Letters from a War Zone was the first piece of Andrea Dworkin’s that I have ever read. Her prose was nothing short of compelling, I can only imagine the impact she would have if I had the privilege to hear her speak live. Through her compiled works over the span of fifteen years, Dworkin paints us a picture of all women’s object status, bestowed upon us by male violence and terrorism, a desire to control and harm and buy and sell our bodies. The desire but also the power, all of the power in the world, to continue to do so.  

Andrea Dworkin did not shy away from the realities that make your stomach turn, she told us about the forced submission of women in pornography, the sexualized torture that women face, the same torture that prisoners of war are put through, only to be sold online as a fantasy, a how-to tutorial, a promise that we want it, are always asking for it. She tells us of the beatings and killings where our fathers and husbands and friends are the perpetrators. There were moments where I had to put the book down, forced to face my own naivety, forced to see what so many of us convince ourselves only happens in ‘rare cases.’ The title of the book is not misleading in the slightest; it demonstrates the true nature of the war on women.

Throughout the book, I also had moments of complete awe of her capabilities, her commitment to feminism, and of her ability to have an answer for seemingly everything. In her chapter Pornography is a Civil Rights Issue, I felt my heart race as I read the questions that were thrown at her, imagining myself as an observer in the court room. And with each question came a succinct and informed answer, always rooted in a feminist analysis of male harm and violence. I admire her, and hope to one day be able to hold my own in the name of feminism in such a way.

Dworkin told me a story of my own life that intertwines with all women’s lives; the way my mind and my body have been colonized by men, over and over again; the ways that I have been trained to be submissive, to roll over, to be good. And what is it, to be good? To meet the demands of my oppressor? To be devoted to a life that is not mine? To be silent? As I read her writing for the first time, I felt her grief, her anger, and her resistance. I can only hope that one day mine will look like that too.