Catégorie : International Security

She covered her own investigation in order to restore a truth that she had been forbidden to challenge publicly. It concerns the rape of journalist Shiori Ito, committed by a high-ranking journalist close to the Prime Minister. In the documentary Black Box Diaries, she recounts this quest for recognition, capturing moments of struggle, doubt, difficulty, but also great vulnerability.

Shiori dissects the institutional building blocks of a system that attempts to silence protests against rape, even at the highest levels of government. She was not simply denied an investigation; she was initially denied the right to file a complaint, the right to articulate and formulate words to denounce the rape she had suffered.

Justice was not served in 2017, even after rape was incorporated into the Japanese legal system in 2023 as non-consensual sexual intercourse. Prior to that date, the concept of consent did not exist, reflecting the weight of a societal view in which rape was defined only by the use of physical force and by ‘assault and intimidation,’ thus applying the term rape to very specific and limited scenarios, leaving room for an extremely narrow interpretation of the legal text. 

This definition also reflects a deeply rooted societal perception that reduces rape to a brutal, animalistic act accompanied by clear and insistent signs of fear, without emphasising consent.

Outside of these patterns, violence, which sometimes manifests itself in more subtle or insidious ways, is ignored or minimised, and cases where rape has indeed taken place but does not fit this image are systematically dismissed.

The problem lies in this hierarchy of violence: if an act does not seem abrupt or shocking according to the collective social imagination, which often links violence to a scale of intensity, then rape becomes too strong a term to be used.

This perception reinforces the idea that the rapist must correspond to a specific archetype, that of the frightening, cold, virile and macho man. While some rapists do fit this type, this single vision limits the recognition of countless situations where rape has indeed taken place, thus rendering victims invisible and making it more difficult to report the crime. The profile of a rapist can never be pre-established: he can exist in all types of social dynamics and circles.

In Shiori Ito’s story, the perpetrator is a man who has achieved everything, who is educated, who has access to the highest echelons of Japanese society, and who, in the eyes of everyone, knows how to behave and treats women with respect. His attacker appears to be a man who does not use violence as a weapon, yet it is society’s misinterpretation of violence that gives the impression that if a person does not use overt violence, they are devoid of any form of violence.

This false perception is compounded by a Japanese culture historically steeped in specific expectations of how men and women should behave in public, where ‘behaving appropriately’ becomes a matter of social survival for women. Faced with these attempts to dissuade and silence her, Shiori Ito had to not only escape forced judicial silence, but also resist social pressure that could have led her to social suicide, forcing her into ostracism by all for daring to speak out.

The culture of shame in Japan questions the responsibility placed on victims, but this phenomenon is not isolated and can be found elsewhere, driven by conservative narratives that universally protect men while silencing women.

In this context, victims are often held to an excessive moral responsibility, as if their dignity depended on their ability to ‘behave’ or even excuse what they have suffered and conform to deeply patriarchal social norms, rather than on the recognition of the violence they have endured and the duty of justice.

Shiori, through the filmed capture of this quest, shows us with distinguished resilience that strength is not shouted: it is asserted. She was violated in her intimacy, but she refused to define herself by this violence. 

She has chosen to live with her story without letting it erase her identity. In some excerpts, we see her standing tall and ready to speak, surrounded by a make-up artist and a hairdresser, expressing her right to exist beyond this story.

The small earrings, the carefully smoothed hairstyle, the subtle make-up, testify to her right to challenge what happened to her, without denying or despising the woman she is, but by honouring her existence and affirming her desire to love herself through subtle but very present signs. Her femininity is not performative, it is resilient.

What if the power you hold lives in your femininity? Yes, even in its most subtle form, because femininity is above all about seeing yourself and not forgetting who you are.

https://sunshine-empowerment.com/2025/04/20/sexual-violence-in-eastern-congo-dehumanising-oppression-of-congolese-women/

https://sunshine-empowerment.com/2025/05/17/the-violence-of-the-judicial-system-against-women-victims-of-gender-based-and-sexual-violence-in-france/

Oloturé reveals the burning fate of young women whose quest for economic emancipation leads them into the entrapment of a precarious social system, where violence is institutionalized through sexual exploitation and trafficking

Oloturé portrays the fiery fate of young women whose pursuit of economic freedom often leads them into the trap of a precarious social system marked by institutionalized violence in various forms, such as sexual exploitation and trafficking.

Oloturé is a young Nigerian journalist working undercover for The Scoop, determined to expose a cross-border sex trafficking network. To trace the operation, she poses as a sex worker on the streets of Lagos. She quickly becomes part of the daily life of young women exploited under abominable conditions, housed in squalid squats under the control of pimps. She forms a bond with Linda, another prostitute who dreams of leaving Nigeria for Europe seen as a promised land. Linda aspires to a better life for herself and her family and plans to bring her younger sister from the village to join her on this perilous journey. But what is presented as a stepping stone to freedom turns into a nightmare. Linda is violently killed after being caught with a phone, violating the network’s strict rules.

Behind this tragic story lies a much broader reality. The film highlights the social institutionalization of violence through a structured, organized, and profitable system. In this system, women’s bodies become currency, products, commercial capital enriching pimps, mafias, and even complicit institutions. Women are dehumanized: no longer seen as individuals, but as sources of profit. Their pursuit of money often the only way out of systemic poverty makes them vulnerable and manipulable. Every aspect of their daily life is monetized: food, housing, clothing… everything is charged, everything becomes debt, everything becomes pressure.

What is striking in this system is that femininity itself is weaponized. It no longer represents well-being, inner strength, or a space for self-construction, but becomes a tool for sexual appeal, calibrated to please, seduce, and sell. In this context, displaying femininity doesn’t mean self-love or celebration, but optimizing one’s body as a commercial product to meet constant demand clients willing to pay more for younger, more « docile, » more « exotic » bodies. This logic reinforces a vicious cycle: femininity becomes transactional. It no longer serves the woman herself but a patriarchal and capitalist system that exploits her body for profit. This is the paradox of these women who, in seeking emancipation, find themselves trapped in a new form of slavery.

This violence doesn’t operate on the fringes of society; it is socially normalized. It is known, tolerated, sometimes even justified. Society as a whole participates consciously or not in this acceptance. People look away, convincing themselves that « it’s the price to pay » to escape poverty, to succeed. This form of prostitution, generating billions annually worldwide, is not just a news item; it’s a structural, political phenomenon deeply rooted in global economic dynamics. It shows that modern slavery indeed exists it has merely changed its face.

The fundamental question then becomes: how can we awaken a femininity that is no longer transactional? How can women reconnect with their bodies, not as tools for survival or performance, but as spaces of grounding, freedom, and joy? And if the greatest strength of women lies in their femininity? Yes, but how can one believe in one’s own value when every act of self-love has been conditioned by oppression or commodification? How can one rebuild when everything in society tells you that your body doesn’t truly belong to you, that it must first serve someone else?

Rethinking femininity means claiming an identity freed from commercial injunctions; it means refusing to yield our power to those who would only profit from it. Nigerian prostitution is not a free choice: it’s a silent cry against a society that makes survival a luxury and women’s bodies a commodity.

Linda’s tragic journey in Oloturé is not mere fiction but a brutal reflection of a globalized system that instrumentalizes women’s bodies under the guise of economic freedom. This illusion of choice, fueled by poverty and hope, reveals a society where femininity is constantly distorted to serve the interests of a masculinized power: a useful, docile, consumable femininity. In the face of this, rethinking femininity becomes a political act. Not a femininity for sale, but a femininity to inhabit. A femininity that doesn’t seek to please the dominant gaze but to reconnect with the body as a space of dignity, gentleness, and strength. It’s not about fleeing femininity because it has been sullied, but about revaluing it as a personal power capable of cracking systems of domination.

Revaluing this femininity opens up a feminist field of action too often ignored: one that affirms that tenderness, care, inner beauty, or intuition are not weaknesses but forms of resistance. It also asserts that women’s liberation will not solely come through tools forged in virile logics but also through a radical redefinition of what it means to be a woman, beyond the commercial gaze, beyond the chains of performance. And if, at the heart of horror, humiliation, and exploitation, the true revolution begins by awakening a femininity finally returned to itself? What if the power you hold lives in your femininity?

Sexual violence against Congolese women in the east of the Congo is not an aberration, but a strategy of systemic domination. In armed conflicts, women are always the first targets, not only physically, but also socially and economically. Oppression is, as it were, doubled in order to block any possibility of freedom or hope.

They’ve had enough. And so are we.

Sexual violence against Congolese women is neither an isolated incident nor a collateral consequence of the war. It is an instrument of domination, a means of asserting illegitimate power by crushing those who embody the stability and future of a society. In these conflict zones, instability and brutality are not accidents, they have become a mode of governance. An infernal spiral in which the systematic oppression of women is not just tolerated, but integrated as a political and military strategy.

Rape is not an uncontrolled act. It is used, claimed and orchestrated. It becomes a signature of violence, a proof of strength for men whose authority is based solely on terror. This violence is not confined to women’s bodies; it tears at the fabric of society, destroys the bonds of solidarity and shatters the balance of the community. They aim to destroy the very possibility of reconstruction and a future.

Congolese women are at the heart of congolese society. Not just as economic players, but also as social pillars: mothers, sisters, aunts, figures of transmission and resilience. Their presence structures the equilibrium of communities. This is precisely why they are targeted. When they are shattered, the whole of society is shaken, plunging the country into a cycle of chaos in which political instability becomes the norm rather than a temporary crisis.

This violence is a strategic weapon. It is not just barbaric, but a cynical calculation: to prevent any possibility of emancipation and reconstruction by destroying those who carry the hope of renewal.

When a woman experiences this level of oppression, even the most brutal oppression ends up looking like grace.

If you’ve survived bombings and repeated rapes, you can almost smile in the face of economic exploitation if it means escaping sexual violence. But the problem is that there is no escape. If you’re a woman, avoiding one form of violence inevitably means encountering another. And when you dare to rebel, what you are really doing is asserting a self-respect and self-esteem that is stronger than the oppression, stronger than the violence that sometimes hides behind social integration.

This is exactly what femininity allows: a path to personal wellbeing, a way of reorienting your life and understanding that everything is being done to ensure that, in one way or another, women are put in boxes. Even what could be a driving force for emancipation, like femininity, is hijacked, minimised and scorned. Yet it is in asserting yourself, in recognising your own being, that true strength lies.

What if your greatest power lived in your femininity? But for that to happen, you have to have the time to think about it, and these women don’t have the time.