The social network's 'jokes in the pub' analogy, defending its decision not to take down pro-rape pages, is offensive
It doesn't matter how hard I study Facebook's terms and conditions, I still can't find the bit where it says: "Like Humpty Dumpty, Facebook is at complete liberty to interpret the words used in this document in any way it sees fit." And yet that's obviously what Facebook executives have been doing: making words mean what they want them to mean, or else they'd have removed the pages that promote rape and other forms of violence against women months ago.

The specific clause in Facebook's statement of rights and responsibilities that's supposed to protect groups against violence and hate speech instructs the user: "You will not post content that: is hateful, threatening, or pornographic; incites violence; or contains nudity or graphic or gratuitous violence." However, Facebook has now defended the numerous pages that clearly violate these terms by claiming: "Groups that express an opinion on a state, institution, or set of beliefs – even if that opinion is outrageous or offensive to some – do not by themselves violate our policies." Which is strange, because if a page entitled "Roses are red, violets are blue, I've got a knife, get in the van" isn't hateful, threatening or gratuitously violent, I don't for the life of me know what is.

It was back in August that feminists first began to notice the proliferation of pro-rape pages on the popular social networking site. Two months later over 176,000 people have signed a US-based petition calling on Facebook to take them down, and nearly 4,000 people have signed a UK-based petition calling for the same. The Facebook pages, such as the one cited above and others that include "You know she's playing hard to get when your [sic] chasing her down an alleyway" still remain.

Facebook's initial response to the public outcry was to suggest that promoting violence against women was equivalent to telling a rude joke down the pub: "It is very important to point out that what one person finds offensive another can find entertaining" went the bizarre rape apologia. "Just as telling a rude joke won't get you thrown out of your local pub, it won't get you thrown off Facebook."

And in some ways they're right: telling a rude joke probably wouldn't get you thrown out of your local pub. I'd suggest, however, that propping up your local bar while inciting others to rape your mate's girlfriend "to see if she can put up a fight" would not only get you thrown out, it would in all likelihood get you arrested as well. Still, at least you could log on once you got home and post your offensive comments on Facebook instead, safe in the knowledge that they wouldn't do anything about it.

What Facebook and others who defend this pernicious hate speech don't seem to get is that rapists don't rape because they're somehow evil or perverted or in any way particularly different from than the average man in the street: rapists rape because they can. Rapists rape because they know the odds are stacked in their favour, because they know the chances are they'll get away with it.

And part of the reason rapists get away with it, time after time after time, is because we live in a society that all but condones rape. Because we live in a society where it's not taken seriously, and where posting heinous comments online that promote sexual violence are not treated as hate speech or as content that threatens women's safety, but are instead treated as a joke and given a completely free pass.

By refusing to take these pages down, and by resorting to such a ridiculous and quite frankly offensive "rude joke" analogy to justify their decision, Facebook executives have made absolutely clear where they stand on the issue of gender hate crime. It's fine to post hateful or threatening content on their site, just as it's fine to post content that incites violence. Well, as long as it's primarily aimed at women, that is.
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An openly lesbian PM, affordable childcare and a formidable women's movement – Iceland may just be a feminist paradise
On a wet day in Reykjavik, the rain battering the fishing boats, the tourist shops and the young male artists with their improbable moustaches, Iceland's minister of industry, energy and tourism is explaining to me that the country needs to be "more badass" about the gender pay gap. The minister is Katrin Juliusdottir, a warm, attractive woman in her mid-30s, pregnant with twins. As she speaks, a hint of frustration enters her voice. Icelandic legislation supposedly guarantees equal pay for equal work, as in the UK, "so why don't we have more penalties?" she says. "Maybe we need to be even more badass when it comes to people breaking the rules."
We are sitting in Katrin's office (all Icelanders go by their first names), in an anonymous building a few hundred yards from Reykjavik harbour, and she is talking about women's rights with no-nonsense passion. Yes, of course she is a feminist; no, she wasn't in the country for the last major women's march, otherwise she would certainly have attended; yes, it's good that the current Icelandic cabinet has four women and six men, but it's not enough. She would like to see it reach the perfect 50/50. (The current UK cabinet is 86% male.) Following the disastrous collapse of the Icelandic banks in 2008, she says, the country "wants balance in our lives, and a big part of that is the balance between men and women."
Some would say this balance already exists in Iceland – that the country is, in fact, the closest the world has to a feminist paradise. For the last two years it has topped the World Economic Forum's report on equality between the sexes, and last month Newsweek named it the best place in the world for women. The Newsweek survey looked at health, education, economics, politics and justice, and found that in all areas, and the last one in particular, Iceland is about as good as it gets. The prime minister, Jóhanna Sigurdardóttir, tells me via email that she's proud of the survey's outcome, "and not only for women, [but because] we know that gender equality is one of the best indicators for the overall quality of societies."
Through the cold mist on Laugavegur, Reykjavik's main drag, I ask Icelandic women what they think. Gudrun, 72, peers shyly from her voluminous hood and says while she loves Iceland – its cleanliness, beauty, the proximity of hot springs, volcanoes, glaciers – it can't possibly be the best place in the world for women "because we don't get the same salary as men".
Awareness of this issue is running high because of a campaign by the commercial and office workers' trade union, VR. To emphasise and redress the fact that Icelandic women are paid, on average, 10% less than their male colleagues, it last month set up a temporary discount of exactly that amount for all female customers at a range of major shops. Berglind, a young shop worker with a metal bar through her septum, tells me she'd like to see classes for teenage girls on how to negotiate hard with bosses.
Erla, 37, a lawyer, swaddled in a thick, red mac, says that as an Icelandic woman you can always count on the support of your sisters, and it was in this spirit she attended the Women Strike Back march last year, a protest against the pay gap and sexual violence. "I don't think I suffer from unfair pay now," she says, "but I have done, and I felt I needed to support women, because we didn't come this far as a society by accident. It was because people went out and worked for women's rights."
To an outsider's eye, the power of Iceland's feminist movement is astonishing. The country was the poorest in Europe before the second world war, but saw a boom afterwards, and by the late 1960s a whole generation of educated women was coming of age and feeling angry about wage inequality. Those who remained in the home felt similarly undervalued. In 1975, a one-day women's strike was proposed by radical feminist group the Red Stockings. The concept was then softened to a "day off", and on 24 October of that year an estimated 90% of the country's women downed tools, in both the workplace and the home. In Reykjavik, 25,000 women gathered for speeches, talks and singing – at a time when the entire Icelandic population numbered less than 220,000.
Thorunn Sveinbjarnardóttir, 45, was the country's minister for the environment between 2007 and 2009, and is now studying for a master's degree. She was 10 at the time of the original Women's Day Off, and went with her mother. "I just remember the feeling of being among this mass of women, who were all so happy," she says, as we sit in a cafe on Laugavegur. "That was a lesson for my generation, and I think the secret ingredient was that we managed to get women from all corners of society – from both the left and right, politically, and from all social classes. That was very important. It was a euphoric day."
The ability to mobilise women of all stripes – a really unusual feat – is still much in evidence. Last year Women Strike Back revived the spirit of the Women's Day Off, and despite storm warnings, 50,000 women flooded the Reykjavik streets, a third of the country's female population. (In the UK, it is considered a strong, successful feminist protest when 2,000 of the country's 30 million women come out.) Video of the event shows women in padded jackets, pink catsuits or Lopapeysa (traditional Icelandic jumpers), their hair, scarves and capes being whipped by the wind. One woman is dressed as a Viking. Some are laughing, many brandish signs, all look determined.
Out in the Reykjavik suburbs, I spend an afternoon with Sigrídur Magnúsdóttir, Andrea Halldorsdottir and Eva Gunnbjornsdottir. When I ask which women's issues upset them most Eva, 31, a postgraduate student, plumps for the pay gap, while Sigrídur and Andrea talk passionately about the problem of sexual violence. "If I could change one thing," says Sigrídur, 35, an office cleaner, "it would be the sexual crimes against children and women. Men will have to fight for themselves." Andrea, 27, a music teacher, says even in cases where someone is raped and almost left for dead, the reported punishment seems shockingly low.
I talk to Gudrun Jónsdóttir, a veteran feminist campaigner in Iceland, who works for Stígamót, a counselling organisation for victims of sexual violence. She says the country is certainly "a paradise of gender equality on paper", but that the reality doesn't quite match. Each year, Stígamót and the rape crisis unit at Reykjavik hospital work with around 250 women "but we can count the annual rape sentences on one woman's fingers".
She says there is still a huge problem with people's attitudes, "within the justice system, among the public, and with the women who come to our place, who are filled with shame and guilt". Last year the head of the city's sex crime division, Björgvin Björgvinsson, resigned from that position after a newspaper interview in which he said many rape victims had been drinking or taking drugs, and therefore bore some responsibility for being assaulted. In November 2010, he was reinstated.
So Iceland isn't perfect, but there seems to be the public pressure and political will to tackle its problems. The prime minister tells me the country has "a very strong and vocal women's movement, which keeps gender equality at the forefront of the debate. The movement has held the political system accountable to a degree where we can say that no politician who wants to be taken seriously can ignore the issue."
In its two and a half years in power, the government – a coalition of social democrats and left-greens – has been impressively active. It has criminalised the purchase of sex, introduced an action plan on the trafficking of women, and banned all strip clubs. When it comes to domestic violence, Katrin tells me, they have moved towards "the Austrian way", in which whoever committed the violence has to leave the home, rather than the victim going to a refuge. They have also introduced a law to take force in 2013, obliging corporations to have at least 40% of each gender on their boards.
Iceland has a history of progressive female politicians. Vigdís Finnbogadóttir, the country's president from 1980 to 1996, was the world's first democratically elected female head of state. At the time of her initial victory, the number of female politicians in the country was very low – just 5% of MPs – and so in 1983 the Women's Alliance was formed, an explicitly feminist party, which at its highest point, in 1987, held six seats, out of a total of 63. They fought for better wages for women, and, says Thorunn, who was a member, "spent the 1980s talking about all the taboos – rape, incest, domestic violence, putting in place legislation to protect women and children. All those issues are mainstream now, but it took a lot of courage."
In 1994, Ingibjörg Sólrún Gísladóttir, who had been a politician with the Women's Alliance for more than a decade, became mayor of Reykjavik, a position she held until 2003. And in 2009, after the financial crisis, and at a time when the country was questioning the values that had led them there – risk-taking and bravado, for example, which many defined as specifically masculine – there was much talk of women cleaning up the mess. Women were appointed to lead two of the disgraced banks, New Landsbanki and New Glitnir, and Jóhanna Sigurdardóttir became Iceland's first female prime minister. I ask Gudrun Jónsdóttir whether she thinks Jóhanna is a feminist, and she says: "Perhaps not primarily – she comes from the labour movement, she was a flight stewardess – but she's been around in politics for decades and has a great personal respect for the movement. Through the years she has supported our work as well as she can, and we really feel she is in our corner."
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