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.
Guadalupe fue una activista ambiental comprometida en la lucha contra el crimen en Cherán, México.
En abril de 2011 ayudó a derrocar el gobierno local, y participó en patrullas locales de seguridad, que abarcaban los bosques municipales. Era unx de lxs líderes indígenas de Cherán que llamaban a la población a defender sus bosques contra la tala forestal ilegal y despiadada. Su trabajo en defensa de adultxs mayores, niñxs y trabajadorxs la convirtió en un ícono de su comunidad.
Fue asesinada en Chilchota, México, aproximadamente 30 kilómetros al norte de su ciudad natal de Cherán.
Michelle is a Southeast Asian feminist who enjoys conspiring to bring people together and spark conversations for social change and feminist knowledge sharing, through art, poetry, music and games. With a background in digital advocacy and communications strategy development, she has contributed to initiatives in digital rights, human rights research, and civil society coalition building throughout Southeast Asia. She has an LLB from National University of Singapore, enjoys following her feet down random city streets and likes coffee a little too much.
Position
Membership and constituency Engagement Coordinator
Winnie a été décrite comme une « militante enflammée » qui a combattu le régime de l’apartheid en Afrique du Sud.
Son engagement lui a valu d’être emprisonnée et placée en cellule d’isolement de nombreuses fois.
Affectueusement surnommée Ma’Winnie, elle était connue pour être quelqu’un qui parlait ouvertement des défis auxquels les femmes noires étaient confrontées pendant et après l’apartheid et cela, après avoir elle-même subi ces brutalités en tant que mère, épouse et militante pendant la lutte. Elle a su transcender l'idée couramment répandue selon laquelle le leadership est fondé sur le genre, la classe ou la race. Bien qu’étant une personnalité controversée, elle était connue par son nom xhosa, « Nomzamo », qui signifie « celle qui supporte les épreuves ».
Ma’Winnie continue d’être une source d’inspiration pour de nombreuses personnes, en particulier des jeunes femmes sud-africaines.
Sa mort a impulsé la naissance d’un mouvement qui a pour mantra : « Elle n’est pas morte, elle s’est multipliée ».
(Mango) المانغو | Small Snippet AR
المانغو
يومَ دعتني أنجليكا وفابي لأكون القَيِّمة على تشكيلة نصوص شبقية من تحرير نسوة سود لم أكن أعرف ما يعنيه عملُ القيِّم. الشبق ومشتقاته، هذه فهمتها جيداً، لكن عمل القَيِّم...
Barin was a member of the all-women fighting unit of the Kurdish People’s Protection Unit (YPG)
She was killed while on active duty.
Lebanese journalist Hifaa Zuaiter wrote: “Barin represents everything we have heard about the courage of the Kurdish female fighters, and her death is far more than the killing of a rival, or the result of a political or ethnic struggle. The horror of displaying her body only because she is a woman stems from the fact that she dared to threaten male hegemony by becoming a female fighter on a battlefield meant for men”.
Hospital | Small snippet EN
Hospital
Hospitals are institutions, living sites of capitalism, and what gets played out when somebody is supposed to be resting is a microcosm of the larger system itself.
Quelle est votre définition du financement extérieur?
Le financement extérieur inclut les subventions et autres formes de financement de la part de fondations philanthropiques, de gouvernements, de financeurs bilatéraux, multilatéraux ou d’entreprise et de donateur·rices individuel·les, qu’elles et ils soient de votre pays ou de l’étranger. Il exclut les ressources que les groupes, organisations et/ou mouvements génèrent de manière autonome (ressource en anglais), telles que les cotisations d’adhésion, contributions volontaires du personnel, de membres et/ou de soutiens, les collectes de fonds communautaires, les locations de salles et ventes de services. Les définitions des différents types de financement, ainsi que de courtes descriptions des différents bailleurs de fonds, sont incluses dans l’enquête pour une meilleure compréhension.
Our arepa: Resistance from the Kitchen
by Alejandra Laprea, Caracas, Venezuela (@alejalaprea)
I live in a country of the impossible, where there are no bombs yet we are living in a war.
A war that exists only for those of us living in this territory.
I live in a country no one understands, which few can really see, where various realities co-exist, and where the truth is murdered time and again.
I live in a country where one has to pay for the audacity of thinking for oneself, for taking on the challenge of seeing life another way.
I live in a country of women who have had to invent and reinvent, time and again, how they live and how to get by.
I live in Venezuela, in a time of an unusual and extraordinary threat.
Since 2012 my country has been subjected to an unconventional war. There are no defined armies or fire power. Their objective is to dislocate and distort the economy, affecting all households, daily life, the capacity of a people to dream and build a different kind of politics, an alternative to the patriarchal, bourgeois, capitalist democracy.
Venezuelan women are the primary victims of this economic war. Women who historically and culturally are responsible for providing care, are the most affected and in demand. However, in these years of economic and financial embargo, Venezuelan women have gone from being victims to the protagonists on the front lines defending our territory.
Battles are fought from the barrios, kitchens, and small gardens. We defend the right of girls and boys to go to school, and to be given something so simple as some arepas for breakfast.
Arepas are a kind of corn cake that can be fried, roasted or baked and served sweet or savoury as a side or main dish. It is a staple in the diet of all Venezuelans.
In Venezuela, arepas mean culture, family, food sovereignty, childhood nostalgia, the expert hands of grandmothers molding little balls, the warmth that comforts you when recovering from illness.
Arepas connect us as a people with the pre-Colombian cultures of corn, a resistance that has endured for more than five centuries. They are the Caribbean expressed differently on firm ground.
They are an act of resistance.
When my mother was a girl, they would start grinding the dry corn early in the morning to make arepas. The women would get up and put the kernels of corn in wooden mortars and pound it with heavy mallets to separate the shells. Then they would boil, soak, and grind the corn to make dough, and finally they would mold it into round arepas. The process would take hours and demand a lot of physical effort.
In the mid-20th century a Venezuelan company industrialized the production of corn meal. For an entire generation that seemed like an act of liberation, since there was now a flour that you could simply add water to and have hot arepas in 45 minutes time.
But that also meant that the same generation would lose the traditional knowledge on how to make them from scratch. My grandmother was an expert arepa maker, my mother saw it as a girl, and for me the corn meal came pre-packaged.
In the war with no military, the pre-cooked corn meal came to be wielded as an instrument of war by the same company that invented it, which was not so Venezuelan anymore: today the Polar group of companies is transnational.
We women began to recuperate our knowledge by talking with the eldest among us. We searched in the back of the closets for our grandmothers’ grinders, the ones we hadn’t thrown away out of affection. Some families still prepared the corn in the traditional way for important occasions. In some towns there were still communal grinding stations which had been preserved as part of local history or because small family businesses refused to die. All of these forms of cultural resistance were activated, and we even went so far as to invent new arepas.
Today we know that in order to resist we cannot depend on one food staple. Although corn arepas continue to be everyone’s favourite, we have invented recipes for arepas made of sweet potato, cassava, squash, and celery root.
We have learned that we can use almost any root vegetable to make arepas. Cooperative businesses have developed semi-industrial processes to make pre-cooked corn meal. In other words, we have recuperated our arepas and their preparation as a cultural good that belongs to all.
My artivism aims to decolonize our senses in everyday life. I like to create spaces that communicate how we weave together our different struggles, and that render visible dissident (re)existences, other possible worlds, and living bodies here in the SOUTH.
As we continue to fight in our struggles, let us remember how essential it is that we support each other, believe each other, and love ourselves and our sisters. When this system fucks us over, we must take time to look after our (physical and mental) health, that of our sisters, and to understand that each one of us carries unique stories, making us fighters in resist
Marga RH (@Marga.RH)
Until dignity becomes a habit
These portraits are inspired by the voices of resistance and protest movements in Latin America, especially by the key role that feminised bodies play in these struggles. It is a tribute to the grassroots feminist movements in resistance.
Avec plus de 30 ans d'expérience en finance, Christine a consacré sa carrière à développer les missions non lucratives à l'échelle mondiale. Ses contributions vont jusqu’au poste de trésorière du conseil d'administration d'une ONG. Christine a rejoint l'AWID en 2007 comme contrôleuse, puis en tant que directrice des finances depuis 2023. Pendant son temps libre, elle aime voyager, jardiner et faire de la randonnée.
Jacqueline fue una feminista pionera malí-burkinesa, nacionalista y educadora.
Enseñó inglés en Senegal antes de ser convocada en 1961 como maestra de inglés en el Lycée Philippe Zinda Kaboré en Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso. Debido a su activismo, estuvo involucrada en el alzamiento popular del 3 de enero de 1966. Entre 1961 y 1966 fue responsable de la prensa del sindicato docente, Voces de lxs Maestrxs. Fue nombrada directora del Curso Normal para Niñas Jóvenes (ahora conocida como Escuela Secundaria Nelson Mandela), cargo que ocupó hasta 1974, dedicándose a la educación de las niñas y a la promoción de los derechos de las mujeres.
En 1984 recibió el Premio Paul G. Hoffmann por su destacado trabajo para el desarrollo nacional e internacional.
Editor's Note | Lost For Words | Small Snippet AR
كلمة العدد
فقدان الكلام
عندما يصبح عملنا المتجسّد مادةً ربحية في أيدي الأنظمة التي نسعى إلى إزالتها فلا عجب أنّ جنسانيّاتنا وملذّاتنا توضَع جانباً من جديد، لا سيّما أنّها ليست مُربِحة بما فيه الكفاية. لقد تساءلنا، في مواقف عدّة خلال إنتاج هذا العدد، ما الذي سيحدث إذا رفضنا مراعاة خدمات الرأسمالية الأساسية؟ لكن هل نجرؤ على هذا التساؤل وقد أنهكنا العالم؟ ربما يتمّ تجاهل جنسانيّاتنا بهذه السهولة لأنها لا تُعتَبَر أشكالاً من أشكال الرعاية. ربما ما نحتاجه هو أن نعيد تصوّر الملذّة كشكلٍ من أشكال الرعاية الجذرية، تكون أيضاً مناهضة للرأسمالية وللمؤسساتية.
