The Furies: Women, Vengeance, and Justice

Across mythologies and throughout history, women’s stories frequently end with their bodies as sites of violence. But there are also celebrated tales—real and fictional—of women who have fought back. When institutions meant to protect them utterly fail, when they face mortal threats, do women have the right to use lethal force to defend themselves? Is such violence self-defense or vengeance? Justice or crime? Emmy Award-winning journalist Elizabeth Flock explores these unsettling yet crucial questions in her 2024 book The Furies: Women, Vengeance, and Justice through the in-depth narratives of three real women. This is not merely a book about violence but about how women fight for survival, safety, and freedom when systemic oppression leaves them no choice.

Elizabeth Flock is an Emmy Award-winning journalist and author who focuses on reporting stories about women and the fight for justice. Her work has appeared in The New Yorker, The New York Times, The Atlantic, PBS NewsHour, and Netflix, among other outlets. She is a reporter for PBS NewsHour and was previously an investigative reporter for Forbes India Magazine. Her first book, The Heart Is a Shifting Sea: Love and Marriage in Mumbai, won a Nautilus Book Award for books that inspire and make a difference. In that work, she spent nearly a decade following three couples in Mumbai, documenting how they navigated marriage and relationships at a moment when tradition collided with 21st-century global culture. Her commitment to long-term immersive reporting, attention to detail, and empathy for her subjects are equally evident in The Furies, where she again spent years embedded with families, communities, and organizations conducting field research in the United States, India, and Syria to tell these three women’s stories with extraordinary nuance and complexity.

The Furies focuses on three women who used lethal force in three different countries under three different circumstances: Brittany Smith, a young woman from Stevenson, Alabama, who killed a man she said raped her but was denied Stand-Your-Ground law protection; Angoori Dahariya, leader of a gang in Uttar Pradesh, India, dedicated to avenging victims of domestic abuse; and Cicek Mustafa Zibo, a fighter in a thousands-strong all-female militia that battled ISIS in Syria. Each woman chose to use lethal force to gain power, safety, and freedom when the institutions meant to protect them completely failed. Each woman has been criticized for her actions by those who believe violence is never the answer.

Brittany Smith’s story begins one night in January 2018 in Stevenson, Alabama, a small town of only two thousand people deeply rooted in conservative Southern American culture. Brittany was a young single mother working at Walmart to make ends meet. That evening, her acquaintance Todd Smith (no relation) came to her home. According to Brittany, Todd raped her while her brother Chris was present. Afterward, when Todd became violent and threatening, Brittany retrieved a gun and shot him. She immediately called the police, believing that as a victim of rape and violent assault, she would be protected. But reality proved entirely opposite.

When police arrived, rather than treating Brittany as a victim, they immediately regarded her as a suspect. They questioned her rape allegation, suggesting she was lying or exaggerating. They did not conduct a rape kit examination. They arrested her and charged her with murder. Alabama has a Stand-Your-Ground law allowing people to use lethal force in self-defense when facing threats of death or serious bodily harm without first attempting to retreat. But prosecutors and later the judge refused to grant Brittany this protection. At a pre-trial hearing, the judge ruled she could not use Stand-Your-Ground as a defense, meaning she would face murder trial and potentially life imprisonment.

Flock documents with heartbreaking detail Brittany’s ordeal: the arrest, incarceration, bail struggle, pre-trial hearings, media attention, and public judgment. She shows how the criminal justice system worked against Brittany at every step: police did not believe her; prosecutors portrayed her as a liar; the judge denied her self-defense claim; the jury never heard her full story because she ultimately accepted a plea deal to avoid possible life imprisonment. Brittany was convicted and sentenced to twenty years in prison despite insisting she acted in self-defense.

Brittany’s case reveals profound gender and class biases in the American criminal justice system. Stand-Your-Ground laws in Alabama and other states are frequently used to justify violence by (usually white) men, especially in cases involving firearms. But when women—particularly working-class women, Black women, Indigenous women—claim self-defense, they are often not believed or protected. The system assumes they are aggressors rather than victims, even when evidence clearly indicates they faced real threats. This bias is rooted in gender stereotypes: women are expected to be passive and non-violent; if a woman uses violence, she must be crazy, evil, or lying, because “real” victims do not do this. This logic completely ignores the reality women face when confronting male violence—they are often physically disadvantaged, they may not have the option to “flee,” they may rightfully fear for their lives.

Angoori Dahariya’s story takes us to Uttar Pradesh, India—the most populous state in India and one with the highest rates of gender-based violence. Angoori is a Dalit (untouchable) woman, belonging to the most marginalized group in India’s caste system. She grew up in extreme poverty, experiencing violence from a young age: witnessing her mother beaten by her father, being raped herself, forced into child marriage. In such a life, she could have become another statistic of women destroyed by violence. Instead, she became leader of a gang known as the Gulabi Gang (Pink Gang, named for the pink saris members wear), dedicated to delivering justice for victims of domestic and sexual violence.

The Gulabi Gang operates directly and powerfully: when a woman comes to them saying she has been beaten by her husband, raped, or abused by her family, gang members go to find the perpetrator—usually a large group of women in pink saris carrying sticks—and demand he stop. If he refuses, they beat him. If he continues, they escalate. They also go to police stations and courts demanding action against perpetrators, shaming bureaucrats when they refuse to help. They provide shelter, legal aid, and economic support for victims. They create a space where women with no voice or power elsewhere can seek help and justice.

Flock describes Angoori and the Gulabi Gang’s work as simultaneously admirable and troubling. On one hand, they fill a void where the state has utterly failed—police often ignore or are corrupt regarding women’s violence complaints, demanding bribes for action; courts are slow and inaccessible, especially for the poor; social norms often view domestic violence as a private matter rather than a crime. In this vacuum, the Gulabi Gang provides immediate, visible justice. They hold perpetrators accountable, empower victims, and change power dynamics. On the other hand, their methods are extralegal—they use violence, threats, and sometimes extortion. They do not follow legal procedures or due process. This raises difficult questions: is vigilante justice justified when the state cannot or will not provide justice? Who decides who should be punished and how? What happens to society if everyone enforces their own version of justice?

Angoori’s story also reveals how violence can become a tool of survival and resistance, particularly for the most marginalized women. As a Dalit woman, Angoori exists outside all power structures in Indian society—she faces discrimination based on caste, gender, and class. The system was not designed to protect women like her; in fact, it is often a source of oppression. In this context, violence—or the threat of violence—becomes a means to gain respect, safety, and some degree of autonomy. The Gulabi Gang’s pink saris and sticks are not merely symbolic; they are actual tools that reconfigure who has power and who can use force.

Cicek Mustafa Zibo’s story takes us to the Syrian civil war battlefields and the Women’s Protection Units (YPJ)—an all-female militia that fought ISIS and other armed groups. Cicek is a young Kurdish woman who joined the YPJ not only to defend her community but to fight for Kurdish self-determination and women’s liberation. The YPJ is a unique organization explicitly committed to feminist principles—it not only allows women to fight but places gender equality and women’s empowerment at the core of its ideology and practice.

Flock embeds with YPJ fighters, documenting their training, combat, daily lives, and their understanding of why they fight. These women—many in their teens or early twenties—face incredible danger. They battle ISIS, which particularly targets female fighters both for symbolic value (to ISIS’s extreme patriarchal ideology, female fighters are the ultimate insult) and effectiveness (the YPJ played a crucial role in liberating territories occupied by ISIS, including Raqqa). But YPJ fighters view themselves not merely as soldiers but as revolutionaries fighting for a world where women have real power and freedom.

Cicek and her comrades’ stories raise different questions about violence, liberation, and women’s agency. Unlike Brittany (who killed in self-defense) and Angoori (who uses violence to deliver justice for others), YPJ fighters engage in organized military conflict as part of larger political and ideological struggle. Their violence is not reactive but strategic, not personal but collective. They fight not only for survival but for territory, political power, and social transformation. This makes their violence more legitimate in some ways (fighting in war is accepted under international law) but also raises questions about whether women’s liberation can or should be achieved through military means.

Flock does not shy away from contradictions and complexities in these narratives. She shows the YPJ as both empowering and exploitative: it provides women education, training, purpose, and community rarely available in conservative, patriarchal societies; but it also sends young women into mortal danger, many of whom die or are seriously injured. She explores tensions between the YPJ’s feminist ideology and Kurdish nationalism: is this struggle about women’s liberation or Kurdish self-determination? What happens if a Kurdish autonomous government is established but maintains patriarchal structures? Will women’s participation in armed struggle lead to greater gender equality in peacetime, or will they be expected to return to traditional roles?

Running through all three narratives are fundamental questions about women, violence, and justice. First, what happens when institutional protections fail? Brittany, Angoori, and Cicek all live in contexts where laws, police, and courts have failed to protect women from violence—whether in small-town Alabama, villages in Uttar Pradesh, or Syrian war zones. In each case, women face real, lethal threats while the state is either unable or unwilling to intervene. In this vacuum, women make a choice: they can accept their victimhood, or they can fight back. They chose to fight back.

Second, do women have the right to use violence? Our societies have profound discomfort with female violence. Women are socialized to be nurturers, peacemakers, non-violent. When women use violence, they violate gender norms, subjecting them to harsher judgment than men. Male violence, while often condemned, is also frequently understood or even celebrated, especially in certain contexts (self-defense, war, protecting family). But female violence is seen as unnatural, terrifying, pathological. Flock challenges this double standard, asking: if men have the right to self-defense, why don’t women? If men can fight for justice, why can’t women? If violence is justified for men in certain circumstances, why not for women?

Third, is violence effective? This is The Furies’ most difficult and controversial question. Flock provides no simple answers. She shows the ambiguous outcomes of these women’s violent acts. Brittany killed her rapist, protecting herself from further harm, but she ended up in prison, losing her freedom and her son. Her case did generate media attention and public debate about how Stand-Your-Ground laws are unequally applied, but it did not change the law or system. The Gulabi Gang has provided protection and justice for countless women who could get it nowhere else, but their methods also perpetuate cycles of violence and do not address root causes of poverty, caste discrimination, and gender inequality. The YPJ achieved significant battlefield victories, helping defeat ISIS and creating space for Kurdish autonomy, but many female fighters died, and women’s status in post-conflict society remains uncertain.

Flock suggests that violence may be necessary and justified for individuals—it can save lives in moments of danger, it can provide some measure of justice and accountability, it can empower and shift power dynamics. But violence alone cannot create systemic change. The actions of Brittany, Angoori, and Cicek are symptoms of and responses to failed systems, but they cannot fix these systems. Real solutions require structural change: enforcing laws protecting women; police and courts taking women’s violence complaints seriously; addressing poverty, inequality, and discrimination that make women vulnerable to violence; challenging cultural norms normalizing violence against women; creating genuine gender equality where women have real power, resources, and safety.

But Flock also recognizes that while waiting for these systemic changes, women are suffering and dying now. This is The Furies’ tragic tension: how do we acknowledge that violence is not a long-term solution while also acknowledging it is sometimes the only option for survival? How do we condemn the systems making women’s violence necessary while also supporting women who make these impossible choices?

From a feminist theory perspective, The Furies resonates with long-standing debates about women’s agency, resistance, and violence. Some feminists argue women should reject violence, viewing it as a tool of patriarchal oppression, and advocate for nonviolent resistance and peacebuilding alternatives. Others contend that in some circumstances, violence may be necessary and liberating, that women have the right to defend themselves and fight for justice in the same ways men always have. Flock does not attempt to resolve this debate but illustrates it through complex stories of real women, showing there are no simple answers.

The book also embodies intersectional feminist principles. It demonstrates how gender intersects with caste (Angoori), race and class (Brittany), and ethnicity and religion (Cicek) to create unique forms of vulnerability and resistance. It recognizes that not all women equally access justice or protection—marginalized women, particularly women of color, poor women, Indigenous women, face additional barriers and dangers. It insists that gender justice cannot be separated from racial justice, economic justice, and other liberation struggles.

For readers everywhere, The Furies offers profound insights on justice, violence, and women’s rights that resonate globally. While specific legal and cultural contexts differ, underlying questions are universal: what happens when women face violence and the state fails to protect them? How do women seek justice in unequal systems? What is the role of violence in self-defense and liberation? These questions are relevant anywhere women continue facing systemic violence and discrimination.

Flock’s narrative approach—deep, long-term, empathetic—is also key to this book’s power. She does not reduce these women to symbols or statistics; she presents them as full, complex people with histories, relationships, fears, hopes, and contradictions. She makes us understand why they made the choices they did, even if we might disagree with those choices. She challenges us to move beyond simple condemnation or celebration toward deeper, more nuanced ethical and political thinking.

Elizabeth Flock’s The Furies: Women, Vengeance, and Justice is a brave, provocative, and vital work. It forces us to confront uncomfortable questions about justice, violence, and women’s safety. It challenges us to examine our assumptions and biases. It demands we take women’s lives, safety, and agency seriously. For anyone interested in feminism, justice, self-defense, or simply the true stories of three extraordinary women, this book is essential reading. It reminds us that in a world continuing to inflict violence on women, we must ask not only how they survive but how we create a world where they do not need to fight back in the first place. As Flock writes: “The question is not whether women should use violence. The question is, why do we live in a world where they must.”