A woman walks past a mural commemorating the 107 women killed by men in Italy in 2012. Photo: Getty.
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A third of women in the EU have faced sexual or physical violence

Denmark, Sweden and Finland had the highest rates of violence against women, despite the countries' reputation for promoting gender equality. Why?

The world’s largest ever survey on violence against women makes for grim reading. A third of women in the European Union have experienced sexual or physical violence since the age of 15, a survey of 42,000 women conducted by the EU Agency for Fundamental Rights (FRA) has revealed. One fifth of women have experienced sexual or physical violence from a partner, and 5 per cent of women have been raped.

Women are also likely to experience sexual or physical violence at a young age: a third have experiences of childhood physical or sexual abuse, with half of those who have faced sexual violence having been abused by a stranger.  

These high rates of gender based violence are in no way unique to the EU: according to the World Health Organisation around 35 per cent of women will experience sexual or physical violence in their lifetime, and a 2013 WHO report concluded that Europe had lower rates of violence against women than any other region. In countries with a recent history of conflict or severe restrictions of women’s rights, rates of violence against women are even higher. According to the UN, for instance, 87 per cent of women in Afghanistan have suffered sexual, psychological or physical violence in their lifetime.

But it is still shocking to consider that while most EU countries pride themselves on being global leaders in women's empowerment and gender equality, so many women face violence. One strange statistic is that the Scandinavian countries, widely considered among the most equal, posted some of the highest rates of violence. 52 per cent of women in Denmark report having experienced physical or sexual violence since the age of 15, compared to 47 per cent in Finland and 46 per cent in Sweden. In the UK, the figure is 44 per cent, which means we have the fifth highest rate of violence against women. In contrast, in Poland 19 per cent of women reported sexual or physical violence.

There are a number of explanations for the higher rates of violence against women in Scandinavian countries (and I don’t think Scandi noir is one of them). It could be that women in these countries felt more able to answer the survey truthfully: perhaps in European countries where the stigma on sexual violence is higher, women were less likely to report violence against them or to recognise their experiences as a form of abuse. It’s also possible, although it’s a sad thought, that the more women socialise and work outside of home, the more likely they are to experience violence from a stranger, friend or colleague.

It would be very misleading to draw to a strong link between women’s empowerment and a rise in gender based violence from the report, however. We know that some of the best protection society can offer women is to make them aware of their rights, to enact and enforce strong laws protecting them from discrimination and violence and to ensure that women are able to report crimes safely, confident that their case will be dealt with sensitively and that they will receive justice.

Which brings me to another shocking statistic from today’s report: only 14 per cent of women reported their most serious incident of partner violence to the police, and 13 per cent reported their most incident of non-partner violence to the police. If Europe wants to hold itself up as an example to others, we have a lot of work to do. 

Sophie McBain is a freelance writer based in Cairo. She was previously an assistant editor at the New Statesman.

Azaz, on Syria's northern border with Turkey. Photo: Getty
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Syria's broken people: how Assad destroyed a nation

 Whoever leads the country after this conflict comes to an end will inherit not just the rubble and ruins, but a ravaged people, too. 

For a moment, the residents of al-Fu’ah and Kafriya dreamed of a better future. After living under siege for more than two years, civilians from these two Shia villages in the rebel-held Idlib province of north-western Syria were finally allowed to leave earlier this month.

Buses arrived to evacuate them to regime-held areas in Aleppo province, snaking through hostile territory. They eventually stopped at an agreed crossover point, between regime- and rebel-held areas in the Rashideen district of western Aleppo.

These journeys are long: it can take hours, sometimes days, to travel just a few miles. Checkpoints, angry negotiations and deep distrust between opposing factions (even when they are apparently on the same side) ensure that such transfers are never as efficient as they should be.

As families waited at the Rashideen checkpoint, with some disembarking to stretch their legs or to let their children play outside, a powerful car bomb exploded. More than 126 civilians were killed in the blast – the deadliest attack of its kind in more than a year.

The fatalities included 60 children. The act was made all the more unconscionable by the way that they were deliberately targeted. A truck ostensibly providing humanitarian relief parked beside the buses and began distributing sweets and ice cream, causing the children to swarm towards it. Then  it exploded.

One of the most striking features of this conflict is its seemingly endless capacity to spiral into greater depravity. Both sides have butchered and brutalised one another in a fashion that would make the Marquis de Sade recoil. At times, it can seem as if each side is competing with the other to adopt more sadistic and cruel methods. When they do, it is ordinary civilians who invariably pay the biggest price.

Even children have not been spared from the privations of this vicious war, as the events in Rashideen demonstrate. Last August, it was the image of Omran Daqneesh, the stunned and bloodied five-year-old boy in the back of an ambulance, which epitomised the suffering of another besieged group: the mainly Sunni residents of eastern Aleppo, encircled by government forces.

To characterise the Syrian conflict as wholly sectarian is reductionist, but factional infighting has become one of its defining elements. The imprimatur of sectarianism is leaving indelible marks across the Levant, tearing the region apart.

Bashar al-Assad, Syria’s embattled president, set the tone for this when the uprising first began in 2011. To undermine the protest movement, he characterised the opposition as Sunni extremists who were driven by sectarian hatred (Assad is from the minority Alawite community; a heterodox Shia sect).

His unaccountable loyalist militia, the shabiha (“ghosts”), brutalised the opposition not just physically but also with sectarian slurs, introducing a caustic and corrosive mood to the uprising. This pathology has continued to metastasise ever since.

The current policy of displacing besieged residents has further enhanced the sectarian aspects of this war. For years, the Syrian regime has used siege warfare to bring rebel areas under control. Once the inhabitants have been worn down, the government moves them to rebel-held areas, away from its sphere of control. In this way, President Assad has consolidated control over important and strategic areas closer to home while edging disloyal elements further away.

Occasionally, new residents are brought in to repopulate evacuated areas, typically from minorities more inclined to support the government. What is taking place is a slow demographic recalibration, in which errant Sunnis are moved to the periphery and loyalist minorities are moved closer to the core.

These transfers are now so common in Syria that a dedicated fleet of green buses is used in the process, and has become an iconic image of this conflict. The buses catch the eye and are used for moving besieged people. Their sanctity is not to be violated. In a conflict that has ignored almost every norm, this one had lasted – albeit with occasional violations – until the assault in Rashideen.

There are moments when important leaders appear to transcend the divide. Moqtada al-Sadr, an Iraqi Shia cleric who rose to prominence after leading a militia against British troops in Basra after the 2003 invasion, recently called for Bashar al-Assad to step aside.

In doing so, Sadr became one of only a few prominent Shia leaders to publicly acknowledge Assad’s bloodshed. His comments came after the chemical weapons attack in Idlib earlier this month, which claimed more than 80 lives.

Statements such as Sadr’s have huge symbolic value, but are easily forgotten in the aftermath of the next atrocity. Speaking to the American broadcaster NBC last October, General David Petraeus summed up the mood of many military planners in Washington when he concluded that Syria may have passed the point of no return. “Syria may not be able to be put back together,” he said. “Humpty Dumpty has fallen and again I’m not sure you can piece it back together.”

His comments came even before the most tumultuous events of the past six months, which have included the fall of Aleppo, the emergence of a more empowered jihadist coalition (composed principally of al-Qaeda members), the use of chemical weapons and now the Rashideen bus bombing.

Petraeus’s remarks were prescient. As a result of the cycle of bitter vengeance and retribution, often fuelled by deep sectarian suspicion, the Syrian Civil War will continue its descent into chaos. When Assad first unleashed the shabiha to quash the protest movement, the militia warned the opposition: “Assad, or we burn the country.”

In this respect, at least, it has kept its word. Whoever leads the country after this conflict finally comes to an end will inherit not just the rubble and ruins but a ravaged people, too. 

Shiraz Maher is a contributing writer for the New Statesman and a senior research fellow at King’s College London’s International Centre for the Study of Radicalisation.

This article first appeared in the 20 April 2017 issue of the New Statesman, May's gamble

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