Iolanda Batallé: “A woman I didn’t know at all saved my life”

BarcelonaOn November 25, 2024, Iolanda Batallé (Barcelona, ​​​​1971) revealed in a thread of X sexual and power abuse she has suffered over the years. That message was the result of a need to share her pain, and it has now led her to turn it into a book. Brave like you (Destino) is the testimony of a woman who has lived with violence, who has been attacked, who has defended herself, and who has suffered the consequences of standing up to it. Batallé, who is also an editor and currently runs the Ona bookstore, wants the book to serve as a way of breaking silence. To present it, on June 11th she will bring together eight women from eight different generations, from Juliana Canet to Pilarín Bayés, at the bookstore.

You say the book is "almost your entire story of pain," from when you were a child until you turned 50. What were your priorities when writing it?

— Forward. Forward, understanding that abuse is a scourge on many levels, but moving forward. That's why the focus lies on all of us, on the people who nevertheless move forward. Our entire lives are a Me Too. Yours, mine, that of the women we pass by on the street, that of all generations. Part of the struggle is getting shame to change sides, but above all, achieving a world where there are no sides, no abuse, and no shame.

Violence begins when you're very young. How has this reality defined you?

— There's a very symbolic experience. In the late 1970s, I went to a school on a hill. I almost always took the bus, but sometimes I walked up. The path was a forest. My mother told me: "When you make the path, put rocks in your pockets, and make them big ones." At first, I did it with her. I quickly understood that there was a man there wearing a trench coat, which opened up and he wasn't wearing any clothes. My mother told me: "If he doesn't come near you, walk past, but if he does, defend yourself with the rocks." In the 1980s and 1990s, there were exhibitionists in every neighborhood. How has it defined me? I'm always on guard, always aware of what I do and how it will be perceived.

You recount some experiences of physical violence and others that involve psychological abuse and abuse of power, such as the relationship you had with a 28-year-old teacher when you were 16. Now you write: "There are teachers who still enter the classroom like someone entering an auction or a corral."

— I've been a professor at various universities for thirty years, and unfortunately, I still see this happening. When I was that professor's age, I saw it crystal clear that it can't be done. From a position of power, it's very easy to seduce much younger people. With that professor, I had shared texts, conversations, and kisses. Suddenly, he wanted to make love, and I was very aware that I didn't want to. Back then, there was no such thing as "yes means yes." Even now, it's difficult to understand that when a woman says no, it means no, but back then, it was harder.

One of the recurring questions in the essay is: "What's wrong with men?" Have you found the answer?

— I wonder about this especially with that drama teacher with whom everything was going well. There was a good relationship, a friendly one, and suddenly he pulls out. When you're absolutely clear that you haven't given any indication, you ask yourself: "But what's wrong with you now?" What's happening is society. There's a machismo and a heteropatriarchy that are inherent. I'm a single mother of a boy born in 2004, and feminism permeates the home, even life like that. We have open doors, and lots of boys from this generation come in. And despite everything, I see that they have macho traits, which, no matter how hard we try, continue to exist.

Why is it important to share these experiences?

— After telling the story on TV3, I received many comments from women. There are communities in Spanish and English for women who talk about abuse, but none in Catalan. We can't share it in our own language, and this is yet another abuse. Knowing that this is just a drop in the bucket, I wanted to help change it a little. By talking about it, the pain is placed elsewhere, instead of saying, "Sorry, I didn't do anything. Let's not get confused." And saying it with a militant smile. It won't defeat us. I want to share with others what has helped me.

Help sometimes comes from the least expected places. As a young woman, you experienced an attempted assault that was prevented from going any further by a stranger.

— It was in Braga. I'd been there for three weeks studying Portuguese. On the night of the '94 World Cup, returning home from the party, I was alone on my way to my apartment. Two men started chasing me. They were shouting that they would rape me, very unpleasant things. I went into a doorway thinking I'd be locked in, but I wasn't. There I had one of my most obvious fears. I started climbing stairs, ringing doorbells at two in the morning, calling for help. A woman in her 60s opened the door and, without saying anything, understood the situation perfectly. I went in and it closed suddenly. That woman I didn't know at all saved my life. She covered me, gave me a herbal tea, and let me sleep there. I want this book to be a bit like that door that opened. I also try to be the woman who will protect and open doors for many others.

You've also opened many doors in the world of Catalan literature: as an editor for publishers like Rata and La Galera, as director of the Institut Ramon Llull, and currently as head of the Ona bookstore. How do you see the Catalan publishing industry?

— Catalan books and literature are experiencing a tremendous moment. We have some excellent generations, with Núria Bendicho, Natalia Cerezo, Elisenda Solsona, Roser Cabré-Verdiell, Irene Solà, etc., and projects like Barcino and Adesiara, which are recovering great classics with spectacular translations into Catalan, and the work of independent publishers. Catalan literature is reaching the world; this is better than ever. The big problem is the social use of Catalan. We are in a very dangerous situation. Strength and struggle must go there. That's what we're trying to do at Ona, because it's starting to become difficult to live in Catalan in Barcelona.