It was supposed to be a week of joyful, renewed, and feel-good back-to-school. It was supposed to be a week full of photos of little blond, brown or red-haired children, well-combed, who, after having driven all the people responsible for keeping them busy all summer, were putting on their new schoolbags decorated with Paw Patrol characters or other evil creatures to return to school, under the gaze of their parents, moved to see them grow up but relieved to be rid of them.
But no, if this back-to-school week had this kind of scent, it only lasted for the blink of an eye. Because bang, here comes the patriarchy again. Yes, patriarchy rhymes with bang, and even if it’s not with this kind of rhyme that you get a place in the Pléiade, you have to admit that it’s almost as catchy as the slogan often seen on the colorful cardboard signs at feminist demonstrations: “Patriarcaca.”
Although associating patriarchy with all forms of excrement would be quite unfair to said droppings, dung and other manure which nevertheless have an indispensable and wonderful role in terms of soil fertilization, whereas, conversely, patriarchy is basically the glyphosate of our societies.
Monday, the day and the week had barely begun when they were already giving us proof that patriarchy, like a cloud of tiger mosquitoes on a terrace on a July evening or a neighbor who takes up the violin, was really what made life less sweet.
Because on Monday a historic trial opened, in its scale of course – more than fifty men in the dock – but also in the light it sheds on something that we would like to see from another time: these men, men, still and always, think that women’s bodies belong to them. And since this Mazan trial began,…
- Slate.fr
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