not giving consent? Absolutely – and intimate partner rape is a good example. People think dating or being married to someone is their ticket to bottomless sex. The true meaning of consent can also get lost where non-verbal cues are concerned, such as a woman remaining silent and not fighting back. However, I do believe that each and every man is capable of deciphering body language.
Boys need to be told from an early age that they don’t have special privileges when someone says “No” – and that, if it happens, they need to immediately cease their behaviour. A boy is the boss of his own body – he shouldn’t let anyone touch him without permission – and he should respect other people’s bodies, too. This is something I wish I’d been taught growing up. ➻
Recently, we’ve come to complicate consent, with some of us going to the extent of asking, “Are we now expected to conduct interviews before having sex?” You know when someone wants you to be in their space and when they don’t, whether verbalised or not. It’s very clear when someone has given consent, and it’s very clear when someone is feeling coerced. Complicating consent is convenient, making it seem so cumbersome and grey that it excuses one for crossing the line. If body language – which is almost never ambiguous in the bedroom – doesn’t show you where the wind is blowing, it takes just two seconds to ask, “Are you OK?” or “Are you cool with this?” These are very normal, uncomplicated, natural parts of conversation.
Do South African men have a clear understanding of what consent means? I don’t think so. I think that men who really get this concept are in the minority – and this is not just a South African problem. The reasons are many: from the deliberate obfuscators and our patriarchal society, to popular culture and the way in which women are depicted in mass media. Our history ensured that many boys would grow up without anyone to model positive masculine behaviour for them, so they learn from each other. We need to be more honest when it comes to this subject of gender justice, and take it more personally. Some of us will distance ourselves from the criticism because we think we are fine – that we get it, that we are ‘allies’, meanwhile, as writer Teju Cole said, “We still benefit from all the advantages that masculinity proers.”
I’ve had first-hand experience, and the many dierent reactions, of calling out. Calling out is important, but calling people out publicly should happen in parallel to calling out people privately. A lot of public or performative calling out is triggered by a collective sense of outrage, and it’s easy to get lost in the furore – and anonymity – of social media. It’s easy for someone tucked away somewhere in the Northern Cape to call out Mduduzi Manana and feel good about themselves. But the true test is whether or not that person is able to call out his cousin or his friend directly and try to eect this change within their own community. I think that is the most important way to bring about change.