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Today we are supposed to remember women in action: the beat of more than 20,000 feet marching toward the Union Buildings, the vision of women standing together in solidarity, the rallying cry of Wathint’abafazi, wathint’imbokodo. But how are we to bring this history into focus when our present moment is distorted by screams? How are we to echo the timeless words of protest when they conjure up memories of our bruised and bloodied bodies? It is a brutal irony, of course, that our protest song threatens the abuser with death, uza kufa!, while so many of these murderers walk free. Because we are not rocks, however much we wish we were. When we are beaten, we cry out. We bleed. We die.