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À l’âge de six ans, j’appris que mon grand-père avait un cinéma. Ma mère me raconta comment il l’avait ouvert au début des années 1960, quand elle avait également à peu près six ans. Elle se rappelait qu’il avait projeté La Mélodie du bonheur le soir de l’ouverture...

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A Film Series on Asian/Pacific Feminist Realities 

Curated by Jess X. Snow With assistance from Kamee Abrahamian and Zoraida Ingles 

Across Asia and the Pacific, and all of it’s vast diaspora, fierce women and trans folks have been fighting for a future where they can all be free. As rising sea levels threaten the Pacific islands, and the coasts of continental Asia, the fight to protect other Earth and the Ocean intensifies all over the globe. Our planet stores a geologic memory of everything that it has experienced. The rise of colonization, industrialization, and environmental destruction is connected to the rise of the binary patriarchal nation state. The power within the Earth, to reincarnate, heal, and bloom in the face of violence, must then be connected to the woman, to motherhood, to indigeneity and all forces that are expansive, sacred and queer. It is no coincidence that Feminist Realities unite the fight to protect the rights of women, trans and LGBTQ+ people with the fight to protect the Earth. From mother-daughter protectors of Mauna Kea in the Kingdom of Hawaii, to the complex mother-child relationships of Vietnamese refugees, to queer sexual awakenings in conservative India, the reclaimation of home in Inner Mongolia, to the struggle toward LGBTQ liberation in the Phillipines -- this collection of films is a cosmology of the ways current-day Asian Pacific women and queer and trans folks champion the journey to our collective liberation across oceans and borders. 

All of these films have a strong sense of place: indigenous activists protect their sacred lands, youth peel back colonial narratives of their homeland to uncover hidden truths, complex motherhood and relations of care are explored, and characters turn to their own bodies and sexuality as sanctuary when the family and city that surrounds them threaten their safety. 

AFTEREARTH

By Jess X. Snow

“A haunting film with stunning shots invoking feminist environmental resistance and how deeply rooted this is in connection to cultural history and land…”
    - Jessica Horn, PanAfrican feminst strategist, writer and co-creator of the temple of her skin

In the experimental documentary, Afterearth, four women fight to preserve the volcano, ocean, land and air for future generations. Through music, poetry, and heartfelt testimonial that honors locations touched by the Pacific Ocean–Hawaiʻi, the Philippines, China, and North America, Afterearth is a poetic meditation on four women’s intergenerational and feminist relationship to the lands and plants they come from.

STANDING ABOVE THE CLOUDS

By Jalena Keane Lee

In Standing Above the Clouds, Native Hawaiian mother-daughter activists stand together to protect their sacred mountain, Mauna Kea from being used as a site to build one of the world’s largest telescopes. As protectors of Mauna Kea, this film highlights the interconnected relationship between Aloha ʻĀina (love of the land) and love for one’s elders and the future generations to come.

NƯỚC (WATER/HOMELAND)

By Quyên Nguyen-Le

In the experimental narrative short, Nước (Water/Homeland) a Vietnamese-American genderqueer teen challenges dominant narratives of the Vietnam War in Los Angeles, California. Through striking dream sequences and breaks from reality, this film follows their journey to piece together and understand their mother's experience as a Vietnam War refugee. 

KAMA’ĀINA

By Kimi Lee

In Kama’āina, a queer sixteen-year-old girl must navigate life on the streets in Oahu, until she eventually finds refuge by  way of guidance from an auntie at Pu’uhonua o Wai’anae–Hawaiʻi’s largest organized homeless encampment. 

DEVI

By Karishma Dev Dube

In Devi (goddess in Hindi) a young closeted lesbian, Tara risks both family and tradition to embrace her attraction to her family’s maid. Set in New Delhi, Devi is a coming of age story, as it is a commentary on the social and class lines that divide women in contemporary India today.

HEADING SOUTH

By Yuan Yuan

In Heading South, Chasuna, an 8 year old girl, raised by her mother in the Inner Mongolian Plateau, visits her abusive father in the big city. While at her father’s house, she is introduced to a new addition to the family, and must come to terms with the fact that her true home is inseparable from her mother and land.

Outrun

By Johnny Symons & S. Leo Chiang

In the feature film, Outrun, we follow the journey of the first transgender woman in the Philippine Congress. Facing oppression in a predominantly Catholic nation, her triumphant journey becomes an outcry for the rights of LGBTQ+ people globally. 

Spanning documentary, narrative, and experimental forms, these films illustrate that community care, self-love, and deep transformative listening between our loved ones is a portal to the Feminist Realities we are bringing into existence today.  From all across the Asia Pacific and it’s diaspora, these stories teach us that in the face of violence, tenderness is the sharpest force of resistance.

Watch our conversation with the filmmakers

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En tant qu’organisatrice, une personne ou organisation peut proposer un maximum de 2 (deux) activités. Cela ne vous empêche pas d’être partenaires dans d’autres activités.

Ester Lopes y escritora, y se dedica a la investigación centrada en el cuerpo, el género, la raza y las relaciones de clase. Es instructora de pilates y profesora de arte. Ester se graduó en Teatro Contemporáneo y Procesos Creativos (en FAINC) y en Danzas y Conciencia Corporal (en USCS). En el campo de la música, su especialización incluye el canto y la percusión populares. Se formó en Novos Brincantes con Flaira Ferro, Mateus Prado y Antonio Meira en el Instituto Brincante en 2015 y 2016.

Capítulo 4

Una red compleja de actores anti-derechos, en constante evolución, está ejerciendo cada vez más influencia en los espacios internacionales y en las políticas nacionales. Respaldados a menudo por financiaciones poco transparentes, estos actores construyen alianzas tácticas sobre distintos temas y cruzando diferentes regiones y credos para aumentar su impacto.

Estamos viendo actores fascistas y fundamentalistas que, si bien tienen un discurso nacionalista, son completamente transnacionales en lo que respecta a sus basamentos ideológicos, sus alianzas políticas y sus redes de financiamiento. En algunos casos, estos grupos están respaldados por flujos financieros poco transparentes vinculados con grandes empresas o con partidos políticos de extrema derecha. Sin embargo, también crean alianzas estratégicas, que incluyen, en algunos casos, segmentos de los movimientos feministas y por los derechos de las mujeres, y se distancian de los elementos más evidentemente extremistas para parecer más legítimos. Los actores anti-derechos también se expanden y replican su estilo de organización antiderechos (ya sea a través de campañas y grupos de presión, o de litigios estratégicos) en todo el planeta.

Índice de contenidos

• CitizenGo
• Alliance Defending Freedom (ADF)
• Financiación de actores antiderechos
• Los vínculos entre feministas trans-excluyentes y fundamentalistas cristianxs
• Ejercicio: Esquematicemos el panorama
• Historia de movimiento de resistencia: Catolicadas, una poderosa herramienta de comunicación para promover la igualdad de género y los derechos sexuales y reproductivos

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Disintegration

 On Wednesday a note arrives with an address on the back...

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Des mots perdus
	Chinelo Onwualu	Ghiwa Sayegh

---

« Lorsque nous avons désespérément besoin de changement, comme c’est le cas dans la maladie et l’insurrection, notre langage se vide de sa complexité et se réduit à l’essentiel... Mais à mesure que la maladie et la révolution persistent, le langage fabriqué en elles et à leur sujet s’approfondit, laisse entrer plus de nuances, absorbé par l’expérience profondément humaine qu’est de rencontrer de ses propres limites sur le site de la fin du monde. »
Johanna Hedva

Lorsque nous avons commencé à imaginer un tel numéro avec Nana Darkoa, à l’approche du festival Crear | Résister | Transform : un festival dédié aux mouvements féministes ! de l’AWID, nous sommes parti·e·s d’une question qui relève davantage d’une observation de l’état du monde – un désir de déplacer le terrain : pourquoi nos sexualités et nos plaisirs continuent-ils d’être apprivoisés et criminalisés, alors même qu’on nous répète sans cesse qu’ils n’apportent ni valeur ni progrès? Nous sommes arrivé·e·s à la conclusion que lorsqu’elles sont incarnées, quelque chose dans nos sexualités va à l’encontre d’un ordre mondial qui continue à se manifester par des contrôles aux frontières, des apartheids vaccinaux, un colonialisme d’occupation, un nettoyage ethnique et un capitalisme rampant. Pouvons-nous donc parler du potentiel perturbateur de nos sexualités? Pouvons-nous encore le faire lorsque, pour être financé·e·s, nos mouvements sont cooptés et institutionnalisés?

Lorsque notre travail incarné devient un profit entre les mains de systèmes que nous cherchons à démanteler, il n’est pas étonnant que nos sexualités et nos plaisirs soient une fois de plus relégués à la marge – surtout lorsqu’ils ne sont pas assez rentables. À plusieurs reprises au cours de la production de ce numéro, nous nous sommes demandé ce qui se passerait si nous refusions de nous plier aux services essentiels du capitalisme. Mais pouvons-nous oser poser cette question, lorsque nous sommes épuisé·e·s par le monde? Peut-être que nos sexualités sont si facilement rejetées parce qu’elles ne sont pas considérées comme des formes de soins. Peut-être que ce dont nous avons besoin, c’est de réimaginer le plaisir comme une forme de soin radical – un soin qui est également anticapitaliste et anti-institutionnel.

Alors que nous entrons dans notre deuxième année complète de pandémie mondiale, notre approche des incarnations transnationales a dû se concentrer sur un seul constat politique : prendre soin est une forme d’incarnation. Et parce qu’à l’heure actuelle, une grande partie de notre travail se fait sans tenir compte des frontières entre nous et en nous-mêmes, nous sommes toustes incarné·e·s de manière transnationale – et nous échouons toustes. Nous ne parvenons pas à prendre soin de nous-mêmes et, plus important encore, à prendre soin les un·e·s des autres.

Cet échec n’est pas de notre fait. 

Beaucoup de nos parents considéraient le travail comme une transaction, quelque chose à donner en échange d’une compensation et d’une garantie de soins. Et bien que cet échange n’ait pas toujours été respecté, nos parents ne s’attendaient pas à ce que leur travail les comble. Iels avaient leurs loisirs, leurs passe-temps et leurs communautés pour cela. Aujourd’hui, nous, leurs enfants, qui avons été conditionné·e·s à penser que notre travail est intimement lié à notre passion, n’avons pas de telles attentes. Nous considérons le travail et les loisirs comme une seule et même chose. Pour un trop grand nombre d’entre nous, le travail en est venu à incarner tout notre être. 

Cependant, le capitalisme hétéropatriarcal ne nous valorise pas, et encore moins notre travail ou nos sexualités. C’est un système qui ne fera qu’exiger toujours plus, jusqu’à votre mort. Et quand vous mourrez, il vous remplacera par quelqu’un·e d’autre. L’attente d’être en ligne 24 heures sur 24 signifie que nous ne pouvons tout simplement pas nous échapper du travail, même lorsque nous le souhaitons. Cette commercialisation du travail, qui le dissocie de la personne, a infiltré tous les aspects de nos vies et se perpétue même dans les milieux les plus féministes, les plus radicaux et les plus révolutionnaires.

Les attentes capitalistes ont toujours été particulièrement pernicieuses pour les corps qui ne correspondent pas à leur idéal. Et celleux qui cherchent à consolider leurs pouvoirs ont utilisé la pandémie comme une occasion de cibler les femmes, les minorités sexuelles et toustes celleux qu’iels considèrent comme des moins que rien.

Ce numéro spécial existe à cause, et certainement en dépit, de cela.

Presque tous les contributeur·ice·s et membres du personnel se sont surpassé·e·s. Chaque article est le fruit d’une passion, mais aussi d’un incroyable épuisement. De manière très concrète, ce numéro est une incarnation du travail transnational – et dans le monde numérique dans lequel nous vivons, tout travail est devenu un travail transnational. Alors que nous devons faire face à de nouvelles frontières qui ne brisent pas un ordre ancien mais le réifient, nous avons fait l’expérience directe, aux côtés de nos contributeurs, de la façon dont le capitalisme épuise nos limites – comment il devient difficile de construire des arguments cohérents, en particulier lorsque ceux-ci sont soumis à une date limite. Nous avons collectivement perdu les mots – parce que nous sommes perdu·e·s pour les mondes.

Se sentir perdu et seul dans le monde du capitalisme hétéropatriarcal est exactement la raison pour laquelle nous devons réévaluer et repenser nos systèmes de soins. À bien des égards, nous avons transformé ce numéro en une mission visant à trouver du plaisir dans les soins. Parce qu’il est devenu plus difficile de construire des arguments cohérents, les moyens visuels et créatifs sont passés au premier plan. Nombreux·ses sont celleux qui, ayant l’habitude d’écrire, se sont tourné·e·s vers ces médias pour produire des connaissances et couper court au brouillard mental qui nous a toustes enveloppé·e·s. Nous avons fait intervenir d’autres voix, en plus de celles que vous avez entendues au festival, afin d’ouvrir de nouvelles conversations et d’élargir nos horizons. 

Alors que nous sommes privé·e·s de nos mots, il est de notre devoir politique de continuer à trouver des moyens de nous maintenir et de prendre soin de nous-mêmes et des autres. Une grande partie de nos réalités actuelles tente de nous effacer et de nous déplacer, tout en continuant à exploiter notre travail. Notre incarnation, par conséquent, devient une forme de résistance; c’est le début de nous-mêmes trouvant notre voie en dehors et en dedans de nous.

Read in Arabic

Interviewed by Chinelo Onwualu

Naike Ledan is a social justice defendant, a committed feminist that brings forward 20 years of experience in human rights and health justice advocacy, women’s empowerment, the fight for universal access to basic services and social inclusion, as well as civil society capacity building. She has built extensive work in Canada, West and southern Africa, as well as in Haiti, in civil rights advocacy, capacity building for CSOs, while emphasising the social determinants of structural exclusion. She values the principles of shared leadership, anticolonial, anti-oppressive, and anti-patriarchal spaces.

Chinelo You’re billed as a trans rights activist; I’m curious about how you made that journey.

Naike So, I grew up in Haiti until I was 18, then I lived in Montreal for 19 years. Coming back to Haiti in 2016, I thought I would be coming back home, but the place had changed and I had to readjust. I did not necessarily reconnect in the way that I’d expected to with childhood family and friends. I came back as an expat with a comfortable work situation, and I felt very much like a foreigner for a very long time. And at the same time, I felt very much at home because of the language, the understood silence, the not having to explain when we start singing a commercial – you know, that thing we share, that energy, that space, that spirit.

What helped me was, I loved the work of going into the country and documenting people’s knowledge. So I left the comfort. I became a country director of a regional organisation that was queer as fuck! Most of my work was to find resources and build the capacity of civil society. My strategy was to go into the countryside, look for all these little organizations, help build their capacity, and fund them. I was not interested in politicians and shaking hands and taking pictures . I had a very good ally, Charlot Jeudy – the [queer] activist that got killed three years ago in his house. We got very close after an Afro-queer film festival we were planning got banned in Haiti. But it made a lot of noise and sparked conversations about queerness everywhere, so Charlot introduced me to every little CSO in every little corner of the country. And I would just be there to help organisation[s] with registering legally or building their strategic plan. So it’s been a lot of these kinds of work that made me a queer activist and by extension, a trans activist. Although I don’t call myself that – an activist. It’s such a loaded word, you know? And it’s something people call you. I think I’m just a lover and a fighter .

Chinelo Tell me about the workshop you conducted with AWID for the festival. What was it about and what was the context?

Naike International media doesn’t really talk about Haiti, but with a political environment that is as bad as ours, the economic environment is even more catastrophic. Being a more middle class Haitian, speaking different languages, having different passports, I was initially hesitant to take the space. But I often see myself as a bridge more than someone that would talk about themself. That is how I came to invite Semi, who is a brilliant young trans woman from outside Port-au-Prince, to take the space to talk for herself and walk us through the ecosystem of the realities for trans women in Haiti. We ended up building a session about uninclusive feminism – or, I would say, formal feminist spaces – and how trans girls in Haiti do not have spaces where they can contribute to women’s knowledge and sharing of women’s realities. So the AWID festival was the opportunity for me to give the space to the women who should have it. We had a wonderful time; we had wine online while hosting the conversation. My co-facilitator, Semi, shared what it is like to be a trans child/girl/woman at different stages of her life. She also shared the dangers of the street, of poverty, of exclusion, of “not passing,” and her victories as well.

Chinelo What is the relationship of trans women to feminist organizations in Haiti? What has been your experience with that?

Naike It’s been really hard – heartbreaking, actually – the experience of trans women in Haiti. From not existing at all to just being extremely sexualized. The other thing that’s been happening is how they’re being killed, and how those killings have gone unreported in the media. This is how non-existent, how erased trans women are. They’re everywhere but not in job settings, not in feminist settings, not in organizational settings. Not even in LGBT organizations. It’s only recently, and because of a lot of advocacy push, that some of these organization are kind of readjusting, but in feminist spaces, this is still out of the question. We are still having to deal with the old exclusionary discourse of “They’re not women. Of course, if they can pass…” The culture of passing, it’s a risk management conversation – how much you pass and how much you don’t pass and what it means for your body and the violence it inflicts. In the trans-exclusionary realities we live in, which are reproduced in a lot of feminist spaces, those that pass completely may be considered girls, but only to a certain extent. But how about falling in love, how about having a conversation, how about being in the closet, how about wanting a certain aesthetic, or a career? So really, the conversation about hormone therapy becomes about risk reduction, as Semi herself shared at the workshop. But we don’t have the option of hormone therapy, we don’t have the medical framework nor the system to support those who would like to pursue that option.

Chinelo When you talk about the way that trans people and queer people are thought of in society, it sounds like it might be similar to Nigeria, which can be a deeply homophobic environment.

Naike Haiti is a very complex country in a very beautiful way. Nothing is simple, you know, nothing is ever one way. Haitians are very tolerant – and they’re also very homophobic. You’re going to find regions in the countryside where people aren’t that homophobic at all because all the Vodou temples there, and this is a religion that respects life. One basic principle of the Vodou religion is that all children are children. So, there is no right or wrong in the religion. For the longest time, people thought of Haiti as a haven, a place where people are tolerant – we’re talking 70s, 80s, pre-HIV, 90s even. Then you had the earthquake [in 2010] where around 300,000 people died. And then all this money came from the south of the US through the Evangelicals to rebuild the country and find Jesus. So, the homophobia in Haiti is very recent. In the depth, in the heart of the soul of the culture, I cannot really say that it is homophobic. But in the everyday life, it surely lands on the skin of queer people, that violence. And that of women, of poor women, of dark women as well, because colorism runs deep in the Caribbean.

Chinelo How have you managed this? What’s been your strategy for survival?

Naike I’m really in love with my work. I love working. When I first arrived, I was working with this horrible NGO but I was doing amazing work. I was always in the countryside, conversing and learning from people, from women. And that filled my heart for so long because I’m very much in love with my culture, with black people, with black women – old black women, black babies. It just fills me up in a spiritual way. When we were in Canada my kids were in these all-white schools and tokenized. They did not speak Creole nor French. And now, they’re running free in the yard and starting to fight in Creole. I also found hubs of survival with the people I met. I created bonds with the queers and others who were weirdos like me and it’s been really wonderful. But now I’m struggling because I don’t feel safe in Haiti anymore. We have about 40 kidnappings per week in Port-Au-Prince – and it’s been like that since 2018. I’ve developed anxiety and panic attacks. So It’s time to go, and I’ve been asking myself, “where is home?” I spent 19 years in Montreal but I never felt at home there. When I left, I never missed it so I don’t want to go back. I’ve been crying a lot lately because it feels like entering a second exile.

Chinelo What’s your relationship to pleasure, leisure, and rest?

Naike My relationship with pleasure, leisure, and rest are for me one and the same. It is the lived moment when I indulge in the heat of the sun on my face for example. It is pleasure, leisure, and rest at the same time.

Pleasure: My go-to space, most solely a haven of celebration of myself. I reserve myself the power and the right to be loud or quiet in the enjoyment of the pleasure I experience. All the pleasure I viciously and abundantly indulge in, including and not limited to the pleasure of solitude and silence.

Leisure: biking, music festivals, eating, wine discoveries, dancing in Haitian traditional Vodou dances are amongst many that occur at the moment.

Rest: is what I live for. As an overachiever and a person that is literally in love with work, it is a paradox how lazy I am. No one knows that because all of what the world sees is this: an accomplished overworker. They do not know how I can just, uncompromisingly and profoundly indulge in idleness.