WHRDs are self-identified women and lesbian, bisexual, transgender, queer and intersex (LBTQI) people and others who defend rights and are subject to gender-specific risks and threats due to their human rights work and/or as a direct consequence of their gender identity or sexual orientation.
WHRDs are subject to systematic violence and discrimination due to their identities and unyielding struggles for rights, equality and justice.
The WHRD Program collaborates with international and regional partners as well as the AWID membership to raise awareness about these risks and threats, advocate for feminist and holistic measures of protection and safety, and actively promote a culture of self-care and collective well being in our movements.
Risks and threats targeting WHRDs
WHRDs are exposed to the same types of risks that all other defenders who defend human rights, communities, and the environment face. However, they are also exposed to gender-based violence and gender-specific risks because they challenge existing gender norms within their communities and societies.
By defending rights, WHRDs are at risk of:
Physical assault and death
Intimidation and harassment, including in online spaces
Judicial harassment and criminalization
Burnout
A collaborative, holistic approach to safety
We work collaboratively with international and regional networks and our membership
to raise awareness about human rights abuses and violations against WHRDs and the systemic violence and discrimination they experience
to strengthen protection mechanisms and ensure more effective and timely responses to WHRDs at risk
We work to promote a holistic approach to protection which includes:
emphasizing the importance of self-care and collective well being, and recognizing that what care and wellbeing mean may differ across cultures
documenting the violations targeting WHRDs using a feminist intersectional perspective;
promoting the social recognition and celebration of the work and resilience of WHRDs ; and
building civic spaces that are conducive to dismantling structural inequalities without restrictions or obstacles
Our Actions
We aim to contribute to a safer world for WHRDs, their families and communities. We believe that action for rights and justice should not put WHRDs at risk; it should be appreciated and celebrated.
Promoting collaboration and coordination among human rights and women’s rights organizations at the international level to strengthen responses concerning safety and wellbeing of WHRDs.
Supporting regional networks of WHRDs and their organizations, such as the Mesoamerican Initiative for WHRDs and the WHRD Middle East and North Africa Coalition, in promoting and strengthening collective action for protection - emphasizing the establishment of solidarity and protection networks, the promotion of self-care, and advocacy and mobilization for the safety of WHRDs;
Increasing the visibility and recognition of WHRDs and their struggles, as well as the risks that they encounter by documenting the attacks that they face, and researching, producing, and disseminating information on their struggles, strategies, and challenges:
Mobilizing urgent responses of international solidarity for WHRDs at risk through our international and regional networks, and our active membership.
Related Content
Le magazine des Réalités féministes
Le magazine des Réalités féministes
Nous vous présentons une sélection motivante de puissantes histoires et d’images de transformations et de résistances créées par des activistes, des écrivain·e·s et des artistes du monde entier.
يشمل التمويل الخارجي المنح والأشكال الأخرى من التمويل من المؤسسات الخيرية، الحكومات، الجهات ثنائية الاتجاه أو متعددة الاتجاهات أو الممولين/ات من الشركات أو الممولين/ات الأفراد، إن كان ذلك من دولتكم/ن أو من الخارج. لا يشمل هذا الموارد التي تنتجها المجموعات، المنظمات أو الحركات بشكل مستقل مثل رسوم العضوية، تطوع الطاقم أو الأعضاء/ العضوات أو الداعمين/ات، تجنيد الأموال المجتمعي، تأجير الأماكن أو بيع الخدمات أو المنتجات. لتسهيل عملية تعبئة الاستطلاع، تم شمل تعريف أنواع التمويل ووصفها بشكل قصير في الاستطلاع نفسه.
Sara AbuGhazal is a Palestinian feminist living in Beirut. She is a co-founder of Sawt al-Niswa, a collective that produces knowledge in Beirut. She is the co-director of The Knowledge Workshop, a feminist organization based in Beirut that works on feminist oral history and archiving. Sara is currently the Regional Coordinator of the Regional Coalition for Women Human Rights Defenders in the Middle East and North Africa.
Sara strives to help create spaces of feminist transformation and solidarity. Her work is mostly centered on building sustainable movements in the MENA region. She is invested in knowledge production, feminist transformation, and Palestine. She publishes regularly in sawtalniswa.org and her fiction also appears in Romman e-magazine.
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.
Mirna Teresa Suazo Martínez was part of the Garifuna (Afro-descendent and Indigenous) Masca community, living on the North Caribbean coast of Honduras. She was a community leader and a fervent defender of the Indigenous territory, a land that was violated when the National Agrarian Institute of Honduras gave territorial licenses to people outside of the community.
This deplorable deed resulted in repeated harassment, abuse and violence against the Masca, where economic interests of different groups met those of Honduran armed forces and authorities. According to the Black Fraternal Organization of Honduras (OFRANEH), the strategy of these groups is to evict and exterminate the Indigenous population.
“Masca, the Garifuna community located next to the Cuyamel Valley, is part of the area of influence of one of the supposed model cities, a situation that has triggered territorial pressures along the Garifuna coast.” - OFRANEH, 8 September 2019
Mirna Teresa, president of the Board of Trustees of the Masca Community in Omoa, was also firmly rejecting the construction of two hydroelectric plants on the river that carries the same name as her community, Masca.
“The Garífuna community attributes the worsening of the situation in their region to their opposition to tourist exploitation, the monoculture of African palm and drug trafficking, at the same time that it seeks to build an alternative life through the cultivation of coconut and other products for self-consumption.” - Voces Feministas, 10 September 2019
Mirna Teresa was murdered on 8 September 2019 in her Restaurant “Champa los Gemelos”.
She was one of six Garifuna women defenders murdered between September and October 2019 alone. According to OFRANEH, there was no investigation by the authorities into these crimes.
“In the case of the Garífuna communities, a large part of the homicides are related to land tenure and land management. However, squabbles between organized crime have resulted in murders, such as the recent ones in Santa Rosa de Aguán.” - OFRANEH, 8 September 2019
Snippet FEA Sopo Japaridze (EN)
Meet Sopo Japaridze, fierce feminist, union leader and chair of the independent service trade union at the Solidarity Network.
She left the country when she was very young to go to the United States where she first became very politically active as a labor organizer. She kept Georgia in the back of her mind all that time, until one day, two decades later, she decided to return.
The existing Georgian union confederation back then was less than ideal. So, equipped with her skills, knowledge and labor organizing experience, Sopo went back to Georgia and built her own union.
Sopo is a passionate researcher and writer. She studies labor and social relations, writes for various publications and is the contributing editor of LeftEast, an Eastern European analytical platform. She also co-founded the political history initiative and podcast, Reimagining Soviet Georgia, where she explores the complexities and nuances of the country's experiences under the Soviet Union, to better understand its past in order to shed light on how to build a better future.
Think big! With our international reach, we combine analytical work with political and practical tools for advocacy and transformation to advance the cause of feminist movements at all levels.
Доступен ли опрос для людей с ограниченными возможностями?
Да, опрос доступен людям с различными нарушениями слуха, зрения, движений и когнитивных способностей.
Rosane Santiago Silveira era conocida afectuosamente como «Rô Conceição». Fue una activista ambiental y por los derechos humanos que luchó fervientemente para proteger el medio ambiente en las zonas más amenazadas.
Esta lucha incluyó la defensa así como también la protección ambiental en la isla de Barra Velha, cuando estuvo amenazada por la exploración petrolera, mediante campañas contra la apropiación de tierras y la expansión de las plantaciones de eucaliptus en el Estado de Bahía, donde Rosane integraba el Consejo de la Reserva Extractivista de Cassurubá.
«La Reserva Extractiva es un área protegida donde las familias residentes se ganan la vida con productos naturales extraídos del bosque. Estas actividades ayudan a mantener la integridad del bosque.» - Global Justice Ecology Project (fuente original: Rede Brasil Atual)
Rosane participó en actividades sindicales, y en movimientos culturales y por los derechos humanos. Dedicó gran parte de sí misma, no solamente a las causas que la afectaban directamente, sino a problemas de la tierra, los bosques, los ríos y las comunidades cuyos derechos y vidas están continuamente en riesgo.
Fue torturada y asesinada el 29 de enero de 2019 en Nova Viçosa, una ciudad del sur de Bahía.
«Lamentablemente, hoy existe un sentimiento de inseguridad total, por la ausencia del Estado en la investigación de estos delitos. Estuvimos con ella en Navidad, todos se dieron cuenta de que estaba preocupada, y ahora sabemos que había recibido tres amenazas de muerte.» - Tuian, hijo de Rosane, en una entrevista con Rádio Brasil Atual (fuente original: Rede Brasil Atual)
Creemos que para que los movimientos feministas sean transformadores y sólidos debemos seguir trabajando en nuestras similitudes y diferencias. También debemos cuestionar el poder y los privilegios, tanto dentro como fuera de nuestros movimientos.
O nosso grupo não recebeu qualquer financiamento nos três anos entre 2021 e 2023. Devemos preencher o questionário mesmo assim?
Sim, ainda queremos a sua resposta, independentemente de terem recebido financiamento em três, dois, um, ou qualquer um dos anos entre 2021 e 2023.
Gopika est une activiste et campaigner féministe indienne du secteur de la justice de genre et des droits humains. Son expérience s’ancre dans le travail auprès de femmes et d’une diversité de jeunes sur des questions telles que l'accès à la justice, la violence sexuelle basée sur le genre, le genre et la sexualité, le financement de l'activisme féministe et les droits du travail. Gopika a fourni des conseils dans le financement des mouvements féministes, notamment à FRIDA | Le Fonds de Jeunes Féministes et au Fond Mondial pour la Résilience. Auparavant, elle a également dirigé le programme Ressources des Mouvements Féministes à l'AWID. Elle est passionnée par l'intersection de l'activisme féministe et de la pratique créative, et a été rédactrice et responsable des pratiques équitables pour « Bystander Anthology », un groupe de narration graphique sud-asiatique du collectif Kadak. Elle s’est récemment découverte un profond amour pour l’escalade en plein air et continue d’apprendre et de grandir tout au long de cette aventure. Gopika est basée à Bangalore, en Inde.
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Ika Vantiani
“Bunga-Transgirl are girl” [«Bunga-Chica trans es chica»], collage analógico, 2020
En Indonesia, la bunga [flor] está a menudo asociada a las mujeres. Esto significa que una flor también puede ser asociada a las mujeres transgénero, porque las mujeres transgénero son mujeres. Son igual de bellas, igual de fuertes, y tanto las flores como las mujeres trans no viven solo esperando ser «recogidas», sino que crecen y florecen y mueren como quieren. Esta obra es un tributo a mis amigas mujeres transgénero, en el Día Internacional de la Visibilidad Transgénero.
Sobre Ika Vantiani
Ika Vantiani es una artista, curadora y artesana de Yakarta, Indonesia. Su obra explora la idea de ser mujer en la sociedad actual, en la cual los medios de comunicación y el consumo están entretejidos. Ika usa la disciplina del collage, y la expande al arte callejero, a talleres e instalaciones. Integra colectivos artísticos tales como Micro Galleries, The Collage Club y It’s In Your Hands Collective.
« Je suis un miracle… Je suis donc née d’une mère! Moi qui commence à bégayer, J’ai eu une vie à nulle autre pareille... » - Ayanda Denge (lisez le poème entier ci-dessous)
Ayanda Denge était une femme trans, travailleuse du sexe, activiste et poète. Elle était une Xhosa de Port Elizabeth, dans la province du Cap-Oriental en Afrique du Sud. Après avoir traversé différentes villes du pays, elle s'est installée au Cap.
En tant qu’activiste fervente et engagée de la justice sociale, elle s'est battue pour les droits des travailleures du sexe, des personnes trans et des personnes vivant avec le VIH et le sida. Elle a également été une conférencière motivatrice sur la sensibilisation au cancer ainsi que fait campagne en faveur de logements sociaux et abordables, en particulier au profit des pauvres et des travailleures. Ayanda s'est dressée comme une montagne contre les différents visages souvent violents de la discrimination.
« Lorsque vous êtes transgenre, ce n’est pas une double dose, mais une triple dose de stigmatisation et de discrimination que vous recevez. Vous êtes discriminé·e en raison de votre identité sexuelle, en raison de votre travail et en raison de votre statut sérologique VIH. » - Ayanda Denge, 2016
Elle a été présidente par intérim de la Sex Workers Education and Advocacy Taskforce (SWEAT, groupe de travail sur l’éducation et la défense des travailleures du sexe) et coordonnatrice de liaison pour Sisonke, un mouvement national de travailleures du sexe sud-africain.
« D’ici, de notre siège régional à SWEAT, où je siège au conseil d'administration, en passant par Sisonke, un mouvement de travailleures du sexe au Cap, nous ne faisons qu’un. Nous avons un même cri et c'est un cri qui est reconnu dans le monde entier par les travailleures du sexe de toute la planète. Nous voulons la décriminalisation du travail du sexe ». - Ayanda Denge, 2016
Elle vivait dans la maison Ahmed Kathrada, qui était occupée par la campagne Reclaim the City en faveur de logements sociaux. En 2018, Ayanda avait été élue responsable de la maison. Le 24 mars 2019, elle a été poignardée à mort dans sa chambre. L'année précédente, un autre résident avait été tué.
Reclaim the City fait le lien entre la sécurité des résident·e·s des maisons et le gouvernement de province qui les prive d'électricité et du droit humain à l'eau potable :
« Nous ne pouvons dissocier la sécurité des femmes et des personnes LGBTQI vivant dans le squat du refus du gouvernement de la province du Cap-Occidental de rétablir l'électricité et l'eau potable dans la maison Ahmed Kathrada.
La maison est dans le noir complet le soir. Nous avons besoin de lumière pour nous protéger les un·e·s les autres. On a l'impression que la province veut punir les pauvres et les ouvrier·ère·s, dont le seul crime était d'avoir besoin d'un toit. Certes, ils ont le droit de ne pas être d’accord avec nos raisons de squatter, mais ils devraient avoir honte de faire passer la politique avant la sécurité et la dignité des résident·e·s de cette ville.
Repose en paix, camarade Ayanda Denge, nous reprenons le flambeau et nous nous souviendrons de toi dans cette lutte pour un logement décent et central. »
Poème d’Ayanda :
Je suis un miracle…
Je suis donc née d’une mère!
Moi qui commence à bégayer,
j’ai eu une vie à nulle autre pareille.
Née dans la douleur
Nourrie par la pluie
Pour gagner en hauteur
Je vivais dans les égouts.
Là je verse une larme,
je me relève et brandis ma lance.
Les voix résonnent, n’ayez pas peur
Des défis à relever dans l’année,
Des défis de souffrance dans mon dossier;
La communauté applaudit, croyant que j’ai gagné la course;
Mais en réalité mon travail avance à pas de tortue;
À genoux je m’incline et demande grâce.
Car le Seigneur
Est mon épée;
Pour rappeler à l’humanité
Qu’il apporte la sérénité.
Pourquoi, Seigneur, suis-je ce miracle?
Le Seigneur me répond par la pluie et le tonnerre,
Pour avoir interrogé mon père
Qui a dans le livre des agneaux
Un prénom nommé Ayanda.
Dans la rue ma vie n’a jamais été douce
Les personnes que j’ai dû croiser;
Parfois, je ne les saluais jamais;
Et même lorsque j’avais besoin de manger;
Je préférais tirer ma révérence
Plutôt que de prendre place.
« Car ma vie est pareille à celle d’une fleur de lotus, hors des eaux sombres et troubles, j'ai fleuri pour être belle et forte… »- Ayanda Denge, regardez et écoutez
Hommages :
« Ayanda, je voudrais te dire que dans nos coeurs, dans nos esprits, tu es toujours une survivante. Tu n’es plus là mais tu es partout, parce que tu es amour. Comme c’est merveilleux d’être aimé·e, et de donner de l’amour. Et c’est là, Ayanda, le cadeau que tu nous as fait. Merci pour tout cet amour, nous avions vraiment besoin de toi. Je te promets qu’à l’avenir, nous nous engageons tou·te·s à poursuivre la lutte à laquelle tu as consacré tant d’énergie et de temps. Et nous nous engagerons à obtenir justice pour cette fin de vie abominable que tu as connue. » - Transcription d’un message, lors d’un hommage d'adieu à Ayanda
« Ayanda était une activiste par nature. Elle connaissait ses droits et n’hésitait pas à se battre pour les droits des autres. En ce qui me concerne, je n’ai pas été surprise qu’elle s’implique auprès de nombreuses organisations, il était évident qu’elle aimait les gens. Elle ne défendait pas nécessairement les droits des LGBTI, mais les droits de toutes et de tous. » - la soeur d’Ayanda
