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Hillary Clinton lost because of her gender, and it hurts like hell

This election result sends the message to little girls that even if you work really, really hard at something, your abuser will still end up winning.

"To all the little girls watching. . . never doubt that you are valuable and powerful and deserving of every chance and opportunity in the world."

Watching Hillary Clinton say this in her concession speech felt like being punched repeatedly in the stomach. It was the composure and dignity with which this intelligent, eminently qualified woman delivered these words, having lost an election to an ignorant buffoon with no credentials to speak of, that made watching it such an emotional experience. The waste of potential was starkly apparent. I felt with acute horror an alternative bright future dissolve before my eyes. Though not perfect — what politician is? — it was horribly clear that she would have made a damn fine president.

Instead, less than a week after the results, a new future has cracked open before our eyes. And that future speaks of the erosion of women's hard-won rights to control their own bodies. Donald Trump, who is pro-life and has already said that women who choose abortion should face punishment, had already suggested that he would appoint a pro-life supreme court justice who might remove the right to abortion that is upheld by Roe v Wade. Furthermore, Steve Bannon, former executive chairman of Breitbart news, has been appointed Trump's chief strategist. This is a man who once oversaw the publication of an article entitled, "Would you rather your child had feminism or cancer?"

In the days since Trump became president-elect, I have spoken to women on both sides of the Atlantic who have described their reactions to the election's outcome as intensely physical. How can they not, when so much of this election has been about women's bodies? From the space they are entitled (or not) to take up  – such as the Oval Office – to the men attempting to legislate them, women's bodies, their bleeding, tempting, gropeable, unsuitable-for-high-office bodies, have been central to this campaign. Not least because a powerful billionaire has boasted of his unfettered access to them, been repeatedly accused of sexual assault and yet still, mind-bogglingly, was preferable as a candidate for the highest office than a woman who used a private email server. Think about that next time someone tells you that a rape accusation ruins a man's career.

There's a line in the Handmaid's Tale that sums it up:

"Maybe none of this is about control. Maybe it really isn't about who can own whom, who can do what to whom and get away with it, even as far as death. Maybe it isn't about who can sit and who has to kneel or stand or lie down, legs spread open. Maybe it's about who can do what to whom and be forgiven for it."

There has been much feminist commentary about this election, but this point about women's bodies warrants restating. Just as racial minorities in America might respond viscerally to the racism of the Trump campaign and the explicit, articulated desires of their fellow-citizens to physically remove their bodies from what they consider to be "their" country, many women will understandably feel a corporeal revulsion at the prospect of their own rights being similarly stripped away. This, after the widely-publicised sexual assault allegations which for many threw up memories of their own assaults, of their own bodies being violated by men who believed themselves immune from any reprisal.

Of course the reaction is physical, just as the contempt for women displayed by misogynists is so inextricably intertwined with the reality of our bodies. If you were sick after the results of the election, if you cried, had trouble breathing, or your heart almost beat out of your chest, then it is understandable. Why wouldn't your body react to what to many of us feels like a denial of our humanity?

Yet not all women will have reacted this way to Trump's victory. We have heard much about the white women who voted for Trump (the majority of white women who opted for Hillary were those with a college education). That women can be sexist too will come as no surprise to feminists. The depth of contempt that some men have for women hurts, inevitably, but the depth of contempt that some women have their own kind is agony.

There are some who will tell you that this is not about gender. The left-wing sexist jerks are at it already. It wasn't that America wasn't ready for a woman in the White House, they will say, it was that this woman was the wrong candidate. She was too establishment (how ironic that you should spend years working your ass off for respect and recognition, only to have that used against you), too corrupt, too robotic. . . the list goes on. Bernie would have done it, they insist, as though America would have welcomed a Jewish socialist from Vermont with open arms. Do not buy their bullshit.

This is about gender, just as it is about race, just as it is about the frustrations of the white middle American working class, reality television, neoliberalism, and a hundred other considerations besides. Zooming in on one issue does not preclude another. But, as Trump becomes politically normalised and his "desperate" supporters are patiently listened to, we risk losing sight of the gender aspect.

The fact is, many Americans — male and female — did not want a woman president. Let's not forget how patriarchal fundamental Christianity is, how evangelical much of the country is. Followers of these religions — whether male or female — believe that women should be wives and mothers, they should defer to men, their bodies are for bearing children, whether they want to carry to term or not. "They're as unlikely to elect a female president as any Middle Eastern country is," a friend said, last night. She was right. Hillary was, to many of them, a devil bitch. How could we have forgotten, even for a moment, the Religion Thing? How foolish we were to hope.

Just as heartbreaking is the knowledge that the men in my life, though I love them deeply, will never really understand the pain of this. How could they? They have lived their lives from childhood surrounded by photographs of prime ministers, presidents and other authority figures who look exactly like them. How can they understand the hope that the day that someone who looks like you might take the lead might be coming very soon? I want the men in my life to understand that this feels personal.

Many people have been worrying what messages this election sends to little girls. That even if you work really, really hard at something, your abuser will still end up winning. That sticking your head above the parapet and attempting to claim power means facing more vitriol, more abuse, more threatening language, than your male opponent could ever imagine. That the patriarchy kicks back with ferocity if you try to undermine it. That most women would have given up, and that Hillary didn't, and she still lost.

These are not the messages any of us want little girls to hear. I'd much rather they listened to Hillary's instead. But I'm not sure most people share her optimism, and that's what really hurts.

 

Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett is a writer for the New Statesman and the Guardian. She co-founded The Vagenda blog and is co-author of The Vagenda: A Zero Tolerance Guide to the Media.

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The stand against Nazis at Charlottesville has echoes of Cable Street

Opposing Nazis on the streets has a long and noble history.

Edward Woolf – my grandpa Eddie – was a second-generation Jewish immigrant, whose parents arrived in London in the early 20th century after fleeing pogroms in Russia. They settled, like many Jews did, in the warren of streets around Whitechapel in London's East End. He was an athlete – he would later become a champion high-diver, and box for the army – and was soon to become a soldier.

The second time he fought the Nazis, it was as an officer for the Royal Artillery. He blew up his guns on the beach at Dunkirk to prevent them falling into enemy hands; later in the war he fought the forces of Imperial Japan in the jungles of Burma.

But the first time he fought the Nazis was at the Battle of Cable Street.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandfather as the events in Charlottesville, Virginia played out over the weekend. On Friday night, a neo-Nazi demonstration through the campus of the University of Virginia in Charlottesville exploded into chaos as they encountered a counter-march by protesters and anti-fascists. A 32-year-old woman, Heather Heyer, was killed and 19 others injured when a car driven by a Nazi ploughed into a group of counter-protesters.

Police, outnumbered by both parties and outgunned by the Nazi marchers, many of whom held semi-automatic weapons, were unable to prevent the violence. A state of emergency was called; the national guard was brought in. In a jaw-dropping statement on Saturday, president Trump blamed the violence on "many sides".

Ever since a video of white nationalist leader Richard Spencer being punched in the face on the streets of Washington, DC went viral in the early days of the Trump administration, America has been engaged in a bout of soul-searching. Is it OK to punch Nazis? Is it OK to be gleeful about the punching of Nazis? After having spent all of 2016 slamming Obama and Clinton for refusing to say “radical Islamic terrorism”, why is Trump – who eventually, begrudgingly condemned the neo-Nazi groups involved in the violence on Monday, a full two days after Heyer's death – so incapable of saying “radical Nazi terrorism”?

It's all given me a strange sense of deja vu. In fact, that's not the right term. We really have seen all of this before.

In 1936, just three years before Hitler's Germany invaded Poland, triggering war with Britain and – eventually – America, it was not uncommon to see Nazis on the march. The Great Depression was at its height, and many working-class whites on both sides of the Atlantic, feeling that their jobs were threatened by immigration, turned to far-right ideologies as a panacea for their economic fears. (Let me know if any of this sounds familiar...)

In the UK, Oswald Mosley's British Union of Fascists (BUF), known widely as the Blackshirts for their distinctive uniforms, had also been swiftly growing. Mosley was a veteran of the First World War and a rising star politician, albeit something of a maverick. He had served as a Conservative, Labour and independent MP before he founded the Blackshirts in 1932. He was not a proletarian demagogue like Hitler or Mussolini; he was a wax-moustached aristocrat, a fencing champion and the son of a baronet, educated (until his expulsion) at the Royal Military College at Sandhurst.

Mosley was drawn to the far-right after touring continental Europe following a 1931 electoral defeat, and became enamoured with the ideas, and the pageantry, of fascism. His second marriage, to the socialite Diana Mitford, was held at the Berlin home of Joseph Goebbels. Hitler was an honoured guest.

Of course, these groups weren't just a British phenomenon. Hitler's newly-appointed deputy, Rudolf Hess, had called on a man named Heinz Spanknobel to found US-based Nazi groups; Spanknobel formed an organization called the Friends of New Germany, and later another, called the German-American Bund, in Buffalo, NY in March 1936. They ran a summer-camp on Long Island called Camp Siegfried, and as late as 1939 American Nazis held a rally in Madison Square Garden attended by 20,000 people.

Back in the UK, Mosley planned an audacious and inflammatory march through London's East End, a route which would take his blackshirts through the middle of Stepney, Whitechapel, and Bow – areas almost entirely populated by poor Jewish immigrants. For Mosley, who had drawn a crowd of more than 20,000 to an earlier rally in 1934 at Olympia, the East End march was clearly meant as an intimidation play - a gleeful and glorious celebration of the fourth anniversary of his founding of the BUF. But he had made a wild miscalculation.

The morning of 4 October 1936 dawned with a sense of anticipation. Newsreels from the time show an intimidating crowd of 5,000 fascists, with their sinister black low-rent-SS uniforms, turned out to join Mosley on his march. 

But Mosley had severely underestimated the organising capacity of the burgeoning anti-fascist movement that was growing up in opposition to his ideas. A coordinated leafletting campaign had taken place, which, combined with newspaper and newsreel attention, meant that there were few in East London who were unaware of, or unprepared for, the day of the march.

By the time Mosley's men assembled in Shoreditch, a truly vast crowd had assembled across the East End to stop them. Estimates of its size vary wildly from the tens to the hundreds of thousands; according to some sources as many as quarter of a million Jews, Communists, anti-fascists, union members, Catholic dock-workers, local residents, and many more who just came to see what would happen, flocked to the route of the march. Among them, somewhere in the crowd, was my grandfather, linked arm-in-arm with his friends. He was 20 years old. 

The Communist Party was key in organizing the counter-protest, and the rallying-cry for the counter-protesters was borrowed from the Spanish civil war: no parasan, meaning: they shall not pass.

More than 6,000 police officers, many on horseback, were deployed to prevent violence, but, vastly outnumbered, they were unable to clear the makeshift barricades and the people standing arm-in-arm from the street. The march ground to a halt and swiftly dissolved into a riot.

The embattled police tried to redirect Mosley down nearby Cable Street, but the crowd overturned a goods lorry to block their path, and a pitched battle ensued. From the upper windows of the tenement houses along the street, people threw rotten fruit and vegetables, and even emptied the foul contents of their chamber-pots, over the now-trapped blackshirts. As shit rained down, the fascists fought back with sticks, stones, and anything else they could find.

After a series of pitched battles, Mosley was forced to call off the march. At least 150 people had been injured in the brawl.

“I was moved to see bearded Jews and Irish Catholic dockers standing up to stop Mosley,” historian Bill Fishman, who witnessed the battle, said at a 2006 event commemorating its 70th anniversary. “I shall never forget that as long as I live, how working-class people could get together to oppose the evil of fascism.”

Cable Street didn't stop fascism in Britain - the outbreak of war, and the accompanying internment of Mosley and his lieutenants as possible enemy collaborators, did that. But it stopped their momentum, their confidence that power was almost within their grasp. The defeat showed them - showed everyone - that there was an opposition, and more, that the Nazis didn't hold the monopoly on intimidation. They too could be made to feel fear.

The echoes of Cable Street are crystal clear in the events this weekend in Charlottesville. Terms like “alt-right” and “white nationalist” are often chosen by journalists to cover these groups, but let's not mince words: Nazis again marched through the streets this weekend. The police were powerless to stop them. They were powerless to prevent the death of Heather Heyer. And the situation in America seems likely only to get worse. Spencer, who was one of the leaders of the Nazis in Charlottesville, announced that he is planning another march, this time in Texas, next month.

Enough has been written already about the need to stay above the baser instincts of mob violence and revenge. Let the Nazis call for lynching; we're better than that, but if I'm honest I can't summon much bile for the Antifascists who decide that Nazi violence should be met in kind.

Perhaps, in the wake of Charlottesville, the story of Cable Street teaches us that, in troubled times like these, it may be good to fill a chamber-pot or two for when the Nazis march again; or that the time will come when we, like my grandfather did, must stand together with arms linked and tell them: they shall not pass.

Nicky Woolf is a freelance writer based in the US who has formerly worked for the Guardian and the New Statesman. He tweets @NickyWoolf.