AWID’s Tribute is an art exhibition honouring feminists, women’s rights and social justice activists from around the world who are no longer with us.
In 2020, we are taking a turn
This year’s tribute tells stories and shares narratives about those who co-created feminist realities, have offered visions of alternatives to systems and actors that oppress us, and have proposed new ways of organising, mobilising, fighting, working, living, and learning.
49 new portraits of feminists and Women Human Rights Defenders (WHRDs) are added to the gallery. While many of those we honour have passed away due to old age or illness, too many have been killed as a result of their work and who they are.
This increasing violence (by states, corporations, organized crime, unknown gunmen...) is not only aimed at individual activists but at our joint work and feminist realities.
The stories of activists we honour keep their legacy alive and carry their inspiration forward into our movements’ future work.
The portraits of the 2020 edition are designed by award winning illustrator and animator, Louisa Bertman.
AWID would like to thank the families and organizations who shared their personal stories and contributed to this memorial. We join them in continuing the remarkable work of these activists and WHRDs and forging efforts to ensure justice is achieved in cases that remain in impunity.
“They tried to bury us. They didn’t know we were seeds.” - Mexican Proverb
The Tribute was first launched in 2012
It took shape with a physical exhibit of portraits and biographies of feminists and activists who passed away at AWID’s 12th International Forum, in Turkey. It now lives as an online gallery, updated every year.
Fornecer a membres da AWID, parceires do movimento e financiadores uma análise atualizada, robusta, baseada em fatos e orientada para a ação das realidades do financiamento de movimentos feministas e do estado atual do ecossistema do financiamento feminista.
2
Identificar e demonstrar oportunidades para transferir mais recursos de maior qualidade para a organização feminista, expor soluções falsas e interromper tendências que fazem com que o financiamento não seja bem-sucedido e/ou se mova contra a justiça de género e objetivos feministas interseccionais.
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Articular visões, propostas e objetivos feministas para a justiça no financiamento.
Née en 1928, Marceline était actrice, scénariste et réalisatrice.
En 2003, elle avait réalisé « La petite prairie aux bouleaux », mettant en vedette Anouk Aimée, ainsi que plusieurs autres documentaires. Survivante de l'holocauste, elle n'avait que quinze ans lorsque son père et elle furent arrêtés et envoyés dans des camps de concentration nazis. Les trois kilomètres qui la séparaient de son père à Auschwitz alors qu’elle-même était à Birkenau furent une distance insurmontable, décrite dans l’un de ses romans majeurs « Et tu n’es pas revenu ».
En parlant de son travail, elle a un jour déclaré: « Tout ce que je peux dire c’est que tout ce que je peux écrire, tout ce que je peux dévoiler, c’est à moi de le faire. »
Stories of Change AWID Forums
What does an AWID Forum mean to those who have been there? What is this magic that happens when feminists from around the world gather to celebrate, strategize, learn and share joy?
AWID spoke to over forty Forum participants to hear their stories of the transformations that happened to them as activists, to their organizations and to the movements they are part of. We also learned about what we should keep and build on that makes an AWID Forum different and how we can improve.
This report holds lessons and advice invaluable to anyone planning in-person regional and thematic convenings and for us as we plan for the 15th AWID International Forum.
Scroll down to dive in!
FRMag - Looking at me Looking at Safe Spaces
Recherche sur les espaces sécurisés : une prise de perspective
par Judyannet Muchiri
Je suis partie pour le Kenya en octobre de l'année dernière, pour entamer ce que j'en suis venue à considérer comme mon travail le plus important à ce jour. (...)
A Joy to the World: Six Questions with Naike Ledan
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.
My return to self-love – I would call “rebirth” – coinciding with giving birth to my first child, giving birth to myself, and falling in love with my queerness or same-gender lovingness. (Photo credit: Naike Ledan)
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?
My deep self awareness during my childhood years and my engagement in questioning inequalities and injustice at a very very young age (+/- 4 years old). (Photo credit: Naike Ledan)
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?
My return to Haiti as part of my decolonizing process, and choosing to physically position my senses and my family’s senses to magic and blackness uncompromisingly. (Photo credit: Naike Ledan)
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.
ExploreTransnational Embodiments
This journal edition in partnership with Kohl: a Journal for Body and Gender Research, will explore feminist solutions, proposals and realities for transforming our current world, our bodies and our sexualities.
نصدر النسخة هذه من المجلة بالشراكة مع «كحل: مجلة لأبحاث الجسد والجندر»، وسنستكشف عبرها الحلول والاقتراحات وأنواع الواقع النسوية لتغيير عالمنا الحالي وكذلك أجسادنا وجنسانياتنا.
Êtes-vous à la recherche d'un emploi? L'un des avantages de rejoindre la Communauté de l'AWID est d'avoir accès à notre tableau d'offres d'emploi organisé par la communauté. Vous aurez l'occasion d'explorer de nouvelles opportunités et vous aurez également la possibilité de partager des postes vacants et des appels à propositions avec tous les membres.
Dilma Ferreira Silva était une activiste de premier plan des droits amazoniens qui s’est battue durant plusieurs décennies pour les droits des personnes affectées par les barrages.
Elle faisait elle-même partie des 32 000 personnes déplacées par Tucuruí, un imposant barrage hydroélectrique, construit au Brésil sous la dictature militaire de 1964-1985.
En 2005, Dilma a été invitée à rejoindre le Mouvement des personnes affectées par les barrages (MAB) au Brésil et, en 2006, elle y a formé un collectif de femmes pour finir ensuite par devenir coordonatrice régionale du mouvement.
Évoquant son activisme, ses collègues racontent :
« Elle se distinguait très rapidement car elle n’avait jamais peur dans la lutte. »
Dilma vivait dans la localité rurale de Salvador Allenda, à 50 kilomètres de Tucuru. Elle a dédié sa vie à mieux protéger les communautés et les territoires affectés par la construction d’énormes projets. Elle était particulièrement préoccupée par l’impact de genre de ce type de projets et plaidait pour les droits des femmes.
Lors d’une réunion d’ordre national du MAB en 2011, Dilma évoqua les femmes affectées par les barrages, soulignant :
« Nous sommes les réelles Marias, guerrières, combattantes ici, nous nous confrontons au défi de la lutte quotidienne. »
Au cours des années suivantes, Dilma a organisé des groupes de terrain du MAB et travaillé avec les communautés pour former des coopératives paysannes qui permirent de mieux distribuer la nourriture au sein des communautés. Ensemble, elles ont amélioré la commercialisation de la pêche et développé un projet de citerne pour un accès à l’eau potable. Elle défendait aussi les agriculteurs·rices dont les terres étaient convoitées par les « grileiros » (personnes qui s’approprient les terres).
Le 22 mars 2019, à l’âge de 48 ans, Dilma, son mari et leur ami·e furent violemment assassiné·e·s. Ces trois meurtres s’inscrivirent dans une vague de violences en Amazonie contre les Movimento dos Trabalhadores Sem (mouvements des travailleurs·ses sans terre) et les activistes écologistes et autochtones.
La liga conspirativa de escritorxs | Wazina Zondon
Conocida también como la Red Teta Research, la liga conspirativa de escritorxs se fundó en 2021 en el contexto de los círculos de escritura semanales de Kohl. La Red consiste en un grupo transnacional de escritorxs queer y feministas que participan en procesos colectivos de escritura, reflexión y creación de universos.
Wazina Zondon es una afgana criada en Nueva York. Su trabajo de colección de historias y de narración se centra en las memorias y ritos colectivos de iniciación en la diáspora. Actualmente, trabaja en Faith: in Love/faith in love, donde (re)rastrea la historia de amor de su madre y su padre y la huella amorosa heredada de la familia.
El amor es contrabando en el infierno,
porque el amor es ácido
que devora las rejas.
Pero tú, yo y el mañana
nos tomaremos de las manos y haremos votos
para que la lucha se multiplique
La sierra de arco tiene dos cuchillas.
La escopeta tiene dos cañones.
Estamos preñadxs de libertad.
Somos una conspiración.
Es nuestro deber luchar por la libertad.
Es nuestro deber ganar.
Debemos amarnos y apoyarnos mutuamente.
No tenemos nada que perder, salvo nuestras cadenas.
- «Amor» por Assata Shakur
«Si podemos heredar un trauma, ¿podemos heredar una huella relacionada con el amor?»
Esta es la pregunta que se hace Wazina Zondon en sus memorias colectivas Loveprint (Improntas de amor). Loveprint es un deambular, una superposición, una desviación que (re)crea, en la intersección entre entrevistas y ensayos personales, las historias y reflexiones de nuestra familia sobre el amor, la pareja y el romance. Guiadxs por Wazina, la liga conspirativa de escritorxs se reunió e intentó reproducir literalmente este proyecto en forma de escritura colectiva, donde nuestras historias, nuestros géneros e identidades sexuales se complementan y contradicen entre sí. Con nuestras voces superponiéndose, fuimos completando las oraciones de lxs otrxs para crear una conversación, un memorial, pedazos de nosotrxs mismxs que hablan de unx «nosotrxs».
¿Cuáles son los orígenes de tu huella de amor?
Soy lo que han llamado un «accidente feliz». Se ha dicho mucho sobre esto: una vida imprevista que al mismo tiempo es totalmente deseada. Siento que esto moldeó mi forma de amar; no solo me enamoro, también me arriesgo a los resbalones que llevan a las caídas. Quizá fue esto lo que me convirtió en un tipo de persona amor fati.
Me dijeron que era una niña no deseada. Así que crecí hasta convertirme en una adulta no deseada. Los orígenes de mi huella de amor se basan en ser no deseada permanentemente. No soy fruto del amor ni de ningún sentimiento feliz; soy, más bien, dolor y carga. No tengo una impronta amorosa, al menos no en este sentido.
Sé con certeza que mis padres estuvieron enamoradxs en algún momento, pero la salud mental es un demonio, y hasta que unx no se enfrenta a sus demonios,
no hay quien gane.
Nunca asociaré el «amor» con mis padres o con la familia normativa. El amor bajo el que crecí fue un amor lleno de violencia y de responsabilidades que no busqué o para las que ni siquiera estaba preparada. Durante mucho tiempo sentí que la vida y el amor consistían en cargar una roca gigante cuesta arriba. Si bien mis padres «se amaban», crecí en un ambiente tóxico de violencia, celos e inseguridad. Crecí anhelando estabilidad; y esto es lo que soy ahora. Soy una persona que se arriesga pero nunca en mi «espacio de amor».
No sé por qué mi madre eligió albergar a una niña (yo) dentro de ella Ella no ama de esta forma.
Mi madre me dice que si tengo que pensar en «encontrar» el amor, que nunca tome su matrimonio como modelo. Mi huella de amor proviene en cambio de mi crianza de perros durante las últimas dos décadas (18 años para ser precisa). Al revés también es cierto: me criaron. En su compañía entiendo cada vez más sobre el amor y sus múltiples capas.
No he conocido el amor por una «huella». En nuestra casa no hablábamos de amor. Tuve que enseñarme a mí misma a amar. Fue un trabajo arduo. Aún así, fallo y sigo intentándolo, y fallo todos los días. Quizá el fracaso sea mi impronta de amor.
Mi impronta de amor es el cuidado, la calidez y la comprensión que
doy a quienes me rodean, sea unx extrañx, unx amigx,
unx familiar, unx amante. Mi impronta de amor es política – no es calculada ni pensada.
Nací bajo un fuerte bombardeo.
Mi impronta de amor es
lo opuesto a eso.
Lecciones aprendidas sobre el amor
Sé más de lo que no es el amor que de lo que es.
El amor no es ni ansiedad ni pánico.
El amor no es pedir permiso para vivir o respirar. Siempre se trata del amor, y no hay amor sin libertad.
Todo lo que haces tiene que ver con usar tu corazón, excepto el amor. El amor consiste en utilizar tu cabeza.
A veces temo que mi idioma de amor se pierda con la traducción.
--- Hay muchas maneras
de trazar los orígenes
de cómo
cómo no
amar
no amar
amar lo justo
amar demasiado
algo de amor
alguna pérdida
amar
amar lo perdido ---
No soporto la idea de la pareja. Tampoco soporto la idea de vivir sola mientras envejezco. Estoy cansada de hacer los quehaceres sola, de mudarme de casa sola, de pagar el alquiler y las cuentas sola... Me imagino que me da un ACV sola y me da miedo. No tengo planes de «ponerme en pareja». Quiero un mundo en el que pueda casarme con unx amigx, comprar una casa con unx amigx, no tener sexo.
Amar a muchxs personas no corrompe un amor
compartido entre dos; y que el amor sea romántico
o no, realmente no es tan importante.
Cuando reflexiono sobre el deplorable estado de mis relaciones, me doy cuenta de que estoy en la relación para la que me prepararon. Con toda mi «radicalidad» todavía no he desaprendido las normas de género de mierda.
Mi necesidad de estabilidad se siente «muy poco radical». Quiero salir de este etiquetado. Quiero algo que nunca tuve. Quiero que sea hermoso. Quiero sentirme hermosa y segura, y sólo la estabilidad me hace sentir eso. Segura, sana, sabiendo que el hogar no tiene que ver ni con la violencia ni con la discordia.
--- Impronta amorosa – amo oler los libros ver dónde
se imprimieron
Intento pensar en el origen de mi comprensión
y práctica del amor
¿Necesitamos el origen, no es lo mismo que la pureza?
No hay pureza ni origen del amor.
¿Por qué la comprensión y la práctica vienen
a la mente y no la «emoción»? ---
Cuando llamo a mis padres, no cuelgo el teléfono después de despedirnos,
de esa manera puedo escuchar los sonidos del hogar.
¿Qué necesitamos para ser/sentirnos amadxs al momento de morir?
Durante mi entierro suní, quiero que todas las mujeres y los hombres acudan juntxs a mi entierro. ¿Qué es eso de no poder ir a despedirse de lxs muertxs de otro sexo? Será suní porque mi madre querría que lo fuera. Será ecológico: una lápida no será necesaria. Me encantan todos los rituales de entierro. El Corán está bien, pero además quiero música. Me gustan mucho Asmahan, Um Kulthum y The Stone Roses.
Tengo una lista de reproducción de lunes a viernes, y dos diferentes para los fines de semana: una para los sábados, y otra para los domingos. Me gustaría que aquellxs que me amaron reprodujeran la música que yo solía escuchar, respetando los días – con cierto margen de tolerancia siempre que se ciñan a las listas de reproducción.
Quiero estar rodeada de quien o quienes me han amado, aunque haya sido por un momento. Que la música me envuelva así como flores frescas recién cortadas. No quiero que me descubran muerta; quiero morir en medio de una risa junto a seres queridxs.
Quiero ser recordada como alguien que amó.
No necesito sentirme amada en la muerte. Necesito que las personas que me rodean sientan que las he amado, incluso después de mi partida. Ser amadx en la muerte tiene que ver con quienes están vivxs. Así que pienso más en cómo nos unimos como una comunidad vital y amorosa ante la muerte de aquellxs a quienes amamos y con quienes vivimos. De qué manera mantenemos sus recuerdos en nosotrxs. Cómo nos convertimos en archivos de sus vidas.
--- A veces, sólo se puede amar a las personas en el momento de su muerte ---
Tengo que recordar que el cuerpo está conectado a un espacio. Mi familia es muy pequeña y, aunque venimos de diferentes lugares, es como si cada generación se trasladara a un lugar nuevo. Quizá es por eso que la muerte no está conectada con un lugar en especial, un cementerio. En nuestra familia es habitual enterrar a lxs muertxs sin nombres ni lápidas, o distribuir las cenizas al viento. Me siento en paz con este tipo de conmemoración sin espacio. La idea de que mis cenizas nutran a una nueva vida me hace sentir amada y recordada a través de la recreación. Mi abuela murió a principios de este año debido a complicaciones después de vacunarse. Dos horas después de su muerte, mi familia se sentó a reírse hasta las lágrimas de sus bromas, de su manera divertidísima de contar historias. Nos reímos y amamos, y fue como si ella estuviera sentada de nuevo con nosotrxs. Esto es lo que me haría sentir en paz: fertilizar la tierra, abonar las conversaciones y el recuerdo colectivo.
---Había
dos calles que utilizaba
para caminar
para correr
para jugar
para quedarme
Había
cinco horas en las que el sol
estaba caliente
el cielo era azul
y la tierra era verde
Había
una flor que podía
oler
tocar
apretar
aplastar
Estaban
lxs amigxs que podía
acariciar
La comida
que podía
tragar
El lenguaje
que saldría de mis
labios
Es probable que aún existan
esos muchos lugares
y cosas
y personas
después de mí ---
Quizá sea suficiente con la promesa de que seré «conmemorada espacialmente» como una planta y cuidada, por turnos, hasta que me convierta en un árbol. Sin nombre, sin lápida – solo una planta o un árbol, y saber que me cuidarán. En cuanto a mi cuerpo, quiero ser cremada sin ningún tipo de ritual, y que las cenizas de mis huesos sean liberadas en el mar Arábigo.
Necesito que mi cuerpo sea tratado de forma tan subversiva como vivió.
No quiero que me entierren junto a mi familia, en ese pequeño nicho junto a todas esas personas que nunca me conocieron. Atrapada en la muerte como lo estuve en vida. Quiero ser cremada, y que mis cenizas sean finalmente liberadas.
Quiero que me permitan pasar para no quedar suspendida en un estado intermedio y poder ser una presencia, un proceso activo, una invasión.
Esto es lo que te pido:
Que me sueltes y dejes pasar
Que no dejes que la nostalgia enturbie este momento porque solo te pediré que tus gestos sean normales
Para sustentarme ya he robado los suaves destellos y atesorado las pequeñas y grandes formas en que me amabas. Me mantuve viva gracias a ellas
Que fijes un tiempo limitado para tu duelo
Que recuerdes que no hay distinción en la belleza del amar; es infinita y se regenera sin el cuerpo
Quiero ser recordada por el amor que le doy al mundo.
Quiero que mi cuerpo sea donado, y que mis órganos sirvan para alimentar el amor en otra(s) vida(s).
--- El aroma del jazmín ---
ExplorarCorporalidades Transnacionales
Esta edición en alianza con Kohl: una publicación para Body and Gender Research analizará soluciones, propuestas y realidades feministas para transformar nuestro mundo actual, nuestros cuerpos y nuestras sexualidades.
نصدر النسخة هذه من المجلة بالشراكة مع «كحل: مجلة لأبحاث الجسد والجندر»، وسنستكشف عبرها الحلول والاقتراحات وأنواع الواقع النسوية لتغيير عالمنا الحالي وكذلك أجسادنا وجنسانياتنا.
Join us through the #FreezeFascisms conversations!
As we navigate the global polycrisis, movements are tirelessly building power beyond traditional power structures. The wave of US presidential executive orders is intended to scare us, but no amount of fascist ideology can erase our existence and resistance.
We invite you to be a part of the solidarity-building campaign to expose and resist fascist forces undermining feminist and gender justice movements in your contexts!
Spark conversations in a brave space: Share stories of struggles and resistance to fascisms in your contexts on the AWID Community Platform. Not a member yet? Join here
Support movements that have been impacted: Amplify fundraisers, resourcing opportunities, mutual aid efforts using the #FreezeFascisms (we’re still on X, Instagram, LinkedIN, and we’re also on Bluesky)
Organize around alternatives: We’ve been building our community of practice on feminist economic alternatives & autonomous resourcing. Sign up to be part of it here.
“But when was the master
ever seduced from power?
When was a system ever broken
by acceptance?
when will the BOSS hand you power with love?
At Jo’Burg, at Cancun or the U.N? – Molara Ogundipe
In an interview at the 2010 Ghana International Book Fair, Molara Ogundipe introduced herself with the words: “...I’m a Nigerian. I’ve lived possibly all over the world except for the Soviet Union and China.”
Across the different continents and countries, Professor Ogundipe taught comparative literature, writing, gender, and English studies using literature as a vehicle for social transformation and re-thinking gender relations.
A feminist thinker, writer, editor, social critic, poet, and activist Molara Ogundipe succeeded in combining theoretical work with creativity and practical action. She is considered to be one of the leading critical voices on African feminism(s), gender studies and literary theory.
Molara famously coined the concept of “stiwanism’ from the acronym STIWA – Social Transformations in Africa Including Women recognizing the need to move “away from defining feminism and feminisms in relation to Euro-America or elsewhere, and from declaiming loyalties or disloyalties.”
In her seminal work ‘Re-creating Ourselves’ in 1994, Molara Ogundipe (published under Molara Ogundipe-Leslie) left behind an immense body of knowledge that decolonized feminist discourse and “re-centered African women in their full, complex narratives...guided by an exploration of economic, political and social liberation of African women and restoration of female agency across different cultures in Africa.”
In speaking about the challenges she faced as a young academic she said:
”When I began talking and writing feminism in the late sixties and seventies, I was seen as a good and admirable girl who had gone astray, a woman whose head has been spoilt by too much learning".
Molara Ogundipe stood out for her leadership in combining activism and academia; in 1977 she was among the founding members of AAWORD, the Association of Women in Research and Development. In 1982 she founded WIN (Women In Nigeria) to advocate for full “economic, social and political rights” for Nigerian women. She then went on to establish and direct the Foundation for International Education and Monitoring and spent many years on the editorial board of The Guardian.
Growing up with the Yoruba people, their traditions, culture, and language she once said :
“I think the celebration of life, of people who pass away after an achieved life is one of the beautiful aspects of Yoruba culture.”
Molara’s Yoruba ‘Oiki’ praise name was Ayike. She was born on 27 December 1940 and at the age of 78, Molara passed away on 18 June 2019 in Ijebu-Igbo, Ogun State, Nigeria.
Snippet Forum Quoate Nicky Mcintyre (EN)
All our change processes rely on the relationships we build at spaces like the AWID Forums where you dance together, your humour comes through, your real self, you tell stories. That is what makes the difference. - Nicky Mcintyre, USA
Film club - Finding Sally
Finding Sally (2016) Amárico | Inglés con subtítulos en inglés
Una investigación personal sobre la misteriosa vida de Sally (la tía de la directora), una aristócrata etíope que se convirtió en rebelde comunista y desapareció luego de la revolución que llevó al derrocamiento del Emperador Haile Selassie.
Conversación en vivo con Tamara Dawit, directora de << Finding Sally >>
Our women ancestors form a circle
Sacred, alive, powerful
We are in the middle
Feeling their strength.
The drum beats a sound of earth
Our skin dresses in colours
We are green, red, orange, blue, violet, black
The drum beats a sound of earth
A voice vibrates, a scream emanates, a song rings out, lulling to sleep, awakening consciousness.
The drum beats a sound of earth
A gaze of complicity, friendship profound.
The drum beats a sound of earth
Ours is but one heart, beating a rhythm of the soul, inviting us to move, inspiring desire, and showing us a path.
One of communal togetherness, power of the people, self-government, a women’s revolution of subversive communal care.
The drum beats a sound of earth
And I invite you to join, to be voice, skin, gaze, seed, fire, song, communion.
The drum beats a sound of earth
And I invite you to discover it, to love it, to know it, and to defend it from the heart of the community
For 25 years they have lived along the same dusty streets, at the top of a hill named after a lion. They come from different places, many from traditional farming communities. Their skin is the colour of rebellion, the colour of a cardon cactus, because in them lives the spirit of the semi-arid Lara State, which is where their love for life comes from, their appreciation, care and protection of water and land. They are heiresses of the Gayon and Ayaman lineages, Indigenous communities that lived and live in the northern part of Lara State.
From the time they were very young they learned that maternity is a role from which it is not easy to escape. Caring for children, home and husband, washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning—everything had to be impeccable, people insisted.
And that was life—that and violence, insults, abuse, hitting, scheming, complaints were to be expected. It seemed almost natural, and that is how they spent their days. Everyday life on those dirt streets living in little houses of tin sheet metal without any electricity or running water. That was poverty, the precarity of when a man would arrive, yes, a man, a project. And then, an unusual revolution because it came about without war.
Then they were invited to go out, they were invited to take to the streets and occupy public space. In the process, the women tore down doors and windows, broke chains, let their hair down and they felt free, free like runaway slaves, Caribbean rebels, freedom fighters.
And those concepts of independence and sovereignty are something that those who had the chance to study had read about, but feeling it, feeling like the protagonists of a process of social transformation—that is an important victory that we have to mention and we cannot forget.
At the top of that hill one can feel the complicity, the shared fire, the years of struggle. They tell of how one of them would go around with her parasol in the afternoons from house to house having coffee and conversing with the people she would invite, convincing them
We are going to make a community council!
Let’s move forward together as a community!
Let’s make plans for education, sports, health, nutrition, a women and gender equality committee, the economy.
We can form our own People’s Government so our Neighbourhood can Be Beautiful!
And that is how the houses came, the doctor’s office, daycare, electricity, potable water. These are some of the community’s achievements, some of our common dreams come true.
And you might ask how a cuentera, a storyteller, made her way to a hill with the name of a lion
And I will tell you: it’s that I was born rowdy, always fighting, I was born a wanderer my grandmother would say, born ready Comandante Chavez would add, from so much walking, grumbling, fighting, and doubting that military man, that I would end up becoming convinced by the community project, by the idea of self-government, of the people managing their own resources, of all the power going to the communities, and so I was convinced.
But I knew something was missing because the women, the women of the community kept building up the people’s power and putting our hearts in the anti-imperialist and anti-capitalist fight, but there is something that hurts and continues to affect us. There are wounds from a patriarchy still present.
So one day, I found myself crying and the drum of the earth beat and our women ancestors spoke.
I found myself surrounded by a group of women who held me up, who contained me as I spilled over in front of them, as it both hurt and liberated me at the same time. That is how I discovered that love among women heals you, saves you, and that our friendship is profoundly political and that sisterhood is a way of being, of living life. From that moment on I never felt alone again, I never felt like an island again, because I know there is a group of women who carry me, bring me, love me, care for me and me for them. I know that this way of becoming a feminist with the mysticism of women loving life is an experience of feeling connected and loved by women, even if you never see them again. How not to want this that happened to me, to happen also to other women, this new beginning, this birth of a new heart is a gift from the goddesses that must be shared.
So I decided to join the women and I began walking from community to community to learn about others’ experiences. We began debating health, education, nutrition, we began preaching the anti-patriarchal word and calling for communities free of machismo. We insisted on recovering ancestral knowledge, intuition, we decided to defend life by talking about abortion and we found ourselves laughing, crying, debating, reflecting. I find myself with Macu, with the China, Yenni, Carolina, Maria, Ramona, Irma, and even with our sister Yenifer who left us not long ago.
This is my homage to them, the women of the hill, the lioness women, the ones who without a doubt have sown a seed in me with so much force it now beats with my heart.
Without a doubt they blaze a path, they are the ones who make caring for a family possible, collective care. They are also a force, a force in a territory that fights to overcome the embargo, the patriarchal violence, the political treason, to overcome the bureaucracy and the corruption.
Without a doubt they blaze a path
Without a doubt they are a compass
Without a doubt they are the heart of the community
Many thanks, I am Maria Bonita, Mharyha Morales from Venezuela. I hope you will continue to enjoy this beautiful festival that brings us women together, in all our diversity, that brings us together from the heart of the community to create, resist, and transform.
