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’.
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.
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.”
Liliana was a teacher, a weaver, and a well recognized writer from Argentina.
Her trilogy La saga de los confines received several awards and is unique in the fantasy genre for its use and re-imagining of South American Indigenous mythology.
Liliana’s commitment to feminism was expressed in the diverse, rich and strong women voices in her writing, and particularly in her extensive work for young readers. She also took public positions in favour of abortion, economic justice and gender parity.
نحن ندرك تمامًا العقبات العملية والضغوط العاطفية المرتبطة بالسفر الدولي، وخاصة من الجنوب العالمي. تعمل جمعية حقوق المرأة في التنمية مع TCEB (مكتب تايلاند للمؤتمرات والمعارض) لدعم المشاركين/ات في المنتدى في الحصول على التأشيرات. سيتم توفير المزيد من المعلومات حول هذه المساعدة للحصول على التأشيرة عند التسجيل، بما في ذلك معلومات الاتصال الخاصة بمكان وكيفية التقديم.
Et si nous ré-imaginons différentes manières de prendre soin de nos communautés?
Et si l'économie n'était pas basée sur le profit d’une petite élite mais sur notre bien-être individuel et collectif, et celui de la Nature?
Les histoires que vous allez découvrir portent sur les collectifs créés par et pour les personnes historiquement et actuellement exclues, privées de leurs droits et déshumanisées par l'État et la société.
Voici les histoires des féministes qui centrent les soins dans l’économie.
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.
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?
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.
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
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.
< United against the violence, by Karina Ocampo
Freeing the Church, Decolonizing the Bible for West Papuan Women, by Rode Wanimbo >
Anna creció en Lewes, Sussex (Reino Unido) y se mudó a Bristol, donde se hizo plomera, luego de decidir que no iba a continuar con su carrera de Inglés en la Universidad de Sheffield.
Dedicó mucho de su tiempo a defender a las personas marginadas y sin privilegios, a participar de marchas antifascistas y a ofrecer apoyo a las mujeres de la Granja Dale cuando estuvieron bajo amenaza de desalojo. Vegana y amante de los animales, participó en sabotajes a partidas de caza y su nombre es honrado en el Monumento «Árbol de la vida», de PETA. En mayo de 2017, Anna se trasladó a Rojava llevada por su fuerte compromiso con el empoderamiento de las mujeres, la plena representación de todas las identidades étnicas y la protección del ambiente.
Murió el 15 de marzo de 2018, al ser alcanzada durante un bombardeo aéreo de fuerzas turcas a la ciudad de Afrin, en el norte de Siria. Anna cayó combatiendo junto a las Unidades de Protección de las Mujeres (YPJ).
It is a community hub, where one can take courses and train in creative income-generation activities like local hairdressing, cooking and artmaking. Children can also enjoy cultural and educational activities. The MSTC doesn't work alone. It collaborates with institutions and art collectives to produce cultural, athletic and educational experiences, alongside critical access to health care. Since its inception, this participatory project has been led and carried out by mostly women, under the leadership of Afro-Brazilian activist Carmen Silva, who was once a homeless person herself.
Welcome to Crear | Résister | Transform: a festival for feminist movements!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Annaliza était la présidente du Conseil de réforme agraire des pionniers de Mindanao, un groupe de coordination de la ville de Tacurong, aux Philippines.
Mère aimée de quatre enfants, sa communauté se souvient d’Annaliza comme de « celle qui dirige quand personne ne veut diriger, qui parle quand personne ne veut parler, qui a eu le courage d'aider les bénéficiaires de la réforme agraire à acquérir des terres ».
Annaliza a été abattue par des assaillants inconnus devant l'Université d'État de Sultan Kudarat (SKSU) alors qu'elle se rendait au lycée national Salabaca à Esperanza.
Sa famille a déclaré : « Naghihintay pa rin kami ng hustisya para sa kanya » (nous attendons toujours que justice lui soit rendue).
📅Lundi 11 mars
🕒16 h 30 - 18 h HNE
Organisateurs : AWID, IJSC et NAWI
🏢 Church Center des Nations Unies, 777 United Nations Plaza, New York, 11e étage
(Interprétation en français et en espagnol disponible)
La organización comunitaria de mujeres negras en la región del Norte del Cauca en Colombia se remonta al pasado colonial del país, que está marcado por el racismo, el patriarcado y el capitalismo que sustentaron la esclavitud como un medio para explotar los ricos suelos de la región.
Estas organizadoras son las heroínas de un amplio movimiento por la autonomía negra, que lucha por el uso sostenible de los bosques y los recursos naturales de la región como elementos vitales para su cultura y sustento.
Durante 25 años, la Asociación de Mujeres Afrodescendientes del Norte del Cauca (ASOM) se ha dedicado a impulsar la organización de mujeres afrocolombianas en el Norte del Cauca. Se establecieron en 1997 como respuesta a las continuas violaciones de derechos humanos, la ausencia de políticas públicas, el manejo inadecuado de los recursos naturales y la falta de oportunidades para las mujeres en el territorio.
Han forjado la lucha para asegurar los derechos étnico-territoriales, para poner fin a la violencia contra las mujeres y obtener el reconocimiento del papel de las mujeres en la construcción de la paz en Colombia.
Benoîte was a French journalist, writer, and feminist activist.
She published more than 20 novels as well as many essays on feminism.
Her first book “Ainsi Soit-Elle” (loosely translated as “As She Is”) was published in 1975. The book explored the history of women’s rights as well as misogyny and violence against women.
Her last book, “Ainsi Soit Olympe de Gouges,” explored women’s rights during the French Revolution, centering on the early French feminist Olympe de Gouges. De Gouges was guillotined in 1793 for challenging male authority and publishing a declaration of women’s rights (“Déclaration Des droits de la Femme et de la Citoyenne”) two years earlier.
Jour 3