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It was April last year,
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and I was on an evening out with friends
to celebrate one of their birthdays.
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We hadn't been all together
for a couple of weeks
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and it was a perfect evening
as we were all reunited.
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At the end of the evening,
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I caught the last underground train
back to the other side of London.
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The journey was smooth.
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I got back to my local station
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and I began the 10-minute walk home.
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As I turned the corner onto my street,
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my house in sight up ahead,
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I heard footsteps behind me
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that seemed to have
approached out of nowhere
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and were picking up pace.
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Before I had time to process
what was happening,
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a hand was clapped around my mouth
so that I could not breathe
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and the young man behind me
dragged me to the ground,
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beat my head repeatedly
against the pavement
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until my face began to bleed,
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kicking me in the back and neck
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while he began to assault me,
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ripping off my clothes
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and telling me to "shut up"
as I struggled to cry for help.
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With each smack of my head
to the concrete ground,
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a question echoed through my mind
that still haunts me today.
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"Is this going to be how it all ends?"
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[Little could] I have realized
that I'd been followed the whole way
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from the moment that I left the station.
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And hours later,
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I was standing topless and barelegged
in front of the police,
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having the cuts and bruises
on my naked body photographed
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for forensic evidence.
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Now there are few words to describe
the all-consuming feelings
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of vulnerability, shame, upset
and injustice that I was ridden with
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in that moment and for the weeks to come.
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But wanting to find a way
to condense these feelings
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into something ordered
that I could work through,
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I decided to do what
felt most natural to me.
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I wrote about it.
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It started out as a cathartic exercise.
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I wrote a letter to my assaulter,
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humanizing him as "you,"
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to identify him as part
of the very community
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that he had so violently
abused that night.
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Stressing the tidal wave
effect of his actions,
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I wrote,
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"Did you ever think
of the people in your life?
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I don't know who the people
in your life are.
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I don't know anything about you.
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But I do know this:
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you did not just attack me that night.
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I'm a daughter, I'm a friend,
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I'm a sister, I'm a pupil,
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I'm a cousin, I'm a niece,
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I'm a neighbor,
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I'm the employee who
served everyone coffee
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in the café under the railway.
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And all the people who form
these relations to me
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make up my community,
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and you assaulted
every single one of them.
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You violated the truth that I
will never cease to fight for,
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and which all of these people represent --
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that there are infinitely more
good people in the world than bad."
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But determined not to let
this one incident make me lose faith
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in the solidarity in my community
or humanity as a whole,
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I recalled the 7/7 terrorist bombings
in July 2005 on London transport,
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and how the mayor of London at the time,
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and indeed my own parents,
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had insisted that we all get back
on the tubes the next day,
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so that we wouldn't be defined or changed
by those that had made us feel unsafe.
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I told my attacker,
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"You've carried out your attack,
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but now I'm getting back on my tube.
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My community will not feel
we are unsafe walking home after dark.
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We will get on the last tubes home,
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and we will walk up our streets alone,
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because we will not ingrain
or submit to the idea
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that we are putting ourselves
in danger in doing so.
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We will continue to come together,
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like an army,
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when any member of our
community is threatened,
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and this is a fight you will not win."
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At the time of writing this letter --
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(Applause)
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Thank you.
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At the time of writing this letter,
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I was studying for my exams in Oxford,
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and I was working
on the local student paper there.
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And despite being lucking enough
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to have friends and family supporting me,
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it was a pretty isolating time.
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I didn't know anyone
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who'd been through
something like this before,
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at least I didn't think I did.
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I'd read the news reports, the statistics,
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and I knew how common
sexual assault was
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and yet I couldn't actually
name a single person
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that I'd heard speak out about
an experience of this kind before.
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So in a somewhat spontaneous decision,
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I decided that I would publish
my letter in the student paper,
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hoping to reach out to others in Oxford
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that might have had a similar experience
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and be feeling the same way.
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At the end of the letter,
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I asked others to write in
with their experiences
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under the hashtag, #notguilty
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to emphasize that survivors of assault
could express themselves
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without feeling shame or guilt
about what happened to them --
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to show that we could all
stand up to sexual assault.
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What I never anticipated
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is that almost overnight,
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this published letter would go viral.
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Soon we were receiving hundreds
of stories from men and women
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across the world,
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which we began to publish
on a website I set up,
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and the hashtag became a campaign.
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There was an Australian mother in her 40s
who described how on an evening out,
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she was followed to the bathroom
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by a man who went
to repeatedly grab her crotch.
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There was a man in the Netherlands
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who described how he was
date raped on a visit to London
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and wasn't taken seriously
by anyone he reported his case to.
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I had personal Facebook messages
from people in India and South America
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saying how can we bring the message
of the campaign over there.
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One the first contributions we had
was from a woman called [Nikki],
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who described growing up
being molested my her own father.
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And I had friends open up to me
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about experiences ranging from
those that happened last week
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to those that happened years ago
that I'd had no idea about.
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And the more that we started
to receive these messages,
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the more we also started
to receive messages of hope.
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People feeling empowered
by this community of voices
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standing up to sexual assault
and victim-blaming.
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One woman called Olivia,
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after describing how she was attacked
by someone she had trusted
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and cared about for a long time,
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said, "I've read many
of the stories posted on here,
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and I feel more hopeful
that if so many women can move forward,
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then I can, too.
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I've been inspired by many
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and I hope I can be
as strong as them someday,
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and I'm sure I will."
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People around the world began
tweeting under this hashtag
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and the letter was republished
and covered by the national press,
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as well as being translated into several
other languages worldwide.
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But something struck me
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about the media attention
that this letter was attracting.
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For something to be front-page news,
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given the word "news" itself,
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we can assume it must be
something new or something surprising.
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And yet sexual assault
is not something new.
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Sexual assault,
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along with other kinds of injustices,
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is reported in the media all the time.
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But through the campaign,
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these injustices were framed
as not just news stories,
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they were first-hand experiences
that had effected real people,
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who were creating,
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with the solidarity of others,
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what they needed
and had previously lacked:
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a platform to speak out,
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the reassurance they weren't alone
or to blame for what happened to them,
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and open discussions that would help
to reduce stigma around the issue.
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The voices of those directly effected
were at the forefront of the story,
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not the voices of journalists
or commentators on social media,
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and that's why the story was news.
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We live in an incredibly
interconnected world
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with the proliferation of social media,
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which is of course a fantastic
resource for igniting social change.
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But it's also made us
increasingly reactive,
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from the smallest annoyances
of, "Oh my train's been delayed,"
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to the greatest injustices of war,
genocides, terrorist attacks.
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Our default response has become
to leap to react to any kind of grievance
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by tweeting, Facebooking, hastagging --
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anything to show others
that we too have reacted.
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The problem with reacting
in this manner on mass
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is it can sometimes mean
that we don't actually react at all --
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not in the sense of actually
doing anything, anyway.
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It might make ourselves feel better,
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feeling like we've contributed
to a group mourning or outrage,
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but it doesn't actually change anything.
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And what's more,
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it can sometimes drown out the voices
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of those directly
effected by the injustice,
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whose needs must be heard.
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Worrying too,
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is the tendency for some
reactions to injustice
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to build even more walls,
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being quick to point fingers
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with the hope of providing easy
solutions to complex problems.
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One British tabloid,
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on the publication of my letter,
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branded a headline stating,
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"Oxford Student Launches Online
Campaign to Shame Attacker."
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But the campaign never
meant to shame anyone.
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It meant to let people speak
and to make others listen.
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Divisive Twitter trolls were quick
to create even more injustice,
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commenting on my attacker's
ethnicity or class
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to push their own prejudiced agendas.
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And some even accused me
of feigning the whole thing
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to push, and I quote, "my feminist
agenda of man-hating."
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I know, right?
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As if I'm going to be like,
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"Hey guys! Sorry I can't make it,
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I'm really busy trying to hate the entire
male population by the time I'm 30."
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(Laughter)
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Now, I'm almost sure that these people
wouldn't say the things the say in person,
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but it's as if because they might
be behind a screen,
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in the comfort in their own home
when on social media,
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that people forget that what
they're doing is a public act --
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that other people will be reading it
and be effected by it.
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Returning to my analogy
of getting back on our trains,
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another main concern that I have
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about this noise that escalates
from our online responses to injustice
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is that it can very easily slip
into portraying us as the affected party,
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which can lead to a sense of defeatism,
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a kind of mental barrier to seeing
and opportunity for positivity or change
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after a negative situation.
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A couple of months
before the campaign started,
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or any of this happened to me,
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I went to a TEDx event in Oxford
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and I saw Zelda la Grange speak,
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the former private secretary
to Nelson Mandela.
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One of the stories
she told really stuck me.
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She spoke of when
Mandela was taken to court
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by the South African Rugby Union
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after he commissioned
an inquiry into sports affairs.
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In the court room,
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he went up to the South African
Rugby Union's lawyers,
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shook them by the hand
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and conversed with them each
in their own language.
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And Zelda wanted to protest,
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saying they had no right to his respect
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after this injustice
that they had caused him.
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He turned to her and said,
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"You must never allow the enemy
to determine the grounds for battle."
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And at the time of hearing these words
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I didn't really know why
they were so important,
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but I felt though they were
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and I wrote them down in a notebook
that I had on me at the time.
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But I've thought about
this line a lot ever since.
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Revenge,
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or the expression of hatred
towards those who have done us injustice
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may feel like a human instinct
in the face of wrong,
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but we need to break out of these cycles
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if we are to hope to transform
negative events of injustice
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into positive social change.
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To do otherwise
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continues to let the enemy
determine the grounds for battle,
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creates a binary
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where we who have suffered
become the affected,
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pitted against them --
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the perpetrators.
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And just like we got back on our tubes,
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we can't let our platforms
for interconnectivity and community
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be the places that we settle for defeat.
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But I don't want to discourage
a social media response,
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because I owe the development
of the #notguilty campaign
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almost entirely to social media.
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But I do want to encourage
a more considered approach
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to the way we use it
to respond to injustice.
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And the start I think
is to ask ourselves two things.
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Firstly,
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why do I feel this injustice?
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In my case there were
several answers to this.
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Someone had hurt me and those who I loved
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under the assumption that they
wouldn't have to be held to account
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or recognize the damage they had caused.
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Not only that,
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but thousands of men and women
suffer every day from sexual abuse,
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often in silence,
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and yet it's still a problem
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that we don't give the same
airtime to as other issues --
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still an issue many people
blame victims for.
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So next ask yourself how,
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in recognizing these reasons,
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could I go about reversing them?
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With us, this was holding
my attacker to account --
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and many others.
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It was calling them out
on the effect that they had caused.
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It was giving airtime to the issue
of sexual assault,
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opening up discussions amongst friends,
amongst families, in the media
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that had been closed for too long,
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and stressing that victims shouldn't feel
to blame for what happened to them.
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You might still have a long way to go
in solving this problem entirely,
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but in this way,
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we can begin to use social media
as an active tool for social justice,
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as a tool to educate,
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to stimulate dialogues,
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to make those in positions
of authority aware of an issue
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by listening to those
directly effected by it.
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Because sometimes these questions
don't have easy answers.
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In fact they rarely do.
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But this doesn't mean we still can't
give them a considered response.
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In situations where you can't
go about thinking
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how you'd reverse
this feeling of injustice,
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you can still think
maybe not what you can do
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but what you can not do.
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You can not build further walls
by fighting injustice with more prejudice,
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more hatred.
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You can not speak over
those directly effected by an injustice.
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And you can not react to injustice
only to forget about it the next day
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just because the rest
of Twitter has moved on.
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Sometimes not reacting
instantly is, ironically,
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the best immediate course
of action we can take.
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Because we might be angry, upset
and energized by injustice,
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but let's consider our responses.
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Let us hold people to account
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without descending into a culture
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that thrives off shaming
and injustice ourselves.
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Let us remember that distinction,
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so often forgotten by Internet users,
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between criticism and insult.
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Let us not forget
to think before we speak
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just because we might
have a screen in front of us.
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And when we create noise on social media,
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let it not drown out the needs
of those effected,
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but instead let it amplify their voices,
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so the Internet becomes a place
where you're not the exception
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if you speak out about something
that has actually happened to you.
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All these considered
approaches to injustice
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evoke the very keystones
on which the Internet was built:
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to network,
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to have have signal,
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to connect --
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all these terms that imply
bringing people together,
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not pushing people apart.
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Because if you look up the word
"justice" in the dictionary,
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before punishment,
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before administration of law
or judicial authority,
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you get, "The maintenance
of what is right."
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And I think there are a few things
more "right" in this world
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than bringing people together,
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than unions.
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And if we allow
social media to deliver that,
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then it can deliver a very
powerful form of justice, indeed.
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Thank you very much.
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(Applause)