'Why Aren't Dudes Doing More To Stop Women's Stolen Nudes Being Shared?'

This article was originally published on Pedestrian.tv, on the 24th of March, 2016. Available here.

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Last week, a man named Lindor Jonuzi stole semi-nude images of a seventeen-year-old girl from a woman-only Facebook group.

The girl’s name was Kamila. Lindor snuck into the group, took off with her snaps and reposted them to a secret ‘lads’ group, with the explicit aim of ‘roasting sluts’. Before long, however, his post was found and spread around. Eventually he lost his job and his behaviour was publicly exposed.

I would know, because I’m the guy who exposed him.

I’ve seen and read multiple comments online involving dudes sticking up for the “poor guy who got fired”, shattered I would “ruin his life”, and trying to pin the blame not just on me, but on Kamila. She has received abuse, threats and hate mail from men.

Fast forward less than a week, and we have yet another instance of a man rejecting a woman’s consent, and deceitfully acquiring images of her. I’m referring to the story of Sydney gal Tegan Portener.

The twenty-two year old was travelling via train to Newcastle, and awoke from a nap only to catch a thirty-year-old man seated directly in front of her, attempting to sneakily film up her shorts.

She proceeded to film him right back with her phone, and vocally confronted him, before posting his mug to the Internet for all to see. He’s since been charged with “filming a persons’ private parts without consent” and “offensive conduct”.

Hell fucking yes. Tegan is incredible, and him getting charged is a killer result. Her actions have undoubtedly shown heaps of past and potential perverts that this kind of invasive behaviours aren’t okay. I haven’t seen a single man defend his actions or criticise the results. The collective mood is that justice has been achieved.

What happened to Kamila and Tegan aren’t quite so different. In both scenarios, a man has attempted to use deception to acquire footage of a woman without her consent, and been caught out in the process. Tegan’s creeper essentially pulled the “real-life” version of the theft of Kamila’s photo.

Yet not a single bloke has chimed in on reports to say “taking it public was too far”, or “why’d you have to punish him?” or – my favourite – “but everyone makes mistakes”, unlike with Kamila’s story.

This is because Tegan’s creeper did something that none of those men would ever dream of defending. It involved wilful deception and malicious intent – and it also occurred offline. 

Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure there’s a stack of dudes out there maligning her actions. I’ve already heard a man say, “Well, you should always be careful of your surroundings!” – like women should wear floor-length gowns in transit, lest their nethers be set upon by camera-wielding peeping toms. In fact, I’m kind of scared to look deeper, because Never Read The Comments.

Still, the subtle argument is that one is more vile than another. One instance feels less disgusting because it occurred online, therefore men are less willing to call it out. But is it?

A seventeen-year-old victim of abuse has been angrily blamed. Not for any kind of crime, but for the consequences faced by the offender. Her story is viewed as less of a violation to these men because it occurred online. That is a huge problem.

When men choose to stay silent because one case somehow feels lesser than another, then we’re doing ‘being an ally’ wrong. It’s time that we started realising that the gap between cyberspace and offline reality isn’t as wide as we think – and violation is violation, online or otherwise. 

A woman posting images of her body in a closed forum shouldn’t expect that they would be stolen, and we shouldn’t excuse it because it occurs online. Just like a woman riding a bus shouldn’t expect photographs being taken up her shorts.

And we must recognise that these experiences – of dangerous men going out of their way to make women feel unsafe, and women being victim-blamed and told to put up with it – occur every day for women. It’s getting pretty damn tired. 

Guys, we have to loudly disapprove of this kind of stuff – like Tegan did when she publicly exposed her creeper’s face. Because this will continue to happen until men start to hold other men accountable. 

When a seventeen-year-old girl receives death threats for the consequences of her private images being stolen and shared to ‘roast sluts’, something isn’t right. When a pervert feels so entitled to a woman's body that he films up her shorts in a public place, something is definitely off.

And when women feel alone in sticking up for themselves, men need to do something.

Photo: Getty Images / Artur Debat.

‘I shamed a man for stealing nude photos. And I’m not sure if I’d do it again.’

This article was originally published on Mamamia.com.au, on the 21st of March 2016, available here.

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For the past week, I’ve been in touch with more strangers than I can count.

I’ve received both positive praise and numerous insults. I’ve been called hero, beautiful, fuckwit, poofter and queer. I’ve even copped death threats. I’ve had my name plastered on multiple media outlets, and had my face on nationally broadcast television for all to see.

And I haven’t even had to leave my house.

Around a week ago, I made a public post on Facebook, ousting a total stranger for despicable behaviour.

A nineteen-year-old boy snuck into a woman-only Facebook group using a fake account. He stole what he saw as scandalous photos – snaps shared by a woman for body-positive affirmation – and reposted them to a less-than-friendly ‘lad banter’ group. These images were captioned in the explicit interest of “roasting sluts” – and not in a Comedy Central kind of way, where people submit themselves willingly for laughs. These were intended for vicious ridicule.

Someone in that ‘lad group’ decided that his actions were over the line, and a screenshot of the post began doing the rounds on the Internet, with people trying to contact his workplace. Eventually the warning reached me. 

Knowing that the boy and I worked in similar industries, I decided that the best way to break ground was through a public call-out post. It blew up, and his contract was terminated.

But that was just the beginning.

Suddenly I was getting calls from The Age, the Daily Mail, Pedestrian – and even this here Mamamia. The post I made took on a life of its own, and before long I was staring down the barrel of not just a camera for Channel Ten’s The Project, but Australia-wide media concentration and criticism. All in one short week.

I am what they call a “whistleblower”.

The reactions have been fierce and divided. I’ve received loads of messages from heaps of people – a huge quantity of them total strangers – with opinions on my behaviour.

They’re ranged from “What a swell guy”; I’m a dude with the apparent bravery to ‘break the bro code’ – and publicly call out another dude on shit behaviour. But there’s also a stack of men in the crowd, who want to let me know that I’m a ‘narc’, an ‘attention seeking fuckwit’, and a ‘piece of shit’ who ‘ruined someone’s life’. 

I could never have expected the story to blow up like it did. To me, it was just a call-out post on the Internet, highlighting the abhorrent behaviour of a boy towards a young woman.

It’s important that men stand up to one another regarding misogynistic behaviour towards women. That’s the principle that guided the post I made, and what led me through every interview. But when this became a matter of public scrutiny, I was forced to watch as men made loud attacks on my character, and coloured my behaviour in whatever shade they liked.

If they’re ‘haters’, then I was always a ‘keyboard warrior’, just an unhinged and unstable kid obsessed with ‘social justice’ – like that’s a bad thing. If people were fond of me, then I’m just the kind of person who would put himself on the line. There’s barely credit where credit is due, or reasonable criticism.

Being a whistleblower essentially steals your humanity from the public eye; you become a character in a storyline. The woman whose photos were shared without her consent became The Victim. The man who stole them became The Villain. And I became The Vigilante. That’s not always a good thing.

Sure, you can keep a strong public image, and reassure everyone that you know you’ve made the right choice. People will tell you that he ruined himself, and you should stay the course and hold your head high. But you will not see it that way.

People don’t see the stress, the anxiety or the self-doubt. They don’t see you have the revelation on repeat that you’d potentially damaged someone’s life – someone who isn’t a two-dimensional character in a story, but an actual human being, capable of wrongs and redemption just like anybody else.

They don’t see how you might stare up at your ceiling at night, and wonder if you’re a Vigilante or a Villain – or perhaps vigilante is villain?

One hundred percent of the negative feedback I received on my behaviour was from men. One hundred percent of women, who responded to my story, responded with positive praise. And out of all those women, every single one had been, or knew, a victim of this kind of behaviour.

That should be enough for me to do it again. But would I? 

I want to be a moralist, and I want to say, “Yes, I would do it again. Because it’s so important and crucial to changing minds and hearts and lives.”

But ultimately, putting oneself in the spotlight can sting your eyes. I don’t know if I’m a strong enough person to do it again. I don’t know if many people are. I think the people who presume it’s a publicity thrill ride are those who have never experienced it.

To shamelessly quote Lieutenant General David Lindsay Morrison: The standard you walk past is the standard you accept. This time around, I wasn’t going to walk past.

But anyone who puts up a fight for long is going to cop some blows.

'The Red Lady' - Writing Exercise

Today in a third-year university class titled 'Experimental Poetics', we were given a writing exercise.
We were to "envisage a contemporary situation in which one person watches another watching, watching an act or acts of conspicuous consumption".

This was my piece. I called it The Red Lady.

An explanation comes after the piece which is heavy on the detail and particulars. Only read the explanation if you're keen on having the mystery ruined.

I hope you like it:


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Thumbing through the clothing racks, I caught you, eyes wandering, down and up like a thermometer rising, across the body of those people in the building.

Though different pieces caught your eye, and you pulled them out to weave your fingers through their lace and cottons, none entranced more than the body and the face of that nearby woman in red.

She, a statuesque figure of seemingly effortless divinity, crimson skirt sequinned, elegant design, and you, an acne-scarred adolescent, pant-tears stitched by grandmothers hands, eyes moaning and glimmering blue and chasing hope and dreaming and expectation.

The Red Lady smiled and laughed at the speaker before her, one who slipped fingers between hangers on the racks, donning dresses and shirts with cuts as fine as the lashings of his tongue. One who cast words like spells and plush pillows, beckoning bodies to fall between them, seemingly entranced by his script.

And when the speaker brought out that long lace gown, off the racks you so flippantly thumbed through, with threads that weaved diamonds through your imagination, The Red Lady blushed. As only she could blush. As you might one day blush. But only in your dreams.

Because what you knew, is that this world is but an ocean, with tides ceaselessly throbbing, and you are an outcast stranded in a craft at sea.

And only red ladies gain a sail.

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Explanation:

I based the piece off a recent experience shooting at a fashion festival.

The festival partially hinges off the selfless acts of volunteers; from dressers to ushers to interns. These people fantasise endlessly about the prospect of becoming important parts of the industry.

And standing before them, so often, are the endless parade of beautiful people. The important faces. The stream of names. The VIPs. The entrepreneurs.

A volunteer might look affectionately up towards these entrepreneurs, who gain access with a flick of the wrist and a name dropped of a successful person whom they've known for years. Thus, the lady in red, being seduced by the salesperson wiles of the speaker, said speaker and seller of garments representing conspicuous consumption.

A volunteer might aspire to be them, and work tirelessly, for hour upon hour a day, at no profit to them, in the hope they might one day make those dreams a reality. Thus, the one being watched who watches another.

But what reality dictates is that so often these entrepreneurs were often born into circumstances well-off enough to allow their goals, strives and businesses to blossom. Whether by luck, by genetic lottery, or by sheer calculated exploitation. Such is the nature of the entrepreneur, one which is becoming far too apparent. 

Like those beautiful people never had to don pants sewn back together by grandmothers hands, so too might the volunteer never don her red dress.

And the red lady gains her sail.