A Small Revolution Within a Larger One
Miriam Toews, Women Talking. Bloomsbury, 240pp., $24 cloth.
A history still in motion does not lend itself to a clear view of the end, its possible resolutions playing out in a kaleidoscope that refuses a single point of focus. But neither do many histories seen in retrospect offer a single microscopic lens. When one becomes aware of existing in a particular historical moment, one that implicates each of us, some seek to make sense of where we find ourselves, whether it is our duty to move the needle, to try to bring others along, or to merely accept our place on the map, either to struggle where we are or else to stop resisting. To see oneself amidst this unfolding drama and to conceive of a place and time beyond its tragedies requires imagination, that abstraction left by many in childhood and which is rarely offered as a practical tool in the here and now that we find ourselves in.
In October of 2017, what would later become known as the #MeToo movement made waves when sexual abuse allegations against high profile men like Harvey Weinstein began to garner national attention. Amidst a wave of accusations in every field—from Hollywood to the food industry—conversations about workplace harassment and rape culture gained more and more traction, with the implications of the movement reaching down from high profile cases to local workplaces, from comedy clubs to churches. Many people found ourselves on the map of history, seeking direction in an era of globalization that too often leaves us feeling separated from what is already at home.
Although the number of men accused seems vast, only a few have faced consequences: mostly lost jobs, but rarely a conviction in a court of law. Moreover, many of the cases do not lend themselves to easy solutions, but instead dredge up tougher questions, such as how to educate boys to resist toxic masculinity, or why men’s reputations are all too often protected at the expense of women’s safety.
From the years 2005 to 2009, a small Mennonite community in Bolivia, numbering about 2,500, was plagued by a wave of attacks against girls and women from ages 3 to 65.
For those of us who choose to face this current moment and our role within it, we must ask ourselves how we got here, how far this history stretches, and how close to home it reaches. Only in knowing—and thus owning—our history can we adequately face the present moment, and only through imagination can we shape a different now.
One such event reaching back before the present moment began in Bolivia over a decade ago. From the years 2005 to 2009, a small Mennonite community, numbering about 2,500, was plagued by a wave of attacks against girls and women from ages 3 to 65. During that time, the women were believed to be attacked by ghosts or demons, said to be lying to hide affairs, or altogether disbelieved as a product of their “wild female imagination.” In 2011, however, after several men were caught and subsequently told on others, nine men were sentenced to prison after confessing to drugging and raping the girls and women of their community. Evidence suggests that this was not the end of the attacks.
A story like this one, unfortunately, might never have appeared on our cultural radar if not for author Miriam Toews, who knows that there is no history beyond the perpetual present if we do not talk explicitly about events not gone but nearly forgotten, who knows, too, that imagination must be the primary tool at our disposal. Toews herself grew up in a Mennonite community in Canada, and at the beginning of her latest novel, Women Talking, calls her fictionalized account of the events in the Manitoba Colony of Bolivia a product of her own “wild female imagination.”
The conceit of Women Talking is all in the title: for much of the book, a group of Mennonite women, in the town of Molotschna, talk. Although the premise is simple, the ensuing dialogue is deeply complex, as it concerns what to do in response to the men who raped them and will return to the town in a few days, expecting forgiveness or else the women’s exile (yes, these are their “choices”).
Toews knows that there is no history beyond the perpetual present if we do not talk explicitly about events not gone but nearly forgotten.
Toews’s brave humor, which has added grace and depth to such weighty topics as suicide in the past, is still present, chiefly in the irony of a male narrator, August Epps, who must take notes on the women’s meeting because they are unable to read and write, having lived in a religious community that does not allow them to. Although the narrative unfolds through August’s eyes, he is himself an outsider in the community, having previously been banished with his parents and later suffering a nervous breakdown; thus, he is not fully considered a man in the eyes of many in Molotschna. His presence as the narrator is not merely ironic, as he also serves as an object lesson throughout the novel, learning to listen to the women and to seek consent from them to speak (a brief, but powerful scene).
The women ultimately consider three options (Do Nothing, Stay and Fight, or Leave), and almost the entire novel stages a debate that interrogates every corner of their lives: theology, righteous anger, the humanity of women in communities where they are not considered equals, responsibilities to children (including boys who are already dangerous but need education to grow into something different), the pitfalls of power in the hands of men and their ideologies, and the shape of a freedom that is only currently hypothetical. Even God is put on trial, who, if omnipotent, is asked “why has He not protected the women and girls of Molotschna?” As the difficult conversations thread, unravel, and end in arguments or laughter, nothing resolves easily, if at all.
Nor should they, as the present cultural moment is still being shaped and should not lend itself to easy solutions. One can imagine a time in the future when the #MeToo movement is considered to have concluded with some event (perhaps Harvey Weinstein’s or R. Kelly’s imprisonment), but no such conclusion will actually occur until safety is not merely an idea but a reality, and rape culture and toxic masculinity become memories of the past.
A male narrator, August Epps, must take notes on the women’s meeting because they are unable to read and write, having lived in a religious community that does not allow them to.
What Toews challenges, instead of quick resolution, is that—as with the questions of religion, God, and heaven—we not stop talking about what we haven’t figured out. As one of the women asks, “When we know something we stop thinking about it, don’t we?” Thus, as with the faithful who continue to sift through doubts to reinvigorate their devotion amidst trials and tribulations, we continue to face the ills of the day and ask what people who matter to us demand of us.
I am struck by the notion—very real to me—that Women Talking is a revolutionary book. I grew up in the Church of Christ around Fort Worth, Texas, first as a member in my youth and later as an employee of several churches throughout my college years. When I finally stepped away from this denomination, part of my reasons concerned the role of women in the church, as none were allowed to speak from the pulpit, serve communion, or teach classes that included males. Although this influenced my exit, I could not claim to fully recognize what influence silencing women had on the ideas held about them, how their humanity was not equally valued so long as they were not equal contributors in the church body.
When I first stepped into a church where a woman was preaching, I felt a wave of change washing over me, as her voice began to reveal—and subsequently to chip away—at the old notions I had about what makes a community of believers. It was as if a piece of God had been hidden from my view, then suddenly became apparent—a revelation amongst and even surpassing some of the previous ones that had first led me to the altar. Since then, I have continuously sought to have my worldview challenged, to be convicted by the history I am implicated in, with the same devotion I learned early in church.
When I first stepped into a church where a woman was preaching, I felt a wave of change washing over me.
I do not mean to suggest that the most revolutionary thing to come out of the #MeToo movement is for women to be given the space to talk. It certainly is something, but the true revolution must also happen in concrete consequences for perpetrators of abuse, in the realization of equality for all genders, in the actions of men going forward.
But in Women Talking, the voices of women stand as the sacred core of the novel, their words centered in a way they have never been before—admittedly, at least not for me. Their ultimate decision—the act that they will carry forth—is secondary to the truly revolutionary act of them talking, and of being heard. In fact, as they debate whether what they are doing is indeed revolutionary, Ona, one of the women, suggests that it is “a small revolution within a larger one.” Indeed, for the #MeToo movement to sustain a larger revolution, it will require many small revolutions: within religious bodies, workplaces, homes, and in the imaginations of everyone who desires something different.
The “wild female imagination” of Miriam Toews is a revelation in the truest sense: Women Talking reveals the truly divine nature of the female voice in the midst of those who might try to silence its dissident spirit. Toews and her women (along with August Epps) imagine a world beyond the current one, as the religious devotee places hope in another world and wonders aloud what it might look like, how we might get there. It may be difficult to conceive of the final shape of this world to come, but as one of the women offers, “Isn’t heaven entirely a dreamt thing? Although that doesn’t make it unreal.”
The world that the #MeToo movement imagines might be a dreamt thing. That doesn’t make it impossible.