radfem-momma:

has anyone rewritten the scene in 1984 where winston smith is forced to say 2+2=5 but instead he is forced to say penises are female

“Do you remember,” [O'Brien] went on, “writing in your diary, ‘Freedom is the freedom to say that penises are male sexual organs?”

“Yes,” said Winston.

O’Brien held up his left hand towards Winston, and pointed at his crotch.

“What are penises, Winston?”

“Male.”

“And if trans activists say that penises aren’t male but female — what are they?”

“Male.”

The word ended in a gasp of pain. The needle of the dial had shot up to fifty-five. The sweat had sprung out all over Winston’s body. The air tore into his lungs and issued again in deep groans which even by clenching his teeth he could not stop. O’Brien watched him. He drew back the lever. This time the pain was only slightly eased.

“What are penises, Winston?”

“Male.”

The needle went up to sixty.

“What are penises, Winston?”

“Male! Male! What else can I say? Male!”

The needle must have risen again, but he did not look at it. The heavy, stern face and hallucinations of biology books filled his vision. A male sexual organ appeared before his inner eye like an urechis unicinctus, weird, blurry, and seeming to vibrate, but unmistakably male.

“What are penises, Winston?”

“Male! Stop it, stop it! How can you go on? Male! Male!”

“What are penises, Winston?”

“Female! Female! Female!”

“No, Winston, that is no use. You are lying. You still think they are male organs. What are penises, please?”

“Male! Female! Male! Anything you like. Only stop it, stop harassing me!”

Abruptly he was sitting up with O’Brien’s arm round his shoulders. He had perhaps lost consciousness for a few seconds. The bonds that had held his body down were loosened. He felt very cold, he was shaking uncontrollably, his teeth were chattering, the tears were rolling down his cheeks. For a moment he clung to O’Brien like a baby, curiously comforted by the heavy arm round his shoulders. He had the feeling that the trans activist was his protector, that the pain was something that came from outside, from some other source, and that it was O’Brien who would save him from it.

“You are a slow learner, Winston,” said O’Brien gently.

“How can I help it?” he blubbered. “How can I help seeing what is in front of my eyes? Penises are male.”

“Sometimes, Winston, sometimes they are female. Sometimes sexual dimorphism doesn’t exist. Sometimes they are just a feeling. You must try harder. It is not easy to become a submissive supporter of identity politics.”