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I routinely visit the doctor for ongoing treatment of Lupus, but I got way more than I bargained for last week when I got into it with a group of patients in the waiting room.
The issue that brought about the mini-skirmish was homosexuality in general, and gay marriage in particular.
Guess I’d better explain. When I arrived, my doctor was running late (don’t they always?), so I found a seat in the small and very crowded waiting room. A TV was blaring a Jerry Springer-like program in the corner. I’d brought a book to read, so I sat as far from the set as possible, which sadly put me facing the group of eager TV viewers.
These folks included more than 20 mixed race people, a little older than a normal cross-section of the public because the doctor we were waiting for is a rheumatologist. The key “player” in what turned out to be my personal drama was a man in his 30’s who had driven his elderly mother to her appointment and was waiting with her. He was quite handsome: tall, fit – cut even – with a stylish shaven head, but a less-than-stylish toothpick sticking out of the corner of his mouth. He was wearing expensive summer shorts and a blue polo shirt. He was also very loud.
At some point on the TV program, a homosexual man and his partner were picked out of the audience. They said they were planning to wed when/if it ever became legal in their home state. Immediately, the handsome man I was sitting across from began making unpleasant remarks about the gay couple on the TV. He loudly expressed how disgusting, etc. the whole thing was, prompting the bulk of the remainder of those in the waiting room to chime in their complete agreement. The handsome man, egged on by the obviously appreciative crowd and vise-versa, began to laugh derisively at the men on the TV. The handsome man and several others in the waiting room continued to express and utter a lot of vicious gay-bashing insults, and similar remarks that I will not dignify by repeating here.
As the whole thing unfolded, I literally felt sick to my stomach. I am bisexual, but even if I was straight, I would have been deeply offended by the terrible hate-talk.
After a few minutes, I found that I had almost involuntarily put my book down and was facing all of them. Quite abruptly, as if I was looking down on myself from some place high and hovering just below the ceiling, I interrupted this room of average Americans. At that point, almost all of them were laughing merrily – very happily bashing homosexuals, the handsome man at the center of it all, his eyes absolutely twinkling with cruel delight.
With as level a voice as I could manage, I softly asked them if they, “did not like gay people?”
An African-American woman who appeared to be in her 50’s answered without hesitation, “No,” prompting the majority of the group to all nod in agreement. The handsome man laughed again, and the others joined him.
She went on to proclaim that she was Christian, and that nowhere in the Bible did it say that homosexuality was anything but a sin, or that “those awful, awful people could marry.”
Another woman, who was white and said she was Italian-American and Catholic, said she agreed completely, proclaiming that, “those sick people will all go to hell, and this country will be better off without them in it.”
I told them that I couldn’t understand that view at all, that I tried to judge each person as an individual, and not to stereotype them. I said that I had thought that Christianity promoted that very approach. I also noted that the Bible also fails to condemn slavery, while actually providing instructions to slave owners. As a result, I suggested to the African-American woman that perhaps her citing it as support for an anti-homosexuality argument wasn’t the best choice under the circumstances.
For some reason, I kept talking. I noted calmly that many of those who were speaking out against homosexuals in the room were of different races. I told them that to me, “gay-bashing is just another form of bigotry – a different flavor of prejudice.”
The handsome man, who happened to be African-American, had suddenly become very, very, angry. He sharply and loudly criticized me for “daring” to speak out “in favor of those fags,” and for horribly comparing it to racial bigotry. He said I was "full of shit,” and that he had a right to his opinion.
I told him I agreed completely that he had the right to believe anything and everything that he chose. Swallowing my now palpable fear, I unwisely added, “but you’re in a public place, laughing at and insulting a group of people simply because of their sexuality. I really see it as bigotry. Your conversation and behavior are very offensive to me, and I would appreciate it if you would stop.”
An immediate and deep-as-a-ravine silence followed in which the only sound I could hear was my own heart thudding wildly in my chest like it was trying to jump completely out of my body, along with the constant drone of the TV.
“We’ll stop – but not because of you, because we’re finished talking,” he said, twisting his handsome features into an honest-to-God sneer. Then he leaned way forward in his chair and actually jabbed a finger out directly at me, reaching very close to where I was sitting. “Change the subject, or this is going to get very ugly for you – right here, right now.”
Look, I'm almost twice his age and disabled. I’m a 54-year-old white woman who can only walk with the use of two canes.
Somehow, I managed to look directly and deeply into his now hate-filled and threatening eyes. I knew in that instant that if I said a single other thing to him – anything – he really might strike me. And, if he did, I also knew he’d never suffer a pang of conscience, even though any blow from him would injure me quite badly.
“No problem. I have my book,” I replied, my mouth suddenly very dry. As I looked away from him, not one person in the waiting room made eye contact with me. Turning to my book still on my lap, I found that my hands were shaking uncontrollably.
No one spoke the rest of the time we were pressed together. When it was finally my turn to see the doctor and we were alone in an examination room, she asked if I was OK. The receptionists, all women, had heard everything and had told her because they were upset. Despite how they had felt, not one of them had tried to stop the gay-bashing.
Even so, the doctor thanked me for speaking out. She said that, "a lone voice against hate and intolerance does make a difference." She said it puts a different energy into the minds of everyone present. She said she thought it was fear that had stopped some to speak up who probably had agreed with me; some that felt gay marriage was OK; or others who believed that homosexuality was nothing to be made fun of, and that gays should not be abused.
I found out later that the oh-so-thoroughly-furious-handsome man was...wait for it...a police officer! Just what we need, not only another homophobic-bigoted man – but one with a badge and a gun.
— The Curator
A murder case in Tokyo exposed Japan's custom of hiring marriage wreckers, agents who are paid to seduce one half of a couple and cause them to split.
Takashi Kuwabara was given a 17-year jail sentence earlier this year for murdering his lover, Rie Isohata, in 2009.
But the most extraordinary thing about the case was not the killing – by strangulation, after a bitter argument in April 2009 – but the circumstances in which the couple met.
Although Kuwabara inadvertently fell in love with Isohata, he had been paid to track her down and seduce her. He was a professional wakaresaseya, or "splitter-upper," hired by her then-husband to provide him with grounds for a divorce.
The case is raising questions about the ethics and legality of "splitter-uppers" – shady, but seemingly widespread operatives to whom a surprising number of Japanese turn.
Since then, there has been serious talk whether such a practice might be exported to the U.S. and U.K., where divorce is very big business.
Women in Japan initiate 75 percent of the country’s divorces. Although Japan’s divorce rate (27 percent) has doubled over the last decade, women who want to leave their marriage with more than bittersweet memories have to bring hard evidence of infidelity to court to avoid being awarded a skimpy alimony.
Enter the wakaresaseya. For a couple thousand dollars per week, one of these lovely seductresses will plot and initiate a carnal encounter with a client’s husband. Her goal? To approach the man in public and engage him in a flirt session that makes infidelity an appealing option. Then, if all goes well, the wakaresaseya will often have sex with the man to seal his fate as an adulterer.
And the Tokyo murder case proves it isn’t just women spearheading the infidelity entrapment business – as it made international headlines. As explained above, Kuwabara, a male seduction agent killed one of his targets, Isohata, who was a mother from Tokyo whom he’d developed feelings for, and begun a genuine relationship with. When she found out that he was a wakaresaseya and tried to end their relationship, he strangled her.
As Isohata’s father testified during the trial, "I can never forgive a business that toys with the emotions of human beings."
Wakaresaseya perform a variety of functions, but all of them arise from the Japanese dislike of direct confrontation.
Rather than pleading with him face to face, a woman whose husband is having an affair may hire a splitter-upper to seduce his mistress away from him.
Parents may engage their services to get rid of the unsuitable lover of a son or daughter.
Dozens of wakaresaseya companies advertise on the internet, under names such as Lady's Secret Service and Office Shadow.
They employ models, actors and personable people of different backgrounds first to trail and then to seduce their quarry.
Isohata's father told reporters, "For the rest of my life, I will never forgive the defendant, or my daughter's ex-husband who hired him, or the wakaresaseya business itself.
"This has devastated not just my daughter’s life, but those of my grandchildren and me."
— The Curator
If you haven’t already heard, the brilliant erotic author/editor Alison Tyler has a new anthology on book shelves, has returned to Twitter, and is also holding a Smut contest featuring mystery erotica.
I have been an avid fan and reader of Alison’s work for more than a decade. Her own stories sizzle with an amazing combination of sexual zing and literary complexity that few authors, of any genre, can achieve. She’s also been the primary editor of some of the best erotica collections that I have ever read. Her latest, Alison's Wonderland
, doesn’t disappoint, it’s another well-deserved bestseller that only underscores her talent in collecting and editing the best-of-the-best in erotic fiction. Highly recommended.
According to the East Bay Literary Examiner, Alison is, "Erotica's Own Superwoman," a title that I wholeheartedly agree that she has earned.
She’s also been called a "Literary Siren" by Good Vibrations, "The Mistress of Literary Erotica," by Violet Blue, and a "Trollop with a Laptop," by the East Bay Express.
“Ever the voyeur, I'm obsessed with learning about other people's secrets, fantasies, and turn-ons. Are you ready to share?” Alison asks provocatively on her blog.
In her post today, Alison describes her latest editorial project and describes an open contest for her latest “Smut Marathon.” I have included the post in its entirety below, or read it directly at her blog:
Alison Tyler
Aug. 23, 2010
Flash Fuck Me, Baby
“Currently, I'm re-proofing His: 30 Erotic Stories, which I co-wrote with Thomas Roche. Okay, I just spelled that re-proffing. (Which must be a new word meaning to have sex with your professor, again. I "reproffed" him. All right. I need more coffee.) *That* is why I am using the one-step proofing method. One of my most amazing friends is looking over the manuscript for me! But yesterday I entertained myself on Twitter by putting up excerpts from His that were close to 160 characters. 157, 158, 159...
I know every part of that kiss—your warm hands cradling my face, your fingers in my hair. The harsh-sweet roughness of your morning shadow.
*****
“People think you’re such a good girl,” you say quietly to me, stroking my hot ass with one hand. “But we both know what you really are.”
*****
You give in to me, pressing forward so I can feel your hard cock against my ass. But then you back up again. Ten minutes means ten strokes.
*****
I remain obsessed with flash fiction—with forcing a story, or a bit of a story, or a sliver of life, or simply a moment to capture—into cages made of tiny bits of text. I've been editing short stories for more than 15 years—not only putting together anthologies, which I've been doing for longer. But editing shorts. See? Which is why I found a recent article in Publisher's Weekly about super-short fiction kind of funny. As if ever-so-brief-erotica had only just been invented.
But I had so much fun trying to choose these mini-slivers from my stories—sexy segments that worked when lifted out of the text—that I thought I'd toss out a contest. I know. I know. I'm running the Smut Marathon. But I miss my open contests—the ones where everyone—anyone—could enter. So if you're in the mood, why not flash me? Write me a 100-word erotic flasher on anything (aside from my standard no-nos—no incest, underage, or with an animal). Post the piece anonymously in the comments to this post by September 15th. Yes, those involved in the Smut Marathon can enter. Yes, you can enter if you've won a contest before. No, you can't enter if you're under 18. No you can't enter if you're married to me. That's it.
What will you win? I've got a lot of prizes right here—plus, you have a shot at being published in a book I'm currently working on. How does that sound?
XXX,
Alison
Posted by Alison Tyler at 7:15 AM”
Important FYI: Here’s what Alison wrote about this round of the Smut Marathon: “What’s a mystery? The theme for Round 5 of the Smut Marathon. I've asked that the contestants pen me a mystery, a who-dunnit, a scenario dipped and dripping in pure, unadulterated noir. I’m upping the word count for this challenge—although I once wrote a murder mystery in 50 words. (And won a spot as a deejay at UCLA.) But for this round I asked that the writers wow me in 500 words.
Guest judge is Thomas Roche! Look for the next poll in two weeks.
XXX,
Alison”
The following is a description of Alison’s latest anthology, as well as an enticing excerpt:
Alison’s Wonderland
Over the past fifteen years, Alison Tyler has curated some of the genre's most sizzling collections of erotic fiction, proving herself to be the ultimate naughty librarian. With Alison's Wonderland, she has compiled a treasury of naughty tales based on fable and fairy tale, myth and legend: some ubiquitous, some obscure—all of them delightfully dirty.
From a perverse prince to a vampire-esque Sleeping Beauty, the stars of these reimagined tales are—like the original protagonists—chafing at desire unfulfilled. From Cinderella to Sisyphus, mermaids to werewolves, this realm of fantasy is limitless and so very satisfying.
Penned by such erotica luminaries as Shanna Germain, Rachel Kramer Bussel, N. T. Morley, Elspeth Potter, T. C. Calligari, Sommer Marsden, Portia Da Costa and Tsaurah Litzsky, these bawdy bedtime stories are sure to bring you (and a friend) to your own happily-ever-after.
Excerpt:
Lily had walked past the shoe shop a hundred times. On her way to work at the flower shop early every morning, wearing shabby jeans and baseball boots that were worn the same color as the pavement, she'd walk fast and barely glance at the shiny, chichi window display. She didn't need to see heart-breaker heels and designer bags that would cost her a month's wages.
For the past six weeks, though, she'd found herself swiveling on her heel and turning to look at a particular display.
The window stretched high above her head, the plate glass polished so bright it reflected her image like a mirror. But Lily wasn't looking at herself. Her gaze was totally transfixed on the shoes. Glossy, cherry-red, skyscraper-high, patent-leather fuck-me shoes that made her heart beat faster just looking at them. They had deep curves and a dangerous heel and they stood center stage on a podium by themselves, proud, shockingly beautiful and insanely unaffordable. They made Lily's mouth water. She could almost taste the red of them.
Once, she'd approached the door, got close enough to feel the cool hum of air-conditioned air on her face. And then she'd checked herself. Girls with ratty hair and dirt under their chipped-varnish nails didn't enter shops like that. Not without a motorcycle helmet and a package under their arm. Not in a million years.
While she was at work, emptying buckets of stinking slime-water and slicing the stems of stargazer lilies, Lily let her imagination wander. In those shoes, she'd be able to walk anywhere—up red carpets and through gilded palaces, across Hollywood Boulevard and down the Champs-Élysées. She'd be a shameless scarlet bombshell, and take no shit from anyone. Her hips would swing and her lips would pout and men would fall at her feet.
And then her boss, Margie, yelled at her for daydreaming, and Lily snapped out of it and got on with the cold, dirty, green-stained work of the day.
It was the first Saturday in May. The city was full of mist that crawled lazily up the streets and muffled the edges of the morning. Dragging herself reluctantly to work, Lily walked past the siren-red shine of the shoes, and drifted to the window to gaze at her unreachable dreams through half an inch of bulletproof glass.
"You like them."
Lily nearly fell on her ass. A man had appeared, silently, in the shop doorway. He wore a black shirt and trousers the color of champagne. His face was taut and unlined, and his smile barely tweaked the corners of his mouth.
"I was just looking," Lily said, backing away.
"I see you," the man continued, fixing her with fathomless gray eyes, "every morning. You look at my shoes like you're starving."
"Your shoes?"
"I design them," he said.
"No shit," said Lily.
"For women," he said, "like you."
"Oh," Lily said, and looked down at her faded, raggedy Ramones T-shirt.
A smile snaked across the man's face.
"It's what's underneath that matters," he said, his eyes hooking on Lily's chest.
If Lily had seen herself in the plate glass, she'd have seen her cheeks flare as red as the shoes. She looked down at the paving slabs and tried to think of a witty comeback.
"Come in," the man said, pushing the door open.
Lily's eyes flicked from the shoes to the man and back again. In her mind's eye, she pictured the flower shop's shutters rolling open and Margie cursing the empty street. And then, although she knew it was crazy and although she couldn't afford to get fired from another job and although everything about the man made her feel she had sleepwalked into some surreal stage play, she followed him into the cool, palatial interior.
The whole place must have been polished by an army of women on their hands and knees, Lily thought. Every damn surface shone like a mirror. Even the light shafts that fell across the room looked glossy. The air smelt faintly of a sweet, spicy perfume, and the shop was silent. There was no sound other than the click of the man's shoes as he walked across the marble floor to the window display.
He lifted the shoes by the straps and brought them to Lily, dangling them from his hand like a bunch of grapes he didn't want to bruise.
"See," he said. "Aren't they beautiful?"
But as Lily reached out, he swung the shoes away and shook his head. He gave her a smile that made her feel dizzy.
"Not yet. You can wear them tonight. When I take you out."
When Lily finally turned up to work half an hour late, she was clumsy and preoccupied. She knocked over a display and broke an orchid stem, gave the delivery driver a funeral wreath instead of a get-well-soon bouquet and ruined a hundred silk roses by dropping them in water.
"What is going on?" Margie bellowed. "Lily Spink, get a hold of yourself!"
By six o'clock, Lily was wired. She stood by the door of the shop, stepping from foot to foot anxiously while she waited for Hans. That was his name—the shoe man. It was about all she knew. But she'd guessed he was rich. She had an inkling he'd take her somewhere fancy, and so she'd stripped down to her spaghetti-strap vest and tried to scrub the green stains off her jeans. Her outfit wasn't Chanel, but it was the best she could do at short notice.
When his car pulled up outside, dark, sleek and quiet, Lily whistled under her breath. It looked like a cruise ship.
"Hold on!"
Lily rolled her eyes as Margie's foghorn voice called her back. Her boss nodded at her. "Take this, honey."
She pressed something into Lily's hand—a sprig of little bell-shaped white flowers nodding on a stem, tied in ribbon—and gave a tight smile.
"Lily of the valley. Your namesake."
He drove straight to a club downtown, tucked behind the old merchants' quarter. Hans climbed out of the car and walked around to Lily's door to open it. When she swung her feet out, he bent forward and stilled her with one hand on her knee. Lily swallowed. Hans crouched at the curb. His hands slid down her calves and looped around her ankles. Slowly, almost daintily, he unlaced her baseball boots. When he tossed the battered boots in the gutter, Lily nearly cried out, but then she saw the hot glimmer of the red shoes and caught her breath.
Hans laid them at her feet.
"Put them on."
As she stepped, at last, into the arched shoes, they clasped her feet like the hands of a lover, and Lily knew she was beautiful. When she climbed out of the car, her spine unrolled and her hips tipped forward, until her body was an S that leaned toward Hans. Even in her frayed old jeans and with her hair loose and tangled, Lily felt like a queen.
She'd tied Margie's posy to the strap of her vest, and Hans's eye caught on it as they climbed the steps.
He raised an eyebrow. "An unusual corsage."
Lily didn't answer. She felt a bit dazzled.
They entered the club arm in arm. Every head turned to look at them. The men's faces were lustful and the women looked as if they'd sucked sour plums. Damn, Lily thought. These shoes work. She swayed across the marble floor, hanging from Hans's arm. The shoes were so high they gave her vertigo, but there was also a zing and a shiver creeping through her veins. Lily's tits tingled like they had lithium batteries attached to the nipples.
Hans led her past the jealous crowd and through a pair of long velvet curtains at the back of the club. They entered a dark, cavelike room with black walls and black marble floors, a vast glittering chandelier hanging overhead the only decor.
"Want something to drink?" Hans said, his lips brushing her ear, and Lily shivered. Everything he said made her feel as though she were swimming in syrup.
"Or shall we dance?" Hans slipped an arm around her and let his hand trip over the curve of her buttocks. Lily's heartbeat seemed to follow his touch, and she had to force herself to breathe out. When he pulled her onto the edge of the dance floor, her feet started to twitch. Lily was restless. Antsy. She felt like there was a swarm of bees in her belly, and it was part sweet torture, part agony as the thrills spilled over and trickled through her veins.
Hans watched her. His gaze stroked down her curves, and Lily felt as though she were being wrapped in hot, wet silk. Delicious shivers ran up and down her legs, and she twisted from side to side to let the tingles travel right to the end of her fingertips. What was going on? She dropped her eyes to her feet. Was it some kind of weird acupuncture?
"Oh, God," she said. "These shoes—these shoes are…fantastic."
Hans circled her, still observing her body with intense interest. As she pointed her toes and flexed, like a cat trying to shake an itch out of its fur, he put his mouth to her ear.
"Dance," he whispered, and gave her a sharp slap on the rounded cheek of her ass. The sting made her leap, and Lily whirled around, her mouth open wide in surprise. Before she could say a word, though, her attention was distracted by a low, pulsing sound. It could have been her heartbeat thumping in her ears or it could have been music, but whatever it was, the rhythm spoke directly to her body, to her hips and belly and the sweet wetness gathering between her legs.
Lily danced. She rolled back and forth and stroked herself, balancing on her tiptoes in the towering shoes. As Hans watched, she danced for him and toward him, winding around his body and rocking against him. The complex, noiseless music continued and grew louder as she ground into his crotch, lifted up tall enough on the shoes to meet the stiff length of his cock as it pressed against her, hot even through the layers of their clothes.
Deep in Lily's thoughts, a glimmer of apprehension flared. Weren't there any waiters, any other people wandering into the hidden ballroom? She hunted the dark corners of the room, but found nothing in the shadows except more shadows, deep and thickly layered, and the sensation she was floating underwater, drifting down beyond the depths to a place where n...”
The following is a brief biography of Alison at Amazon.com:
“Over the past 20 years, Ms. Tyler has written more than 25 explicit novels, including Learning to Love It, Strictly Confidential, Sweet Thing, Sticky Fingers, and Something About Workmen (all published by Black Lace), as well as Rumors, Tiffany Twisted, and Melt With You (Cheek). Her novels and short stories have been translated into Japanese, Dutch, German, Italian, Norwegian, and Spanish. Her stories have appeared in more than 100 anthologies.
When not writing saucy short stories, Ms. Tyler edits erotic anthologies. She's recently completed her 50th collection, Alison's Wonderland (Harlequin, 2010). Her best-selling titles include Naughty Fairy Tales from A to Z (Plume), Naked Erotica (Pretty Things Press), and Best Bondage Erotica (Cleis Press).
Ms. Tyler is loyal to coffee (black), lipstick (red), and tequila (straight). She has tattoos, but no piercings; a wicked tongue, but a quick smile; and bittersweet memories, but no regrets. She believes it won't rain if she doesn't bring an umbrella, prefers hot and dry to cold and wet, and loves to spout her favorite motto: You can sleep when you're dead. She chooses Led Zeppelin over the Beatles, the Cure over NIN, and the Stones over everyone. Yet although she appreciates good rock, she has a pitiful weakness for 80s hair bands.
In all things important, she remains faithful to her partner of 15 years, but she still can't choose just one perfume.”
I can’t recommend Alison’s own writing, and her collections of other’s work, any more strongly. I have read them all, and never found a single one lacking in any area. While they are all undeniably very, very sexy, they also manage to surprise while providing vivid imagery that lingers long after each story’s...climax.
Alison is also a very interesting person, and well worth following on Twitter. Long may she write!
— The Curator
Since I have been The Curator of this blog, I have presented reports from countries and regions around the world grappling with sexual behavior and attitudes within their own cultures.
I have tried very hard to remain neutral and non-judgmental, convinced that each country and region is truly autonomous, and that practices that make sense to us, would not translate well in another country with vastly different cultural beliefs, and vice versa.
I also believe without reservation that in presenting the full range of human behavior within its cultural climate will work toward tearing down barriers that divide us, that beneath our cultures, countries, and religions we are at our core all the same; sharing the same emotions that motivate and sustain us.
So it is that I must take a very deep breath to control my personal outrage, fury and disgust at a report coming out of Afghanistan. An alleged instance of adultery has led to the brutal flogging then deliberate murder of the “scorned” woman.
I cannot wrap my mind around anything that..well...barbaric. For anyone to be publicly executed by their “peers” after committing any alleged sexual behavior is completely indefensible. This the 21st Century, not the 16th Century where religious fundamentalism trumped basic humanity – not here in the U.S., or anywhere else on the planet either, dammit!
This is not an opinion I hold as a Christian, because I am not Christian. This is not a view I hold because of any religious view, or the rejection of any religious view. This is an opinion I hold as a human being. As a human being, I lend my voice of solidarity to all peoples of any religion, or who embrace no religion, who live in all countries, including our own; people who are simply trying to live the lives of their own choosing. It is time for us all to reject the politics of fundamentalism, to join hands across each and ever divide. May PEOPLE reign!
Below are the sad details, and an unhappy update on a report I presented earlier in this blog:
HERAT, Afghanistan — Taliban insurgents publicly flogged and executed an Afghan woman for alleged adultery, a police official said Monday, in a reminder of the era when the militant Islamist group ruled Afghanistan.
A Taliban spokesman denied the group was behind the horrific incident.
The 48-year-old widow was tortured first by being given dozens of lashes before being shot dead Sunday in remote Qades, a district held by militants in northwestern Badghis province, said Abdul Jabar, a senior provincial officer.
"It happened before the public...despite that no one has complained, the government will take its own measures about the incident," Jabar told Reuters news agency by telephone from Badghis.
The unidentified man who had the alleged affair with the woman had escaped, he said.
The Taliban staged public stonings or lashings of Afghans found to have had sex outside marriage when in power from 1996 until 2001.
However Qari Mohammad Yousuf, the main Taliban media spokesman, said the group was not behind the Qades execution.
"This is a bad work and we reject it. Whoever has done is not a member of the Taliban and he is trying to defame us," Yousuf said by phone from an undisclosed location.
In similarly disturbing news:
[Above: Iranian lawyer Mohammad Mostafaei answers reporters' questions at a press conference in Oslo, Norway Sunday Aug. 8, 2010. Mostafaei has applied for political asylum in Norway after he was released from a detention center in Istanbul. Mostafaei fled Iran for Turkey after defending his client, Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani, who was convicted of cheating on her husband and sentenced to death by stoning in Iran. Tehran says it will not carry out the stoning against Ashtiani for the time being, but the mother of two could still face execution by hanging.]
OSLO, Norway — The lawyer defending a woman sentenced to death by stoning in Iran said on Sunday that he has applied for asylum in Norway, but hopes Iranian authorities will allow him eventually to return to his practice.
Mohammad Mostafaei told reporters he chose to flee to Norway after obtaining a one-year Norwegian travel visa. He also cited the Nordic country's prominent human rights profile.
The 31-year-old said he fled to Turkey last week after learning Iranian officials intended to arrest him. He flew to Norway Saturday after being detained briefly in Turkey over an undisclosed passport issue.
Mostafaei maintained a blog that sparked a worldwide campaign to free his client, Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani, who was convicted of adultery. In July, Iranian authorities said they would not carry out the stoning sentence for the time being, but the mother of two could still face execution by hanging for her conviction of adultery and other offenses.
[Above: Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani.]
While Mostafaei is applying for asylum, it's unclear whether he will stay in Norway. He said he hopes international pressure will force Tehran to let him return to his practice.
"My greatest hope is that I can go back and continue my work in Iran. If the Iranian authorities will ensure my rights and safety, I'll go back," Mostafaei said through an interpreter. "Right now, I've lost the ability to work on the behalf of my clients. That means I've lost everything. Without that, it doesn't matter whether I'm in heaven or hell."
Late last month, Mostafaei — an outspoken lawyer who also has defended many juvenile offenders and political prisoners — was summoned for questioning by judicial officials at Tehran's Evin prison, released after several hours, then asked to return, which he failed to do. The same day, his wife, Fereshteh Halimi, and her brother, Farhad Halimi, were detained in a possible attempt to pressure Mostafaei to surrender if he wasn't already detained.
— The Curator
When a well-respected national newspaper gets it really, really wrong, can it ever be excused?
No.
Can it ever be explained?
Perhaps.
This post is in response to horrible reporting by several of the U.K.’s premiere newspapers this week, who badly mis-reported an account regarding the rise in 11-year-old girls using birth control pills – for medical reasons not for contraception!
Print journalists are a special breed of writer, some would argue, a special breed of human being. It is their job, both ethically and professionally, to digest a large amount of information and then turn it over as quickly as possible into an understandable narrative. Then, often without taking a breath, they must do it all over again, and again, and again, ad infinitum.
I trained really hard to do that job. I had wanted to be a print journalist since I was a kid. I believed, and still believe, that the news media is the last guardian of our democracy, ensuring that the public is not abused by its government. I believe that world history has shown that without a free, and vigorous press, there can be no freedom.
I was on school newspapers from middle school to university, got my journalism degree, completed an internship, then became a “cub” reporter on a small daily newspaper. I was a Walter Cronkite-inspired journalist – I wanted to be one of the good gals, riding to democracy’s rescue at any cost.
When I started in the business, most newspapers of even medium circulation had an “ombudsman” on staff. That person, who was also a trained journalist, had autonomy and was not controlled by the news ‘side’ of the business.
The ombudsmen (generally a man back then) spent their days investigating complaints by readers who accused the paper of making errors on stories, or of playing favorites and not being neutral on a particular issue, often political. In short, ensuring that the newspaper maintained its integrity in protecting the public interest.
By the time I became a veteran print journalist, almost all newspapers had eliminated the ombudsmen, deciding instead to investigate errors on their own – disregarding the obvious conflict of interest inherent in that decision.
Back then, the news side of the newspaper was truly separate from the advertising side, and they worked hard to keep it that way. Reporters were expected to get the news wherever they found it, and not worry about being censored to protect advertisers (or anyone else) from the potential fall-out of those stories.
Journalists were NOT entertainers, and news was...well, news: What was happening in the local, state and national levels, along with appropriate analysis to help readers make real sense of it all. Reporters were expected to gather the facts accurately, to analyze fairly, and to print it as soon as possible.
When I was a journalist, ‘Breaking News’ was not Linsey Lohan going to jail!
I was taught that to ensure accuracy every story should be fact-checked by the reporter, and the editors would challenge journalists once they brought the account back to the paper. If the information was provided by a “source,” it had to be verified by at least two other sources, three if the reporter could do it in time.
Imagine a simple story, a single-car accident. Now imagine the number of separate facts that has to be gathered to report it. Not just the who, what, when, where, why and how, but an almost infinite amount of other stuff to describe what had happened. Even the location of the wreck: Road, Street, Circle, Boulevard, Highway, Freeway, or etc.? So, even the simplest story has literally hundreds of facts, each one of those that can easily be mis-reported.
I gave a lecture once and asked the audience how many of them had ever had their names printed in a newspaper for any reason. Of those who had, I asked how many of them had their names spelled wrong. Easily 90 percent raised their hands!
Now imagine a really complex story. How many separate facts might there be? Thousands. Thousands of opportunities to blow it, to screw up one or more of these in just one story.
Next, consider a journalist who must digest, and report on a lengthy published survey, or worse yet, a scientific document that has a lot of industry-specific jargon. Imagine that same reporter may not have a science background, but that the staffing requirements of the newspaper has forced them to tackle the story.
OK. So, they have to read the hundreds of those pages cold, figure out what all of it means, then write it up. Now, imagine that reporter getting all those facts down correctly, and analyzed in the pressure cookers of deadline and media competition.
Deadlines were and are very real. Each story has an assigned deadline, generally established by the location the story would have in that day’s edition. For example, a lesser story that appeared in the back pages would have a sooner deadline because those pages would come off the press first. Front page stories had the latest deadlines possible to allow them to be updated up until the paper was “put to bed.”
Reporters were required to “write-through” their stories throughout the night, updating their accounts with any new information or to “flesh it out” by adding texture and more details to the last possible second.
Media competition was and is very real. Getting the stories first, beating the other news agencies, was drummed into our heads as much as getting those stories right. I knew of one national newspaper that would routinely send two of their own reporters to cover the same story to deliberately create competition between their own people!
When I became a journalist, there was no Internet, no cell phones, no electronic communication other than a land-line telephone in the home, or public pay phones on the street. Newspapers literally hit the street, either delivered in the morning, or sold by hawkers on the street.
Broadcast journalists didn’t even try to compete then, because they only had to fill 90 seconds of air-time for the most important story of the day. Often, they just waited for the newspapers to come out, then followed them on the noon and nighttime local news.
When I abruptly left the industry everything had changed. The Internet had spread like a genuine virus, news ink and actual paper costs had gone up more than 800 percent in one year, and blogging was well underway.
Instead of a 12-hour news cycle, it was suddenly now a 24-hour news cycle. Most newspapers were caught flat-footed, ill-equipped to play and compete in this new techno world.
They struggled to put their newspapers on websites. Instead of reporters, they hired computer technicians, and threw money at the whole thing, often haphazardly.
Traditionalists in many ways, a lot of newspaper and magazine managements thought the Internet wouldn’t last, or that it wouldn’t draw their readers like moths to a flame. They were wrong, wrong, wrong, so they panicked. Many staid publications stumbled and fell, never to recover, resulting in the largest number of bankruptcies in newspaper-magazine history.
Competition now came from every possible direction. Bloggers, and those who use Twitter don’t have to be trained writers, and their facts don’t have to be checked, since no one is looking over their shoulders. Newspaper advertisers pulled out for their own financial reasons, and began using their dollars on TV, cable stations or the Internet instead.
Newspapers fired veteran journalists from their sinking ships, then changed a lot of basic rules. Now, reporters turned their attention from news to entertainment and sensationalism, pressured to woo readers back into the literal fold any way they could. Now, pet stories compete with political stories on the front pages of respected newspapers.
New reporters either didn’t have the experience to fact-check as thoroughly, or they weren’t mentored by veteran journalists and editors. They floundered, and as that happened more and more frequently, newspapers stopped being bastions of accuracy and integrity, and gradually became just part of the overwhelming communication, quasi-information grist.
I’d always wanted to be a print journalist. Always. I left the industry I’d believed in, loved with my whole professional soul, and worked so hard at for so long. Now, I try my damndest only to look back when required – ironically, via my own blog!
— The Curator
I watched in horror yesterday as a combination of “bad science, scaremongering rhetoric and poor journalism” led to a hurtful conclusion that a greater number of girls in the UK are becoming sexually active because more and more of them are using oral contraceptives.
This initial story was picked up then widely reported throughout the UK causing a furor of near epic proportions. It was horrific because the account was DEAD WRONG! One of the few voices of reason, Dr. Petra Boynton, spent most of the day debunking the account on TV, radio, on the Internet via Twitter, and then with a wonderfully composed column posted on her blog.
I am a retired journalist. To watch it all unfold made me really sad, then really, really mad. Journalists have a responsibility – a public duty, actually – to report accurate information, especially when it involves children’s health or behavioral issues. The media in the UK failed abysmally, but the same thing can, and has, happened here.
These type of events should be wake-up calls to all news providers that they need to ensure their journalists and reporters have enough background to know how to interpret statistics, and to critically assess scientific opinions.
It is high time that sensational headlines trump information and facts. The news industry needs to take a step back, take a deep breath, and look to its past when its mission was clearly understood: Maintaining the public’s trust is more important than profit.
I have reprinted Dr. Boynton’s post, along with her links, in its entirety below, or if you prefer, read it directly at her fabulous blog:
11 years old, on the pill and sexually active? The media loses the news again
By Dr Petra
Published: 2 August, 2010
Parents across the UK are understandably being made anxious by news reports today suggesting:
— Rise in 11 year olds on the pill (Sunday Times)
— One thousand girls on Pill at 11: Huge rise in contraceptive prescription for pre-teens without parents knowing (Daily Mail)
— Huge rise in 11-year-olds on the pill (Telegraph)
The UK appears afflicted by ‘soaring’ numbers of sexually active girls, who lie to parents, enabled by GPs.
Is it accurate?
No.
Here’s why.
Where did the story come from?
These reports are based on figures from the General Practice Research Database (GPRD), indicating 1000 11-12 year olds annually are prescribed hormonal contraceptives (usually the pill or injection).
This was picked up by firstly the Sunday Times then spread to other newspapers, websites and broadcast media. As we’ll see journalists did not show due diligence in investigating the story.
Are 11 year old girls using hormonal contraceptives?
Yes. But despite the media hype there are many medical reasons why young girls might be prescribed hormonal contraceptives including:
— Heavy periods (resulting in excessive bleeding, vomiting, diarrhoea)
— Acne
— Endometriosis
— Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS)
— Irregular periods
— Amenorrhea (no periods due to extreme weight loss, anorexia, or side effects of radiation/chemotherapy)
Taking hormonal contraception is, for many girls, a means of ensuring they don’t miss school. It reduces symptoms that could be painful, distressing and single them out for bullying. When the pill is prescribed for medical reasons usually it is parents, in discussion with their daughters, who initiate contact the GP.
Of course hormonal contraception also prevents pregnancy. But being on the pill is not an indicator of having underage sex.
Approximately 26% of young girls have sex before the age of 16 Most are around 14-15. Fewer very young girls have sex and those who do are more likely to be coerced, regret the experience, struggle with access to healthcare and education, and lack family support. They are also far less likely to use any form of contraception. [More information on underage sex here]
What did the GPRD data say about different uses of hormonal contraception?
Unfortunately the data from the GPRD does not break down reasons for prescribing hormonal contraception to young women, so we cannot conclude precisely why they are using it. This hasn’t stopped media speculation it’s primarily for pregnancy prevention, wrongly suggesting all young girls on the pill are sexually active lolitas.
The media says teens don’t need parental consent to talk to a doctor. Is that true?
It is true practitioners do not have to tell parents if a young person consults with them (about any issue), guidance such as Gillick Competence and Fraser Guidelines (specifically for contraception). These set out the circumstances under which young people can get help without parental consent, and when parents or social services need to be involved. All of which happens with the awareness of a young person.
Generally practitioners want a parent or carer to be involved in supporting a young person. So providing health advice on any topic without a parent being involved tends to only happen in specific circumstances (explained in the links above). Before giving any advice practitioners are keen to establish the young person’s situation and find out what options they see themselves as having.
Aside from access to healthcare being a basic human right for any child or teen, there are sometimes very good reasons why a young person needs to talk about sensitive issues to their doctor. This may be when they live within a very strict home, or where their parents are absent or neglect them, or where they are subjected to abuse by their parents (or by others but are not protected by their parents).
So did the media make this story up?
Clearly ‘11 and 12 year old girls prescribed hormonal contraception with parents consent to prevent health problems’ doesn’t have the same salacious ring as ‘sexually active 11 year old girls’. The uncritical coverage does not refer to evidence based practice nor particularly includes reproductive health practitioners. Instead it relies heavily on the Christian Medical Association who have an anti sex education (and anti pre marital sex) agenda.
It wasn’t that the media lied about this story, certainly teens are using the pill for medical purposes and to prevent pregnancy. But this is not new. Doctors have been prescribing hormonal contraception to treat numerous complaints for decades. Just because it’s news to the media doesn’t mean it is not standard clinical practice.
Is sex education to blame?
Several news reports suggested the phenomena of young women using hormonal contraception was down to sex education – or would be made worse if sex education was implemented for young people. Indeed coverage on this was very confused on the actual or possible role of sex education in all this.
Currently sex education is not statutory across the UK and standards of delivery vary widely. Ofsted has recently produced a damning report on the state of UK sex education, while NICE is currently consulting on improving sex and relationships education in the UK. [More on what young people want from sex education here]
It seems much of the press coverage on the GPRD data is aimed at discrediting Ofsted and NICE’s suggestions that sex education be improved and appropriately tailored relationships education could begin with children aged 5.
Why was this coverage so poor?
There is an ongoing crusade by elements of the media to be anti young people, particularly young girls, and against all forms of sex education. And as we’ve already heard scandalous headlines about teenage nymphos sound a lot more exciting than a small subgroup of girls having the pill mainly for medical reasons.
However there are several other important reasons why the coverage was so bad.
Reproductive health is always framed as a two sided, moral debate
As you’ll see from the stories linked at the start of this post the media sets these stories up as moral debates where there are distinct baddies (doctors, trampy teens and anyone offering sex education) and goodies (Christian/Family groups, parents). The media focus is not to explore reasons why young women might use hormonal contraception, but to demonise young women generally and the medical profession alongside them.
Broadcast media tends to take this a step further inviting live debate between practitioners and moral authorities, and most of the calls I took from journalists today were seeking to pitch me into battle – cast in the unwinnable role of the ‘pro sex bogeywoman’ (as @badhedgehog observantly noted on Twitter).
Unsurprisingly this atmosphere does not allow clear information to be shared that might reassure parents or young people. Nor does it challenge poor media coverage, leaving the public still believing that loads of 11 year olds are a. on the pill and b. all promiscuous.
Many journalists have a poor understanding of reproductive health
Discussing this story with journalists provided a fascinating, if frustrating, insight into how many of them simply lack the basic sex education that would enable them to evaluate reproductive health data.
During the course of today I’ve spoken to 15 journalists, mostly working for radio and TV news stations, and 13 of which have been male.
Through these conversations I discovered none of the journalists knew hormonal contraception had medical uses. All of them assumed hormonal contraception was simply used to prevent pregnancy. And because of this assumption it hadn’t occurred to them to find out what else hormonal contraceptives might be used for.
They also were confused over what hormonal contraception was, in several cases not realising the pill was only one form. Most seemed to believe hormonal contraception just meant ‘the pill’. One journalist thought the injection couldn’t be a form of hormonal contraception because it wasn’t ‘a pill’, while another believed the contraceptive injection was ‘worse’ than the pill as it ‘lasted longer’ and made girls ‘more likely to have sex’.
Most of the journalists couldn’t work out why a young woman might opt for a hormonal contraceptive in injection form. They interpreted opting for an injection as easier for some than remembering to take a pill regularly as further evidence of fecklessness. This reinforced for them the stereotype of sexually lax behaviour they associated contraception use with.
Even those who accepted hormonal contraception could have additional uses still returned to the idea the main reason young people were using it was to have sex. Or believed if they were given hormonal contraception it would automatically lead to sex soon after. Or make girls more likely to act in loose ways.
Persuading them parents are mostly involved in decisions of hormonal contraception use with young girls proved pretty difficult. One journalist said ‘you’d go as far as saying a girl should go on the pill if she has heavy and painful period?’. Well, yes if that’s what she and her doctor agreed would help her. This particular journalist then asked me if I could come on air and say the first bit (parents should put their daughters on the pill) but not the second bit (explaining why they’d want to do this). Obviously I refused but you can see how even when presented with evidence to show a story is wrong journalists won’t move away from a particular angle.
Sadly while most journalists I spoke to did seem interested to learn about the medical reasons for using hormonal contraception and finding out more about it, once it became clear I wasn’t willing to participate in a ‘debate’ about whether young girls are sexually active or not, they were not interested in discussing things further. (It could be the journalists I spoke to aren’t representative of the media generally or were trying to make a particular debate point with their questioning, but my interpretation was most genuinely seemed ill informed about reproductive health)
Healthcare agencies, particularly in reproductive health, did not speak up
The whole case has highlighted for me the need for agencies promoting sexual and reproductive health to offer basic training for journalists. There is obviously a great need for many journalists to have information about how to understand clinical data, but also having an awareness of sexual and reproductive health to help them interpret this information.
Sadly the majority of organisations dealing with reproductive health (including NHS Choices, Nursing Times and the Department of Health) remained silent during the day – even when requested directly through twitter and email to get involved. This is sadly a common pattern where organisations miss key opportunities to deliver health information.
While this may be partly due to the way the media frames stories like this and practitioners don’t want to be cast as the bad guy, if enough people spoke out we could achieve so much.
As much as I have criticised the media here it is worth noting there were also many other responsible broadcasters and writers who did want to cover the story but they were struggling to find anyone to talk to them.
We cannot complain about poor media coverage if, as health practitioners and educators, we do not offer our services to ensure accurate information is shared.
How should the media have treated this story?
This really is a non story, but if the media had wanted to report it accurately they should have looked at the reasons why the contraceptive was prescribed, whether parents had consented to their daughter using hormonal contraception, and indicated proportionally how many young people were prescribed the pill for pregnancy prevention without parental consent. Indicating the numbers of 11-12 year olds on the pill as compared to the wider population in this age group would put this in perspective in terms of prevalence. And they should have written this in a way to highlight how to safeguard young people most at risk. Who we know mostly do not seek out medical help and are often also unable to get help within their families.
The take home message is?
Sadly bad science, scaremongering rhetoric and poor journalism makes it difficult for parents and young people to get accurate information. This may result in making young people more excluded from the health care they need.
Unfortunately if we do not challenge it we will continue to leave parents terrified and young people disempowered.
This piece appeared in a shorter form for The Times Science today as Too much too young: most 11-year-olds aren’t on the pill for sex.
With grateful thanks to everyone on Twitter today who challenged this story, shared information about young people’s rights, and generally kept me going when I was getting fed up shouting about it!
~~~~~~~~~~~
And, just who is the wonderful Dr. Petra Boynton?
She is a lecturer in International Health Services Research at a London university where she teaches doctors, nurses and other health professionals at postgraduate level.
She regularly presents at conferences in the UK and internationally, and completes research and training within the area of sex and relationships health.
She has a BA in Social Psychology (Sussex University), and a PhD is in Applied Human Psychology (Aston University). Her PhD focused on the effects of sexually explicit material.
She has lectured at a number of UK universities, specializing in evidence based healthcare, and understanding research methodologies (both qualitative and quantitative).
Her research has covered topics within the area of sexual health; including the effects of pornography; women involved in street prostitution; policy and practice in sex education; evaluating advice giving in the media; sexual functioning; and modernizing sexual health services.
I wish to personally thank the good doctor for working tirelessly to ensure this important public health issue was reported accurately, and for giving the news media a well-deserved kick in the pants!
— The Curator
