Violenza di genereparitàfemminile

Angela's story

This text is Angela’s testimony, her account of the anatomy of violence. Violence disguises itself, escalates, begins subtly, and adds to itself every day. Violence follows a clear strategy that gradually but inexorably makes the victim feel like the source of the harm. Violence degrades, terrifies, and strips away. Understanding the strategy of violence is a way to disarm it. This testimony is an act of knowledge. To all the women of the world, with love

By Editorial team

04 Dec 2025

I found the red lipstick again in a hidden corner of the drawer.
I don’t know why I kept it, I haven’t worn it for years.
I liked how it looked with my olive skin until I realized it makes me a whore.
Like those skirts with big flowers that you hate.
Like those rustling dresses that whisper to men to take them off.
The truth is that it’s my body itself that makes me a whore.
These prominent breasts, all outward, the hips made to bear children, those moist, lascivious, suggestive eyes… That half-open mouth, the big hands, the hair too long, too curly, too black.
What a miracle it would be to look like those sober, aloof, contained, respectful women.
Those Madonnas touched only by the Holy Spirit.
I have never been sober in anything.
I’ve always spoken too much, eaten too much, laughed too much, hugged too much.
You used to get furious at my laughter… Always inappropriate, always coarse.

You fell in love with this that day on the beach.
You liked that I laughed loudly at your jokes.
You liked that I let you wrap your arms tightly around my waist until we touched while we spun in the air, drunk on summer.
You liked how I was.

[Rustling of waves, echo of distant laughter, then music first in the distance and then getting closer and two dancers spinning while the music and laughter become more present]

You went crazy for me and then you went crazy with me.

“There’s nothing to be done with you. You’re filthy. Seductive at any cost. You were born dirty. You were born to be a whore. And that’s all you know how to do, nothing else. Whatever you do is like the call of a bitch in heat: I’ll snuff out that cigarette you smoke obscenely in your face; I’ll cut off those breasts spilling from your neckline, I’ll break the bones of your hips, I’ll close those inviting eyes forever, I’ll shut that red, heated mouth forever… A servant, you’re a servant. Just a kind word and you turn into a maid. Because you’re a maid… And put away that phone… Why the hell do those human rejects you call friends call you at all hours… Maria? A Picasso painting. Teresa? A stuffed turkey. Giulia? Lard on two legs… You impress these people, insignificant people; it’s on these that you make an impression, on human refuse. Only I know you. I know, I know that you are all talk and badge…”

[Darkness. Silent video with a man shouting and arguing and her sitting with her head in her hands and body hunched. On stage a table and the same woman — alone — in the same position as in the video, with a rhythmically contradictory music]

The paradox was that the first slap I gave you.
That evening when in front of our son you said: “You can get up and go eat in your room, there’s no place here for sluts.” And down went a slap you didn’t expect.
I left the house trembling all over. I hoped you would chase me down the stairs, that you would come to get me, that you would apologize. I hoped you would call me back. But nothing.
You let me go. You didn’t move from there. I was putting on a show for you. Right after hitting you, I thought my pride would scare you. I wanted you to be afraid of losing me.

[Darkness. On stage a staircase and a woman hurriedly going down and opening a door, then turning back to look behind and see someone who will never follow her]

I am your specific mitigating circumstance: if I weren’t like this, you wouldn’t hit me.
I know you’re a good man. I make you lose patience, I drive you crazy.
If only I knew how to stay quiet, if I weren’t late, if I stayed at home, if I didn’t work, if I were more careful and didn’t spend too much on my nonsense, if I were less vain, if I wanted to make love more, if I didn’t smile at shopkeepers, if I didn’t have male friends, if I went on a diet, if I didn’t demand to drive, if I stopped criticizing you, if I accepted aging, if I didn’t argue about your decisions, if I took off these heels, if I didn’t go out too often, if I didn’t dye my hair red, if I didn’t like to chat…

It hurts my soul more than my broken rib.
It’s as if my soul shrinks a little more with every attack of yours.
It’s as if everything in me shrinks. My shoulders, my smile, my will.
I become small, smaller and smaller.
I seem darker, gloomier.
More insecure, more doubtful, clumsier. Uglier and uglier.
I stagger. Come take me.

You always fall many times before you reach the one where you gather strength, contract every muscle in yourself to stay upright. Abs and heart. And people around like in a magic circle. I found them. I saved myself when I decided to live.
Because you can always choose to live.

To Angela and all the women in the world. When you need us, just glance our way and you will find us.

Text by Amelia Parente, founding member of Donne Leader in Sanità. The text was performed by Flavio Insinna on the occasion of the International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women in 2024.