Over the past few years, a troubling new trend at the international human rights level is being observed, where discourses on ‘protecting the family’ are being employed to defend violations committed against family members, to bolster and justify impunity, and to restrict equal rights within and to family life.
The campaign to "Protect the Family" is driven by ultra-conservative efforts to impose "traditional" and patriarchal interpretations of the family, and to move rights out of the hands of family members and into the institution of ‘the family’.
“Protection of the Family” efforts stem from:
rising traditionalism,
rising cultural, social and religious conservatism and
sentiment hostile to women’s human rights, sexual rights, child rights and the rights of persons with non-normative gender identities and sexual orientations.
Since 2014, a group of states have been operating as a bloc in human rights spaces under the name “Group of Friends of the Family”, and resolutions on “Protection of the Family” have been successfully passed every year since 2014.
This agenda has spread beyond the Human Rights Council. We have seen regressive language on “the family” being introduced at the Commission on the Status of Women, and attempts made to introduce it in negotiations on the Sustainable Development Goals.
Our Approach
AWID works with partners and allies to jointly resist “Protection of the Family” and other regressive agendas, and to uphold the universality of human rights.
In response to the increased influence of regressive actors in human rights spaces, AWID joined allies to form the Observatory on the Universality of Rights (OURs). OURs is a collaborative project that monitors, analyzes, and shares information on anti-rights initiatives like “Protection of the Family”.
Rights at Risk, the first OURs report, charts a map of the actors making up the global anti-rights lobby, identifies their key discourses and strategies, and the effect they are having on our human rights.
The report outlines “Protection of the Family” as an agenda that has fostered collaboration across a broad range of regressive actors at the UN. It describes it as: “a strategic framework that houses “multiple patriarchal and anti-rights positions, where the framework, in turn, aims to justify and institutionalize these positions.”
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. »
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.
By joining AWID, you are becoming part of worldwide feminist organizing, a collective power that is rooted in working across movements and is based on solidarity.
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.
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.
لماذا تسألون عن اسم المجموعة، المنظمة و\ أو الحركة التي تعبئ الاستطلاع؟
نسأل عن هذه المعلومات كي نسهّل عملية المعالجة وكي نستطيع أن نتواصل مع مجموعتكم/ن في حالة لم تستطيعون تكملة الاستطلاع و\ أو في حالة كانت لديكم/ن شكوك أو أسئلة إضافية. يمكنكم/ن قراءة المزيد عن كيف نستعمل المعلومات التي نجمعها خلال عملنا هنا.
Tenemos el placer de presentarte a Sopo Japaridze, feminista feroz, líder sindical y presidenta del sindicato independiente de servicios Red de Solidaridad.
Dejó el país cuando era muy joven para ir a los Estados Unidos, donde se volvió políticamente muy activa como organizadora laboral. Siempre mantuvo a Georgia en su mente todo ese tiempo, hasta que un día, dos décadas después, decidió regresar.
La confederación sindical georgiana existente en este momento era menos que ideal. Entonces, equipada con sus habilidades, conocimientos y experiencia en organización laboral, Sopo regresó a Georgia y formó su propio sindicato.
También es una apasionada investigadora y escritora. Estudia relaciones laborales y sociales, escribe para varias publicaciones y es una de lxs editorxs de Left East, una plataforma analítica de Europa del Este. También cofundó la iniciativa y el podcast de historia política, Reimaginando la Georgia soviética, donde explora las complejidades y los matices de las experiencias del país bajo la Unión Soviética, para entender mejor su pasado y construir un futuro mejor.
Reason to join 4
Piensa en grande. Gracias a nuestro alcance internacional, podemos combinar el trabajo analítico con herramientas políticas y prácticas para la incidencia y la transformación, con el objeto de promover la causa de los movimientos feministas en todos los ámbitos.
Carol Thomas was a trailblazer for women’s sexual and reproductive rights in South Africa. A gifted gynecologist and founder of the WomenSpace, she practiced and advocated for non-traditional ways of delivering healthcare to women, offering services that were high quality, empathetic and accessible.
“She entered into not only the joy of pregnancies and new babies, but the anxieties of infertility and premature deliveries and female cancers, the heartbreak of miscarriages and stillbirths.” Helen Moffett
Carol thought in new paradigms that centered the needs of women with the least access to services and rights in society:
“The prevailing socio-economic environment that we find ourselves in means that women bear a disproportionate burden of disease and unemployment…As a black, previously disadvantaged woman I have a good sense of what is happening in our communities.” - Carol Thomas
Carol’s innovative and multi-award-winning social venture “iMobiMaMa” used mobile kiosks and interactive technology to connect women directly with antenatal and reproductive health services, information and support in communities all over South Africa.
Carol supported women both in wanted and unwanted pregnancies, mentoring many nurses and doctors during her lifetime.
She was also described as the go-to gynecologist “for trans folks who could have affirming care. She got it right when so many did not have the language or pronouns. Her warm blankets, listening and saying just what you needed to hear was so comforting.” -Marion Lynn Stevens
Carol Thomas was described as being at the height of her professional career when she died on 12 April 2019 of complications following a double lung transplant.
The tributes that poured in following her unexpected death referred to her as many things:
Undoubtedly, Carol Thomas will be remembered and honored for being all of this and much more.
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.
Мы проанализируем ответы, чтобы получить представление о тенденциях, и представим результаты на 15-м Международном форуме AWID в Бангкоке, а также в режиме онлайн, в декабре 2024 года. Зарегистрируйтесь для участия в Форуме здесь!
Body
Snippet FEA Criminalization of sex workers (FR)
La plupart des États membres de l'Union européenne ont des lois et des pratiques qui pénalisent ou contrôlent de facon inacceptable le travail des travailleur·euses du sexe. La criminalisation des travailleur·euses du sexe et/ou de leurs client·e·s ne fait que contribuer à accroître la vulnérabilité des travailleur·euses du sexe, qui sont déjà confronté·es quotidiennement à la stigmatisation, à la discrimination et à l'exclusion de l'État et de la société, en particulier les femmes, les personnes trans, les migrant·e·s et/ou les travailleur·euses racialisés. En Espagne par exemple, le gouvernement essaie actuellement de faire passer une Loi pour l'Abolition de la Prostitution, ce qui entraînera plus de marginalisation et de violence. Venez entendre les histoires de travailleuses du sexe et d'organisatrices syndicales qui luttent pour décriminaliser le travail du sexe et promouvoir les droits et conditions de travail décentes pour les travailleur·euses du sexe.
