The Human Rights Council (HRC) is the key intergovernmental body within the United Nations system responsible for the promotion and protection of all human rights around the globe. It holds three regular sessions a year: in March, June and September. The Office of the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights (OHCHR) is the secretariat for the HRC.
The HRC works by:
Debating and passing resolutions on global human rights issues and human rights situations in particular countries
Examining complaints from victims of human rights violations or activist organizations on behalf of victims of human rights violations
Appointing independent experts (known as “Special Procedures”) to review human rights violations in specific countries and examine and further global human rights issues
Engaging in discussions with experts and governments on human rights issues
Assessing the human rights records of all UN Member States every four and a half years through the Universal Periodic Review
AWID works with feminist, progressive and human rights partners to share key knowledge, convene civil society dialogues and events, and influence negotiations and outcomes of the session.
With our partners, our work will:
◾️ Monitor, track and analyze anti-rights actors, discourses and strategies and their impact on resolutions
When you do a search for “Female Genital Mutilation” or “FGM” online, an image of four line-drawings of the female anatomy pop up next to its Wikipedia entry. It illustrates four types of violence. The first being a partial cut to the clitoris. The second, a more invasive cut with the entire clitoris removed. The third is progressively worse with the removal of the clitoris, labia majora and minora. And the fourth box illustrates a series of hash marks to symbolize stitches over the vaginal opening to allow only for urination and menstruation.
As a survivor of FGM, most questions about my story fixate on the physical. The first question I usually get asked is what type of FGM I underwent. When I told a journalist once that I went through Type 1, she said “oh, that’s not so bad. It’s not like type three which is far worse.” She was technically right. I had the least invasive form. And for many years, I gaslighted myself into feeling a sense of relief that I was one of the lucky ones. I comforted myself noting that I could have been less fortunate with all of my genitalia gouged out, not just the clitoral tip. Or worse I could have been one of the ones who didn’t survive at all. Like Nada Hassan Abdel-Maqsoud, a twelve year old, who bled to death on a doctor’s operating table earlier this year in Upper Egypt. Nada is a reminder to me that for every data point -- 200 million women and girls who live with the consequences of FGM globally -- there is a story. Nada will never be able to tell hers.
As much as I find the label “survivor” suffocating at times -- I also realize there is privilege embedded in the word. By surviving, you are alive. You have the ability to tell your story, process the trauma, activate others in your community and gain insights and a new language and lens to see yourself through.
The act of storytelling can be cathartic and liberating, but it can also shatter the storyteller in the process.
Without integrating the psychosocial support of trained clinicians into storytelling and healing retreats, well-intentioned interventions can result in more trauma. This is all the more important as FGM survivors navigate the double pandemic of their own PTSD from childhood trauma, and the indefinite COVID-19 global shutdown.
In many anti-FGM advocacy spaces, I have seen this insatiable hunger to unearth stories -- whatever the cost to the storyteller. The stories help activate funding and serve as a data point
for measuring impact.
Survivor stories then become commodities fueling a storytelling industrial complex. Storytellers, if not provided proper mental health support in the process, can become collateral damage.
My motivation in writing this piece is to flip the script on how we view FGM survivors, prioritizing the storyteller over the story itself.
FGM survivors are more than the four boxes describing how the pieces of our anatomy were cut, pricked, carved, or gouged out. In this essay, I’ll break down the anatomy of an FGM survivor’s story into four parts: stories that break, stories that remake, stories that heal, and stories that reveal.
Type 1: Stories that break
I was sitting in the heart of Appalachia with a group of FGM survivors, meeting many for the first time. As they shared their traumas, I realized we all belonged in some way or another to the same unenviable club. A white Christian survivor from Kentucky - who I don’t think I would have ever met if we didn’t have FGM survivorship connecting us - told the contours of her story.
There were so many parallels. We were both cut at seven. She was bribed with cake after her cut. I was bribed with a jumbo-sized Toblerone chocolate bar when mine was over. Absorbing her trauma overwhelmed me. And I imagine when I shared my story, others in the circle may also have been silently unraveling. We didn’t have a clinician or mental health professional in a facilitation role and that absence was felt. The first night, I was sharing a room with six other survivors and tried hard to keep the sounds of my own tears muffled. By the last day, I reached breaking point. Before leaving for the airport, my stomach contracted and I convulsively vomited. I felt like I was purging not only my pain, but the pain of the others I’d absorbed that week. We all dutifully produced our stories into 90 second social media friendly soundbites with narration and photos. But at what cost?
Type 2: Stories that remake
On February 6, 2016, the Guardian published my story as a survivor. The second it was released, I was remade. My identity transformed from nondescript, relatively invisible mid-level Foreign Service Officer to FGM survivor under a public microscope. That same day, then-U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations Samantha Power tweeted my story with the introduction: “I was seven years old” before linking to the article. The tweet symbolized a moment for me where my personal and professional worlds collided. Since then, they have been forever intertwined.
Even though I spent ten years of my career as a diplomat focused on other issues -- I lived in Cairo during the early days of the Arab Spring in 2011 and served in Baghdad and Erbil when the Syrian revolution turned from an uprising to civil war -- all of those past experiences that began to make mefeel erased. When I spoke on panels, my identity would be reduced to “survivor.” Like other survivors, I have worked hard to rewrite the script on how others see me.
I reinsert pieces of my other identities when speaking to underscore to the broader public that while yes, I am a survivor of childhood trauma and while my FGM story may have remade a part of my identity, it doesn’t define me.
Type 3: Stories that heal
With the guidance of a mental health expert, I have spent the last few months doing a deep dive into my FGM survivor story. I have told and retold my story over dozens of times in public venues. My goal is to break the culture of silence and inspire action. At this point, the telling of my story has almost become mechanized, as though I am reciting a verse from the Quran I memorized as a kid. I would always start with: “I was sitting an anthropology class when a fellow student described her research project on Female Genital Mutilation. And that’s when I had the memory jolt. A memory I had suppressed since childhood came flooding to the foreground.” I go into the details of what happened in granular detail -- the color of the floor, the feelings of confusion and betrayal in the hazy aftermath. And then I go on to talk about the afternoon I confronted my mother about the summer she and my father shipped my brother and off to India to stay with my aunt. The summer it happened. I later found out my aunt cut me without my parents’ consent. In my years of telling and retelling this story, I would have moments I felt nothing, moments I would break down, and moments of relief. It was a mixed bag, often contradictory emotions happening all at once.
When I began to take apart the story, I discovered the core moment where I felt most gutted. It wasn’t the cut itself. It was the aftermath. I remember sitting in a corner alone, feeling confused and ashamed. When I looked at my aunt on the other side of the room, she was whispering to my cousin and they both pointed and laughed at me. Unearthing the moment of shame - the laughter - has haunted me since childhood. The piece that was carved out of me is called “haram ki boti” which translates into sinful flesh. Over time, the physical scar healed. But for many FGM survivors, the psychological wounds remain
Type 4: Stories that reveal
Last year, I decided to take a sabbatical from the Foreign Service. I was burning out on both ends -- I had just completed a really tough assignment in Pakistan and was also doing anti-FGM
advocacy in my personal capacity. When I came home, an acquaintance from graduate school approached me to capture my story on film. As part of the process, she would send a camera
crew to shadow me. Sometimes while giving speeches, other times filming mundane interactions with friends and family. On a visit to my home in Texas, I’ll never forget the moment where my mom told me her story of survival. As part of the film, we went on a roadtrip to Austin to visit the university where I first had the memory jolt. My mom is patiently waiting for the cameraman to set up his tripod. My father is standing next to her.
In the end, we eventually had the conversation I never had the courage to have with either of my parents face to face. Looking them both in the eye, retelling my story with a camera as witness, we discussed how FGM ripped our family apart (specifically my dad’s relationship with his sister). For the first time, I heard my mom talking about her own experience and the feeling of betrayal when she discovered my aunt cut me without her consent. When I later told her that FGM was actually indigenous to the U.S. and Europe and that it was a cure for hysteria (prescribed by doctors) up until the 19th century, my mother exclaimed “that’s crazy to me, this was a cure for hysteria. I’m going to educate other doctors to speak out.” And in that moment, my mother, a survivor who had never shared her story before, became an activist.
My story, intertwined with her story, revealed a tightly woven fabric of resistance. With our voices, we were able to break the cycle of intergenerational structural violence. We were able to rewrite the stories of future generations of girls in our own family and hopefully one day, the world.
This is a woman breaking free from her mundane reality, devoid of color. She dreams in a colorful, "nonsensical" way that people in her life would not understand. She could be considered insane, yet her dreams are more vivid and imaginative than actual life. This is frequently how schizophrenia occurs to me, more engaging and exciting than real life.
Sue fue artista, activista y maestra y nació en 1936 en Maryland, Estados Unidos.
Creó arte para mujeres y sobre mujeres. Como lesbiana feminista, y durante un tiempo también separatista, se dedicó a la creación de espacios sólo para mujeres. En 1976 compró tierras que todavía son conservadas por mujeres que van temporariamente a hacer arte. Sue mantuvo una apasionada posición en la protección de las mujeres y las niñas.
Con su innovador enfoque futurista, clásico y antropológico, llenaba cada habitación en la que entraba con su intelecto, su excentricidad auténtica, su ingenio implacable y su humor. Sus ideas acerca de la conciencia y la creatividad siguen inspirando a mucha gente.
Snippet SM CTA_Fest (ES)
Síguenos en las redes sociales y comparte sus momentos favoritos de nuestro festival:
Puis-je vous contacter si j’ai des questions ou des inquiétudes?
Si vous avez des questions ou des inquiétudes, merci de nous contacter par le biais de ce formulaire, en indiquant « Enquête WITM » dans l’objet de votre message. Vous pouvez également nous écrire à witm@awid.org.
Principles of Engagement
Welcome to Crear | Résister | Transform: a festival for feminist movements!
Principles of Engagement
AWID is committed to creating an online space that invites and challenges us all to operate from a place of courage, curiosity, generosity and shared responsibility.
We invite you to co-create spaces with us that are free of harassment and violence, where everyone is respected in their gender identity and expression, race, ability, class, religion, language, ethnicity, age, occupation, type of education, sexuality, body size, and physical appearance. Spaces where we recognize inequalities in our world and strive to transform them in our own interactions with each other.
We want to create a space where ...
we can all be present
This means that we are able to listen, understand and relate to each other. To feel close, in spite of it all being virtual. For this, we will make interpretation available and open channels (like chat and other tools) for you to react and share. To hear each other better, we invite you to wear headphones during the conversation. If it is possible for you , we suggest that you close your email and any other likely source of distraction while you are in the conversation.
all forms of knowledge are valued
Let us celebrate the multiple ways in which knowledge shows up in our lives. We invite you to approach the conversation with curiosity and openness to learn from others, allowing ourselves to unlearn and relearn through the exchange, as a way to start collectively building knowledge.
all of us feel welcome
We are committed to holistically approaching accessibility by being mindful of different physical, language, mental and safety needs. We want a space that is welcoming of folks from various backgrounds, beliefs, abilities and experiences. We will be proactive but we also ask that you communicate your needs with us, and we will do our best within our capacity to address these needs.
all of us feel safe and respected:
We all commit individually and collectively to respect each other’s privacy and to seek people’s consent before sharing any images or content generated during the conversation that involves them.
Creating a safer, respectful and enjoyable environment for the conversations, is everybody's responsibility.
Reporting
If you notice that someone is behaving in a discriminatory or offensive manner, please contact the reference person who will be indicated at the beginning of the session.
Any participants that express oppressive language or images, will be removed from the call and will not be readmitted. We will not engage with them in any way.
Ottilie était une militante féministe, éducatrice et politicienne namibienne.
Elle était l'une des fondatrices de l'Organisation populaire du Sud-Ouest africain (SWAPO), du Yu Chi Chan Club (groupe révolutionnaire armé) et du Front de libération nationale du Sud-Ouest africain (SWANLIF). Ottilie a également été une des fondatrices de la Namibian Women’s Association et du Girl Child Project. Tout au long de sa vie, Ottilie a plaidé en faveur du droit de discuter, de penser, de contester et de réclamer. Elle a mobilisé des femmes, organisé des assemblées d’étudiants et d’enseignants et critiqué d'autres camarades pour leur élitisme et leur corruption.
Ottilie a œuvré sans relâche pour démanteler le patriarcat et faire émerger une démocratie participative, féministe, libératrice et transformatrice.
Ottilie disait souvent : « Je me reposerai quand je serai morte. »
لبناء وقائع نسوية ترتكز على الأدلة عن كيف يتحرك المال ولمن يصل
Upasana Agarwal
“Forgotten Song” [«Canción Olvidada»]“Ode to the Moon” [Oda a la Luna»]“Vapour and Fire” [«Vapor y Fuego»]
Sobre Upasana Agarwal
Upasana es unx ilustradorx y artista no binarie de Calcuta, India. Su obra explora narrativas identitarias y personales, que empean restos o evidencias visuales de los contextos con los que trabaja. Le atraen especialmente los diseños en patrones que, para ellx, comunican verdades complejas sobre el pasado, el presente y el futuro. Cuando Upasana no está ilustrando, organiza y dirige un centro de arte comunitario queer y trans de la ciudad.
Most of María’s life was devoted to incorporating a feminist and gender perspective in institutional and organizational work, and capacity building in Latin America.
As a child, María had a strong interest in art, communication, nature, literature, and the achievement of justice, especially for women and marginalized groups.
María was committed to sexual and reproductive rights and was a member of the National Board for Integral Education in Sexuality. She is remembered by those who loved her as a “passionate and restless fighter” with a strong commitment to women’s and children’s rights.
Snippet FEA Tanta Gente sem casa (EN)
So many people without a home, so many homes without people.
تتواجد الحركات النسوية، حركات حقوق النساء، حركات العدالة الجندرية، حركات مجتمع الميم - عين وحلفاءها/ يفاتها في مفترق شديد الأهمية وتواجه هجمات عصيبة على حقوق وحريات حصلت عليها. فتصاعد الاستبداد في الأعوام الأخيرة، وكذلك القمع العنيف للمجتمع المدني وتجريم النساء والأشخاص المتنوعين/ات جندرياً المدافعين عن حقوق الإنسان، تصاعد الحروب والأزمات في الكثير من أنحاء العالم، استمرار الظلم الاقتصادي والتقاطع بين الصحة، البيئة والأزمة المناخية.
Comprendre le contexte des menaces antidroits
Chapitre 2
Bien plus de la moitié de la population mondiale est aujourd’hui dirigée par l’extrême droite. C’est sur cette toile de fond que défenseur·e·s des droits humains et féministes luttent pour « tenir bon », protéger le multilatéralisme et le système international des droits humains, alors que leurs engagements les exposent à de violentes répressions. Ces institutions sont cependant de plus en plus soumises aux intérêts du secteur privé. Les grandes entreprises, surtout les sociétés transnationales, siègent à la table des négociations et occupent des fonctions de leadership dans plusieurs institutions multilatérales, l’ONU notamment. Le lien entre ultranationalisme, restriction de l’espace civique et emprise des entreprises a un impact considérable sur la réalisation ou non des droits humains pour tout le monde.
Emprise des entreprises : le pouvoir débridé des entreprises met nos droits en danger
Répression et restriction des espaces civiques pour les activistes féministes et les défenseur·e·s des droits humains des femmes et des personnes LGBTIQ+
Histoire du mouvement de la résistance. L’Article 16 de la CEDAW : vers une réforme des codes de la famille discriminatoires dans les contextes musulmans
Peni fue una filósofa feminista radical, poeta, escritora, dramaturga y compositora.
Como primera coordinadora del movimiento por los derechos de las mujeres de Fiji, dejó un legado atravesado por su profundo compromiso con los derechos humanos de las mujeres, la justicia y la paz. La dedicación de Peni a la justicia social, económica y ecológica y su sobresaliente trabajo le valieron el respeto local e internacional. Fue una de las primeras participantes de los movimientos feministas hegemónicos en Fiji en trabajar junto a las personas LGBTQI como una verdadera aliada y brindó asistencia práctica durante la creación del movimiento de trabajadorxs sexuales.
Sus colegas la describen como una persona formidable y una líder con visión para el cambio. Inspiró a muchxs con su creatividad y coraje. Su trabajo significó una plataforma para que las personas sean escuchadas, adquieran nuevas habilidades y abran nuevos caminos tanto personales como comunitarios.
Snippet FEA Introducing Carmen Silva Ferreira (ES)
Tenemos el placer enorme de presentarte a Carmen Silva Ferreira.
Nació en Bahía, la parte noreste de Brasil. Es inmigrante, activista social y madre de 8 hijxs.
Carmen experimentó la falta de vivienda a los 35 años, después de migrar sola a São Paulo. Esto la llevó a convertirse en una feroz defensora de las comunidades vulnerables, marginalizadas e invisibilizadas más afectadas por la crisis de la vivienda. Eventualmente se convirtió en una de las fundadoras del MSTC en 2000.
Como organizadora política visionaria y líder actual del MSTC, el trabajo de Carmen ha puesto al descubierto la crisis de la vivienda de la ciudad y ha inspirado a otrxs sobre diferentes formas de organizar y gestionar las ocupaciones.
Se mantuvo firme al frente de varias ocupaciones. Uno de ellos es la Ocupación 9 de Julho, que ahora sirve como escenario para la democracia directa y un espacio donde todxs pueden ser cuidadxs, escuchadxs, apreciadxs y trabajar juntos.
Carmen ha sido celebrada durante mucho tiempo por su audacia al devolver la vida a edificios abandonados en el corazón de São Paulo.
¡Si quieres saber más sobre Carmen, puedes seguir su cuenta de Instagram!
