Une série de films sur les Réalités féministes dans la région de SWANA

par Esra Özban

Dans un monde obsédé par le produit final, donner la priorité au processus est une méthode fondamentalement féministe. Les processus sont importants, et la sélection d’œuvres artistiques n’y fait pas exception. Alors que nous décidions quels films de la région d’Asie du Sud-Ouest et Afrique du Nord (SWANA) représenteraient et s’inscriraient le mieux dans le thème des Réalités féministes, la pandémie à laquelle nous sommes toujours confronté·e·s continue à transformer radicalement nos vies. Le simple fait de penser, d’écrire ou de m’exprimer est devenu un combat de tous les jours. Je n’arrivais à respecter aucune de mes échéances, j’envoyais les uns après les autres des courriels d’excuses à Kamee Abrahamian avec qui je travaillais en tant que commissaire indépendante pour le projet de Ciné-Club Féministe de l’AWID. Le soutien indéfectible de Kamee, sa compréhension et ses précieuses suggestions me rappelaient que, même dans deux parties différentes du monde, en tant que collègues qui ne se côtoient jamais en chair et en os, nous pouvons cocréer des microversions des Réalités féministes pour lesquelles nous vivons et auxquelles nous aspirons.
 
Pour moi, les Réalités féministes ont beaucoup à voir avec les sororités. Des sororités qui aident les femmes à déminer la région d’Artsakh/Haut-Karabakh. Des sororités nourries dans le Vegan Inclusive Trans Cake préparé par de jeunes féministes trans à Ankara, qui rappellent aux cis-ta qu’elles ne sont pas les bienvenues pour la génération Z. Des sororités qui poussent parmi les brins de menthe sur le toit de Dragica Alafandi dans le camp de réfugié·e·s de Dheisheh en Palestine occupée, dans Sowing Seeds of Resistance. Des sororités qui englobent et accueillent des proximités intimes, sexuelles et révolutionnaires dans le parc Gezi avec #resistayol. Des sororités qui mettent à jour une rencontre imaginée entre deux générations de femmes en exil, dans les rues de Haïfa, avec Your father was born 100 years old and so was the Nakba. Des sororités entre espèces qui construisent un (courageux) espace fictif, créé par Mounia Akl dans son Submarine, où la rebelle Hala, qui refuse de quitter une ville qui croule sous les déchets, est abandonnée à son sort avec un chien pour seul ami.
 
Cette sélection regroupe des petits morceaux de nombreuses Réalités féministes réalisées dans la région de SWANA ces dernières années. Nous continuerons à imaginer, apprendre et partager des incarnations féministes d’espoir et de pouvoir. En attendant, continuons à nous plonger dans les puissantes alternatives auxquelles ces cinéastes et personnages donnent vie dans ces films. Nous pouvons cocréer chacune des étapes, chacun des gestes et chacune des tentatives, en continuant de cohabiter dans ce monde avec d’autres qui vivent des Réalités féministes et continuent à donner vie à leurs rêves.

MOTHERLAND 

De Emily Mkrtichian et Jesse Soursourian

« Avec de beaux visuels associés à des scènes de vérité convaincantes, Motherland est une démonstration de camaraderie et de force entre femmes… Ce film est un témoignage de femmes du monde entier qui sont prêtes à travailler plus dur pour surmonter les obstacles qu'elles rencontrent. » 
 
    - Nosarieme Garrick, réalisatrice primée

« Motherland est une visualisation inspirante de solidarité, de courage et de cran… »
 
    - Collectif Hers is Ours (La sienne est nôtre), organisateur du Festival Outsider Moving Art & Film 

Motherland from jesse soursourian on Vimeo.

Emily Mkrtichian, à propos des Réalités féministes et d’Artsakh/HK

Nous avons filmé le court-métrage Motherland en République d’Artsakh, en 2018. Chacune de ces femmes me fascinait, par sa force, sa résilience et son humour – malgré le contexte dans lequel elles vivent. Ce contexte, en 2018, était celui du lendemain de la guerre brutale des années 1990, suite à laquelle leur pays est demeuré un territoire non reconnu (ou contesté, aux yeux de la communauté internationale), qui n’a pas reçu l’autonomie et l’indépendance dont bénéficient de très nombreux autres pays. L’Artsakh a également fortement souffert des conséquences visibles dans tous les lieux ayant subi de violents affrontements, et qui frappent bien souvent sur les femmes : troubles de stress post-traumatiques (TSPT), taux élevés d’alcoolisme, taux élevés de violence conjugale, une moindre égalité et moins de libertés pour les femmes, peu – voire pas – de représentation des femmes en politique et aux fonctions publiques. Face à tous ces défis, ce film tente de saisir et rendre compte du feu et du pouvoir des femmes d’Artsakh, qui pourraient ne pas correspondre au paradigme du féminisme occidental traditionnel mais qu’elles ont créé pour elles-mêmes grâce à des liens communautaires forts, l’attention pour leur famille, un dur labeur et la capacité à en rire ensemble. La République d’Artsakh est aujourd’hui à nouveau ravagée par une autre guerre qui lui a arraché 70 % des terres que ces femmes avaient fait grandir en les considérant leurs. Mais je peux vous promettre que ces femmes, et des milliers d’autres, continuent à tenir leurs familles, leurs communautés et leur culture debout avec les mêmes réseaux de soins, d’engagement à travailler dur et d’éclats de rire révoltés face à un avenir incertain.
 

SOWING SEEDS OF RESISTANCE

De Baladi-Rooted Resistance

« Un film opportun à voir après avoir été témoin du dernier bombardement de Gaza par les forces de défense israéliennes. Un aperçu de la manière dont les femmes des communautés palestiniennes survivent à l'oppression structurelle, à travers l'histoire d'une bibliothèque de semences traditionnelles... et des femmes qui les maintiennent comme une forme de rébellion florissante. » 

    - Jessica Horn, stratège féministe panafricain·e, écrivain·e et cocréateur·rice de The temple of her skin (Le temple de sa peau) 

« Regarder des femmes se rassembler et travailler collectivement pour l'autonomie alimentaire est, à mes yeux, à la fois thérapeutique et autonomisant. » 
 
    - Collectif Hers is Ours (La sienne est nôtre), organisateur du Festival Outsider Moving Art & Film 

L’équipe de Baladi-Rooted Resistance, à propos des Réalités féministes

« Comment parler de Résistances féministes quand on vit à Deheisheh, un camp de réfugié·e·s palestinien·ne·s construit il y a 70 ans en Cisjordanie occupée pour abriter 3 000 réfugié·e·s, et qui en compte aujourd’hui 15 000?Ou quand la terre que l’on cultive est constamment menacée par des colons illégaux?
Quand on est une femme en Palestine occupée, on doit se battre non seulement contre le patriarcat mais également contre le colonialisme et une occupation militaire brutale. »
 
Dragiča et Vivien se battent contre ces multiples systèmes de domination, à leur manière.
Vivien se sert de semences indigènes pour aider les Palestinien·ne·s à préserver leur identité. Cultiver les aliments traditionnels, selon des méthodes traditionnelles, est porteur de sens : « Si on n’est plus productrice, on reste consommatrice, et quelle meilleure manière de réduire quelqu’une en esclavage qu’en en faisant sa consommatrice? Cela a lieu dans le monde entier, mais ici c’est doublé de l’occupation militaire. »
 
En Cisjordanie, 31,5 % des ménages souffrent d’insécurité alimentaire. Grâce à son jardin de comestibles sur son toit, Dragiča est parvenue à renforcer l’autonomie alimentaire de sa famille. Dans le camp bondé, où l’armée israélienne fait régulièrement des incursions la nuit pour arrêter et harceler les résident·e·s, le toit de Dragiča nourrit non seulement sa famille, mais nourrit surtout son âme. »

#RESISTAYOL

De Rüzgâr Buşki

Rüzgâr Buşki, à propos des Réalités féministes

« Je ne sais pas quoi dire à propos des Réalités féministes, mais en tant qu’artiste trans, en tant qu’activiste en Turquie, je sais que nos réalités sont rudes. Nous vivons dans la violence : physique, psychologique, économique et sexuelle! C’est la raison pour laquelle nous devons construire nos propres réseaux, et cocréer des microréalités les unes pour les autres est une Réalité féministe pour moi. #resistayol est mon premier film. Au début, je prévoyais de faire un film par/avec/pour des personnes trans qui ne tente pas de convaincre quiconque du fait que les personnes trans sont des personnes humaines, et qui ne soit pas centré sur la sensibilisation aux questions trans. Mais le soulèvement de Gezi, l’un des plus gros soulèvements de l’histoire de la Turquie, a eu lieu et le film s’est transformé en autre chose.

Je crois que le processus de production influence vraiment le devenir d’un film. Nous avons véritablement essayé de faire travailler des femmes, des personnes trans et non binaires à chacune des étapes du film. Le film est fait par des personnes qui se sont rassemblées dans un esprit de camaraderie, par amitié. Kanka Productions est fondé sur un esprit de camaraderie transféministe. Je veux que ce film donne espoir, qu’il soigne parce que nous portons toutes et tous de nombreux traumatismes dans nos corps; c’est ce qui nous constitue et ce qui nous relie. La guérison est un processus interminable et nous devons créer des espaces où respirer. #resistayol est une heure de respiration collective. »
 

Boysan Yakar dans #resistayol

« Alors, des lubunyas (queer) étaient assis·es dans le parc, et tout à coup, des bulldozers sont arrivés et tout le monde s’est senti frustré. Bref, c’est ce qui s’est passé. C’est le parc des Lubunyas et nous avions trente jours pour expliquer cela à cette immense ville. Tout le monde a reconnu que la nuit, des ibnes (pédés) baisent dans ce parc... Le Bloc LGBTI y a déplacé notre communauté. Nous ne faisions déjà absolument pas confiance à l’État, ni à la police, et ne disposions d’aucune sécurité. Nous avons défini nos propres manières de faire les choses, nos propres lois et coutumes pour survivre... Nous avons rapidement instauré la loi à Gezi... dans le souci de créer une langue et une compréhension communes entre tous ces groupes. La langue LGBTI du vivre-ensemble s’est propagée dans tout le parc. C’était la marche des Fiertés tous les jours, tout le monde lançait sans cesse des « ayol ». Nous avons égayé la langue nauséabonde et obsolète de la gauche. Je pense que nous avons eu une telle influence parce qu’on nous a renié·e·s pendant tant d’années. Des plus radicaux·ales aux plus conservateur·trice·s et nationalistes, tout le monde avait besoin de nous parce que tout le monde s’est habitué à se confronter à tout, tout le temps. Ils et elles n’avaient pas l’habitude de voir tant d’énergie, notre énergie. C’est pour ça que c’était un espace politique génial pour nous. Chaque jour,nous nous faisions un devoir de reprendre notre plus gros combat là-bas, le principal, qui est notre combat pour la visibilité et la reconnaissance. C’est pour cela que nous avons eu si mal de devoir quitter Gezi. »
 

VEGAN INCLUSIVE TRANS CAKE

De Pembe Hayat

« ... une déclaration variée, montrant la joie qui existe dans les amitiés au sein de la communauté queer en Turquie comme manifestation de rébellion et de résistance. » 
 
    - Nosarieme Garrick, réalisatrice primée 

«... amusant, léger et aléatoire. Dans un monde constamment marqué et meurtri par la violence contre la communauté trans, rien, aucune action n'est (malheureusement) privée de sens. Il en va aussi de la joie, de l'amour et du hasard signifiant! »

    - Collectif Hers is Ours (La sienne est nôtre), organisateur du Festival Outsider Moving Art & Film 

Cayan Azadi dans Vegan Inclusive Trans Cake

« Salut les Barbie, les Ken, les poupées en porcelaine, les Craquinoux. Les copines de Chucky, les sœurs de Chucky, les beaux-frères de Chucky, et sans oublier les beaux-frères amants.
 
Alors, pourquoi avons-nous fait ce gâteau?
 
Nous avons entendu dire qu’une travailleuse du sexe trans avait tenté de se suicider, suite à des violences de gardiens et de policiers dans la rue. Elle est toujours au poste de police, et c’est la raison même pour laquelle nous avons fait ce gâteau. Ce gâteau travesti a été préparé pour montrer que nous existons à tous les moments de la vie, que nous persistons à exister, et ce gâteau illustre que cela ne sera pas effacé ou ignoré par la société.
 
Oui, il y a de la violence dans nos vies. Oui, il y a aussi beaucoup d’ombres, mais malgré cela, nous pouvons quand même nous amuser et profiter de la vie autant que possible. Bon appétit, sœurette! »
 

YOUR FATHER WAS BORN 100 YEARS OLD AND SO WAS THE NAKBA  ابوكي خلق عمره ١٠٠ سنة، زي النكبة

De Razan AlSalah

SUBMARINE

De Mounia Akl

« Il est réalisé comme un poème qu’on écrit… simple, un peu abstrait et émouvant. » 
 
    - Collectif Hers is Ours (La sienne est nôtre), organisateur du Festival Outsider Moving Art & Film 

Esra Ozban:

Esra Ozban est programmateur·rice et réalisateur·rice de films originaire de Turquie. Son travail artistique, curatorial et universitaire se trouve à la croisée entre autres des pratiques archivistiques critiques, du travail du sexe, de la pornographie et des cultures cinématographiques féministes/queer.
 

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Chapitre 1

Promouvoir les programmes féministes : principales avancées en matière de genre et de sexualité

Alors que les fondamentalismes, les fascismes et autres systèmes d’oppression se métamorphosent et trouvent de nouvelles tactiques et stratégies pour consolider leur pouvoir et influence, les mouvements féministes persévèrent et célèbrent leurs victoires nationales, régionales et internationales.

En lire plus

Chapitre 1

Alors que les fondamentalismes, les fascismes et autres systèmes d’oppression se métamorphosent et trouvent de nouvelles tactiques et stratégies pour consolider leur pouvoir et influence, les mouvements féministes persévèrent et célèbrent leurs victoires nationales, régionales et internationales.

La reconnaissance en 2019 par le Conseil des droits de l’Homme du droit à l’intégrité et à l’autonomie corporelles, par exemple, a marqué une étape cruciale. Des résolutions du Conseil sur la discrimination envers les femmes et les filles admettent cependant un recul lié à des groupes de pression rétrogrades, des conceptions idéologiques ou un détournement de la culture ou la religion pour s’opposer à l’égalité de leurs droits. Des avancées féministes sont aussi notées dans le travail des Procédures spéciales, qui soulignent notamment l’obligation des États de contrer les doctrines de l’idéologie du genre, rappellent à l’ordre les antidroits qui détournent des références à la « culture », et signalent que les convictions religieuses ne peuvent pas servir à justifier la violence ou la discrimination.

Sommaire

• Niveau national
• Sphères mondiales
• Exercice : Cartographions et célébrons nos victoires!

Lire le chapitre complet

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Akosua Hanson is an artistic activist, based in Accra, Ghana. Her work spans radio, television, print media, theatre, film, comic art exhibitions, art installations, and graphic novels. Akosua’s activism has been centred around pan-Africanism and feminism, with an interest in the intersection of art, pop culture, and activism. She has a Masters in Philosophy in African Studies with a focus on Gender and African Philosophical Thought. Akosua Hanson is the creator of Moongirls, a graphic novel series that follows the adventures of four superheroes fighting for an Africa free from corruption, neocolonialism, religious fundamentalism, rape culture, homophobia and more. She works as a radio host at Y 107.9 FM, Ghana.

Ever experienced moments of deep clarity during or after sex?

In these panels, the Moongirl Wadjet is engaged in BDSM lovemaking with a two-gender daemon. Of the four Moongirls, Wadjet is the healer and philosopher, the conduit of the Oracle. She does this to launch a scientific and spiritual process – an experiment she calls “Illumination by the Light of the Full Moon” – through which she traces a vibrational time arc between her memories, sensations, emotions, visions, and imagination. It is a form of vibrational time travel in order to discover what she terms as “truth-revelations.” 

During the experience, some of Wadjet’s hazy visions include: an approaching apocalypse brought about by humans’ environmental destruction in service to a voracious capitalism; a childhood memory of being hospitalized after a mental health diagnosis; and a vision of a Moongirls’ origin story of the Biblical figure of Noah as an ancient black Moongirl warning of the dangers of environmental pollution.

More than a fun kink to explore for the sensations, BDSM can be a way of addressing emotional pain and trauma. It has been a medium of sexual healing for me, providing a radical form of liberation. There is a purge that happens when physical pain is inflicted on the body. Inflicted with consent, it draws out emotional pain – almost like a “calling forth.” The whip on my body allows me to release suppressed emotions: anxiety, depression, my sense of defenselessness to the stresses that overwhelm me sometimes.

When engaging in BDSM as an avenue for healing, lovers must learn to be very aware of and responsible for each other. Because even though consent may have been initially given, we must be attentive to any changes that might occur in the process, especially as feelings intensify. I approach BDSM with the understanding that in order to surrender pain, love and empathy have to be the basis of the process and by that, I create space or open up for love. 

The engagement with aftercare after the infliction of pain is a completion of the process. This can be done in very simple ways such as cuddling, checking if they need water, watching a movie together, sharing a hug or just sharing a joint. It can be whatever your chosen love language is. This holding space, with the understanding that wounds have been opened, is necessary to complete the process of healing. It is the biggest lesson in practising empathy and learning to really hold your partner, due to the delicacy in blurring the lines between pain and pleasure. In this way, BDSM is a form of care work for me.

After BDSM sex, I feel a clarity and calm that puts me in a great creative space and spiritually empowers me. It is an almost magical experience watching the pain transform into something else in real time. Similarly, this personally liberating experience of BDSM allows Wadjet to access the foreknowledge, wisdom, and clarity to aid in her moongirl duties in fighting African patriarchy.

Moongirls was birthed during my tenure as the director for Drama Queens, a young artistic activist organization based in Ghana. Since our inception in 2016, we’ve employed different artistic media as part of their feminist, pan-Africanist, and environmentalist activism. We used poetry, short stories, theatre, film, and music to address issues such as corruption, patriarchy, environmental degradation, and homophobia.

Our inaugural theatre production, “The Seamstress of St. Francis Street” and “Until Someone Wakes Up” addressed the problem of rape culture in our communities. Another one, “Just Like Us,” was arguably one of the first Ghanaian theatre productions to directly address the country’s deep-seated issue of homophobia. Queer Universities Ghana, our queer film workshop for African filmmakers, has trained filmmakers from Ghana, Nigeria, South Africa, and Uganda. Films birthed during the workshop, like “Baby Girl: An Intersex Story” by Selassie Djamey, have gone on to be screened at film festivals. Therefore, moving to the medium of graphic novels was a natural progression.

About seven years ago, I’d started a novel that I never completed about the lives of four women. In 2018, the Open Society Initiative for West Africa (OSIWA) opened up a grant opportunity that launched the production of the project and my uncompleted novel was turned into Moongirls. 

There have been two seasons of Moongirls made up of six chapters each. Contributing writers and editors for the first season were Suhaida Dramani, Tsiddi Can-Tamakloe, George Hanson, and Wanlov the Kubolor. Writers for the second season were Yaba Armah, Nadia Ahidjo, and myself. Character illustrations and conceptualizations were by Ghanaian artist Kissiwa. And AnimaxFYB Studio, a premium animation, design, and visual effects studio, does the illustrations.

Writing Moongirls between 2018 and 2022 has been a labour of love for me, even, a labour for liberation. I aim to be very explorative in form and style: I’ve dabbled in converting other forms of writing, such as short stories and poetry, to graphic novel format. By merging illustration and text, as graphic novels do, Moongirls aims to tackle the big issues and to honor real life activists. My decision to centre queer women superheroes – which is rare to see in this canon – came to mean so much more when a dangerous backdrop started developing in Ghana in 2021. 

Last year saw a marked hike in violence for the Ghanaian LGBT+ community that was sparked by the shutdown of an LGBT+ community centre. This was followed by arbitrary arrests and imprisonment of people suspected to be on the queer spectrum, as well as of those accused of pushing an “LGBT agenda.” Crowning this was the introduction in Ghanaian Parliament of an anti-LGBT bill named “Proper Human Sexual Rights and Ghanaian Family Values.” This bill is arguably the most draconian anti-LGBT bill ever drafted in the region, following previous attempts in countries like Nigeria, Uganda and Kenya. 

I remember quite vividly the first time I read the draft of this bill. 

It was a Friday night, typically a night I take off to rest or party after a long work week. By sheer luck, the draft was leaked and shared with me on a WhatsApp group. As I read it, a deep sense of fear and alarm made burnt toast of my Friday night chill. This bill proposed to slap any LGBT+ advocacy with five to ten years of imprisonment, and to fine and imprison people who identify as LGBT+ unless they “recanted” and accepted conversion therapy. In the draft bill, even asexual people were criminalized. The bill went for all fundamental freedoms: freedoms of thought, of being, and the freedom to hold one’s personal truth and choose to live your life by that truth. The bill even went for social media and art. If it passed, Moongirls would be banned literature. What the bill proposed to do was so evil and far-reaching, I was stunned into a depression at the depth of hate from which it had been crafted. 

Scrolling through my Twitter timeline that night, the terror I felt inside me was mirrored. The timeline was a livestream of emotions as people reacted in real time to what they were reading: disbelief to terror to a deep disappointment and sorrow when we realized how far the bill wanted to go. Some tweeted their readiness to fold up and leave the country. Then, in the way Ghanaians do, sorrow and fear is alchemized to humour. From humour came the zest to upscale the fight.

So, the work still continues. I created Moongirls to provide an alternative form of education, to provide knowledge where it has been suppressed by violent patriarchy, and to create visibility where the LGBT+ community has been erased. It is also important that African BDSM is given this platform of representation when so much of BDSM representation is white. Sexual pleasure, through BDSM or otherwise, as well as non-heterosexual love, transcend race and continent because sexual pleasure and its diversity of experience are as old as time.

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Thank you, Ángela and Pilar.
 

Yannia Sofía Garzón Valencia I am a Black woman and a community weaver. I live in Santander de Quilichao in Cauca, Colombia. I am interested in the creative processes that organize sustainable collective life. I like exchanging thoughts and cooking, investigating and analyzing, planting seeds and learning from plants, reading and playing. I am currently coordinating the observatory of gender-based violence against afro-descendant communities in Colombia (@VigiaAfro).

The three of us were “sharing” the afternoon in a neighborhood south of Bogota. 

 There was an unusually large green playing area and we sat on little wooden stools under an elderberry tree. We were finally experiencing that other form of love – that pleasure of being together and listening to each other. For me, these kinds of chats are among the expressions of love that life had only recently allowed me to enjoy. I had not known this other form of love – the kinds found outside workshops, activist spaces, classrooms, or workplaces – to be possible. Yet we three friends spent the afternoon amongst ourselves and we did not pretend to be blind to the color of our respective skins. Rather, it was a lived factor that allowed us to intimately discuss the similarities and differences in our childhood and youthful experiences.
 
Those chats were unrelated to any upcoming activities of the Black movement in Colombia, but they still nourish me and acquire new meanings. Our closeness was woven through coming together, recognizing each other, and identifying the uniqueness of our liberations. And by realizing there is not just one but many paths to liberation – those paths we inhabited every time we said “no” and rebelled. Far from feeling discomfort, we met in an authenticity made of weakness and strength, one which brought us closer instead of separating us.
 
Our purpose on that beautiful afternoon was to just be – to have an awareness of simply being amongst ourselves. We walked through our pasts so that the memories that stayed with us were those we decided to keep as ours, and not those that fear let through and found a place for. We remembered exact fragments of TV shows, and sang songs written by artists who had taught us about loving well, hating well, cursing like the worst villain, and suffering like the best leading lady. 
 
We told each other about our school pranks, and what remained in our subconscious after being exposed to the many ways the media repeats the same thing – after the teachers and nuns at school overexposed us to stories so that we would identify with and appropriate Cinderella’s aspirations for our own lives. This would set the tone for the rest of our story: the drama of the impoverished and diminished girl who is yet to achieve her full value through an act that redeems her condition. And that act can only be brought about by the gaze of a male who, at the very least, is white, hence deserving of what is between our thighs – his “main aspiration” – and the “perfect realization of our dreams,” which we are told should then be our main aspiration.
 
There were three of us there that afternoon. Each had been brought up in a different part of the country, but it was fascinating that we could all still quote fragments and situations from songs and soap operas that often – as we realized by getting to know each other – shared codes or symbols that were replicated, with a few variations, in our homes, in our first relationships, and in our neighborhoods and schools. Brought up by “dramas” (is that what that very successful genre is called?) where the more you suffer, the more you deserve, the issue of “how and in which situations it is acceptable and legitimate to suffer” becomes an important mandate on how the person who suffers should be seen, what they should do, and whom they should be. Some of us managed to liberate ourselves and “learn” a definition of love that could only be learnt in adulthood, shattering illusions, and accepting natural sin. And becoming aware of the industrial production of a virgin, which we may refuse to look like as she has no place in our understanding, and the disappointment this alienation brings.
 

After singing, we reviewed our early sexual explorations. I never thought that most people experienced them before the age of nine and that even in adulthood, those experiences, those memories, remain a heavy burden. Even today, in thousands of places, millions of girls and boys see their innocence curtailed by lack of trust and the ignorance we present them with when they try to explore their bodies. Blaming curiosity is a most efficient control mechanism. We went back to the brief conversations we had when we changed the history of our lives from cursed Black beings to a perspective that rebirthed us. We remembered how many of our aunts and female cousins left their homes, their core, their roots, to seek a future outside, elsewhere.
 

The future comes with a price: it demands that those relationships that marked our childhood are reshaped and confined to oblivion. They are our foundations, but they are not relevant if we want to move ahead. For us, advancing was to learn by heart what we do to ourselves with the opportunities we find elsewhere. That it is elsewhere, and not within us, that opportunities lie, that we are available, that we need to be outside. However, for many of our aunts and female cousins, the few opportunities to enroll and stay in an evening class or take a sabbatical from domestic work were paid for by becoming the first sexual experience of relatives living in the future. A future for which others before them had also paid for, and whose price they had already forgotten. The demand for this payment arrived with the same inevitability as a public utility service bill. We will not take up that legacy.
 
In Colombia and Latin America, there was an etiquette manual called La urbanidad de Carreño (Carreño’s Etiquette Manual). It was mandatory reading until the 90s in both public and private schools. The manual conditioned how bodies were perceived and my mother, taken in and brought up by Carmelite nuns, knew it by heart. The first time I read it I had to stop more than once to rub my stomach, which hurt from laughing so much. It has ridiculous instructions such as: take a shower with your eyes closed and turn off the lights to wear your nightclothes. Different chapters address how one is to behave at home, in the street, and during a dinner or lunch party – in short, the norms of good taste and etiquette. The ethical core of good citizens was the urbanity that allowed one to distance oneself from rural life. The same manual indicated that shouting a greeting to an acquaintance on the other side of the street was indecorous; good manners dictate that you must cross the street. By the same token, men must remove their coats and place them over puddles of water if accompanying a woman whose shoes should not get wet. I thought about greeting someone across a river, and how it is so hot where we live that we don’t require coats. 
 

"She learned that to care for her belly, she needed to keep her tissues warm, to avoid the cold that comes through the soft spot on the top of the head, through the feet, the ears, so it would not hurt particularly at moontime. For that, you need to be careful about what you eat and what you don’t eat, how you dress and how you walk, as all that has to do with girls’ health. The woman elder says that, from her devoted grandfather, she learnt that cramps became more common when houses no longer had floors made of mud and/or wood. When concrete and tiles came, when the material making up the house allowed the cold to come in through the feet, tension also grew in the belly tissue."

The manual’s author, Mr. Carreño is the opposite of the grandfather of a woman elder born in Turbo. She told me once that her grandfather was a wise man, that he told her about birthing and how to take care of her body. She learned that to care for her belly, she needed to keep her tissues warm, to avoid the cold that comes through the soft spot on the top of the head, through the feet, the ears, so it would not hurt, particularly at moontime. For that, you need to be careful about what you eat, how you dress, and how you walk, as all that has to do with a girl’s health. The woman elder said that, from her devoted grandfather, she learnt that cramps became more common when houses no longer had floors made of mud and/or wood. When concrete and tiles came, when the material making up the house allowed the cold to come in through the feet, tensions in the belly tissue also grew.
 
Surprised again. Such a distance between Don Carreño and the wise grandfather in terms of being aware of life – as distant as the mandates of proper behavior that stifle your impulses and senses, even the most common sense that values health. At that moment, I was able to understand one of the many ways that concrete obstructs the earth’s breathing, and our own as part of her. I had not realized there was, and still is, the architecture and materials for taking care of our bodies. In Colombia, as well as in other countries, the materials used to make houses are taken as indicators of multidimensional poverty. A house built with concrete moves the home away from being considered poor. This is just one disappointing example of how progress pushes us to abandon the relationship between our environment and our body. Good taste and urbanity pushes us outside: to move forward, they lie, you have to go out there.
 
It bothered us to realize that neither our mothers nor fathers had spoken to us about menstruation, except when the brown stain had already smeared our knickers. They failed to preserve us from the shame that was supposed to be a natural feeling once menstruation had come. Along with menstruation came the belly cramps often endured in silence, because there was work to be done; some cramps were due to cysts, hematomas, or fibroids that killed the grandmothers who had discovered and forgotten the healing treatments, and then were forgotten themselves. That our mothers and fathers’ breaths turned colder and colder, but the Outside froze familiarity and, instead of warming our bellies, passed judgment with advice similar to warnings of the only thing men care about. This was applied to all men – legitimizing the plundering role of the phallus, as if its only option was to take what we have between our legs. The multiple versions of that truth were replaced by an unmovable and deeply-set naturalization: telling all women that we must preserve ourselves for one of them, for the one that will first introduce his penis inside us, for the one that will give us something in exchange, and that we are women only because we aspire to and let him put it inside us. As a girl I explored little penises and clitorises and, in between games among girls, the question was whispered: whose turn is it to play man and whose turn is it to play woman? And the answer: the beginnings of little orgasms, regardless of with whom. I guess the same must happen among male bodies.
 
The experiences and explorations of our aunts, female cousins, and acquaintances focused on the body and its nudity as taboo. They avoided expressing and naming it, to the point of covering it up, assigning new names to its excreting, expelling, procreating, and, just for us women, its receiving functions. Once I heard a woman elder in a workshop say that when she was living with her grandmother, her memory was of this old woman sleeping with one eye open, the other closed, and a rifle by the mattress. The softest night sound was enough for her to grab the rifle and aim. This is a common situation in the Colombian Pacific, where some harmful behaviors are normalized. Married and single men who like a young woman would enter her room at night – we call it gateada. It was a risk: if those with authority in the home realized what was happening, abuse or not, the man could be hurt or even killed.
 
This practice of taking the law into one’s own hands has failed to put an end to gateadas, even today. In that same workshop – as I kept telling my sisters – other participants said that neither they nor their mothers would leave their daughters alone with their fathers at bath time, unless the girls were wearing underwear. I remembered then my father’s voice saying, when I was seven, your mother never let me bathe you. After sharing this, another woman responded that, in contrast, her father would give her a bath naked in the courtyard of her childhood home until she turned seven, and then her eldest brother did it until she turned nine. She never felt anything strange in the way they looked at her; for them, it was just another task in caring for the most spoiled child in the home. She remembered being seen for what she was: a daughter child, a sister child, who did not like the water.
 
Once again childhoods, yesterday and today. We were surprised by that story, and it comforted us. Even I had seen things being different elsewhere; my daughter’s father bathed her in the tub until she was almost two. Even before turning two, he would give her a few soft slaps upwards on her bum, to make it bigger, as he said. Here, we could also speak of other dimensions of how we construct our bodies, but that is a different story. For me, it was one care task, among many, that we agreed to divide between ourselves before the baby was born. And the decision to not see every man as a lurking rapist does not mean they are not rapists, but instead that they can stop being so. There are also men and male bodies that have been brought up to never be rapists.
 
This is still happening. It happened to a friend of ours and to my own daughter. I thought: how can it be that some women are coupled with men they cannot trust to care for their daughters? I am sure that my mum loved my dad. And even though we seldom speak about the woman she was before becoming my mum, I know her experiences of abuse cannot be compared to the brutality and over-tolerance of those of today. But that is still a decision many women in many places make, and that leads to other questions. How often, how repeated were cases of abuse in our extended families to make women openly, or in indiscernible ways, forbid their partners from bathing their daughters? Is it related to the media overexposure we are subject to almost from birth? What makes family ties blur and turn into just bodily-satisfaction exchanges? Is it the proximity to urban values that cares so much about the right shapes of female bodies as objects of desire, and pushes male bodies to behave like owners and conquerors, fulfilling the mandate to mimic media representations so they feel safe in their identity? Is it concrete and other codes, like the Carreño etiquette, that sustain it? Is it encouraged by the need to forget certain relationships as the price of progress, that insistence on “doing for the outside?” What happens to what we learned in our times, those of us who, in secret or not, undertook sexual explorations as children? Were they erased by guilt? Were they the seeds of mistrust and shame in nudity? Were they the seeds of mistrust and shame of being inside oneself? Indeed, aren’t these learnings possibilities to trust in, understand the nudity of bodies as part of respecting oneself and others? These questions emerge in trusted spaces, where the fear to say what one thinks and feels is driven away by the intention of accompaniment. I imagine how many of us there are in all corners of this planet and I am certain these are not new questions, that messages in them are repeated, and that we find ourselves living the answers.

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