Interviewed by Chinelo Onwualu

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Naike Ledan is a social justice defendant, a committed feminist that brings forward 20 years of experience in human rights and health justice advocacy, women’s empowerment, the fight for universal access to basic services and social inclusion, as well as civil society capacity building. She has built extensive work in Canada, West and southern Africa, as well as in Haiti, in civil rights advocacy, capacity building for CSOs, while emphasising the social determinants of structural exclusion. She values the principles of shared leadership, anticolonial, anti-oppressive, and anti-patriarchal spaces.

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Chinelo You’re billed as a trans rights activist; I’m curious about how you made that journey.

Naike So, I grew up in Haiti until I was 18, then I lived in Montreal for 19 years. Coming back to Haiti in 2016, I thought I would be coming back home, but the place had changed and I had to readjust. I did not necessarily reconnect in the way that I’d expected to with childhood family and friends. I came back as an expat with a comfortable work situation, and I felt very much like a foreigner for a very long time. And at the same time, I felt very much at home because of the language, the understood silence, the not having to explain when we start singing a commercial – you know, that thing we share, that energy, that space, that spirit.

What helped me was, I loved the work of going into the country and documenting people’s knowledge. So I left the comfort. I became a country director of a regional organisation that was queer as fuck! Most of my work was to find resources and build the capacity of civil society. My strategy was to go into the countryside, look for all these little organizations, help build their capacity, and fund them. I was not interested in politicians and shaking hands and taking pictures . I had a very good ally, Charlot Jeudy – the [queer] activist that got killed three years ago in his house. We got very close after an Afro-queer film festival we were planning got banned in Haiti. But it made a lot of noise and sparked conversations about queerness everywhere, so Charlot introduced me to every little CSO in every little corner of the country. And I would just be there to help organisation[s] with registering legally or building their strategic plan. So it’s been a lot of these kinds of work that made me a queer activist and by extension, a trans activist. Although I don’t call myself that – an activist. It’s such a loaded word, you know? And it’s something people call you. I think I’m just a lover and a fighter .

Chinelo Tell me about the workshop you conducted with AWID for the festival. What was it about and what was the context?

Naike International media doesn’t really talk about Haiti, but with a political environment that is as bad as ours, the economic environment is even more catastrophic. Being a more middle class Haitian, speaking different languages, having different passports, I was initially hesitant to take the space. But I often see myself as a bridge more than someone that would talk about themself. That is how I came to invite Semi, who is a brilliant young trans woman from outside Port-au-Prince, to take the space to talk for herself and walk us through the ecosystem of the realities for trans women in Haiti. We ended up building a session about uninclusive feminism – or, I would say, formal feminist spaces – and how trans girls in Haiti do not have spaces where they can contribute to women’s knowledge and sharing of women’s realities. So the AWID festival was the opportunity for me to give the space to the women who should have it. We had a wonderful time; we had wine online while hosting the conversation. My co-facilitator, Semi, shared what it is like to be a trans child/girl/woman at different stages of her life. She also shared the dangers of the street, of poverty, of exclusion, of “not passing,” and her victories as well.

Chinelo What is the relationship of trans women to feminist organizations in Haiti? What has been your experience with that?

Naike It’s been really hard – heartbreaking, actually – the experience of trans women in Haiti. From not existing at all to just being extremely sexualized. The other thing that’s been happening is how they’re being killed, and how those killings have gone unreported in the media. This is how non-existent, how erased trans women are. They’re everywhere but not in job settings, not in feminist settings, not in organizational settings. Not even in LGBT organizations. It’s only recently, and because of a lot of advocacy push, that some of these organization are kind of readjusting, but in feminist spaces, this is still out of the question. We are still having to deal with the old exclusionary discourse of “They’re not women. Of course, if they can pass…” The culture of passing, it’s a risk management conversation – how much you pass and how much you don’t pass and what it means for your body and the violence it inflicts. In the trans-exclusionary realities we live in, which are reproduced in a lot of feminist spaces, those that pass completely may be considered girls, but only to a certain extent. But how about falling in love, how about having a conversation, how about being in the closet, how about wanting a certain aesthetic, or a career? So really, the conversation about hormone therapy becomes about risk reduction, as Semi herself shared at the workshop. But we don’t have the option of hormone therapy, we don’t have the medical framework nor the system to support those who would like to pursue that option.

Chinelo When you talk about the way that trans people and queer people are thought of in society, it sounds like it might be similar to Nigeria, which can be a deeply homophobic environment.

Naike Haiti is a very complex country in a very beautiful way. Nothing is simple, you know, nothing is ever one way. Haitians are very tolerant – and they’re also very homophobic. You’re going to find regions in the countryside where people aren’t that homophobic at all because all the Vodou temples there, and this is a religion that respects life. One basic principle of the Vodou religion is that all children are children. So, there is no right or wrong in the religion. For the longest time, people thought of Haiti as a haven, a place where people are tolerant – we’re talking 70s, 80s, pre-HIV, 90s even. Then you had the earthquake [in 2010] where around 300,000 people died. And then all this money came from the south of the US through the Evangelicals to rebuild the country and find Jesus. So, the homophobia in Haiti is very recent. In the depth, in the heart of the soul of the culture, I cannot really say that it is homophobic. But in the everyday life, it surely lands on the skin of queer people, that violence. And that of women, of poor women, of dark women as well, because colorism runs deep in the Caribbean.

Chinelo How have you managed this? What’s been your strategy for survival?

Naike I’m really in love with my work. I love working. When I first arrived, I was working with this horrible NGO but I was doing amazing work. I was always in the countryside, conversing and learning from people, from women. And that filled my heart for so long because I’m very much in love with my culture, with black people, with black women – old black women, black babies. It just fills me up in a spiritual way. When we were in Canada my kids were in these all-white schools and tokenized. They did not speak Creole nor French. And now, they’re running free in the yard and starting to fight in Creole. I also found hubs of survival with the people I met. I created bonds with the queers and others who were weirdos like me and it’s been really wonderful. But now I’m struggling because I don’t feel safe in Haiti anymore. We have about 40 kidnappings per week in Port-Au-Prince – and it’s been like that since 2018. I’ve developed anxiety and panic attacks. So It’s time to go, and I’ve been asking myself, “where is home?” I spent 19 years in Montreal but I never felt at home there. When I left, I never missed it so I don’t want to go back. I’ve been crying a lot lately because it feels like entering a second exile.

Chinelo What’s your relationship to pleasure, leisure, and rest?

Naike My relationship with pleasure, leisure, and rest are for me one and the same. It is the lived moment when I indulge in the heat of the sun on my face for example. It is pleasure, leisure, and rest at the same time.

Pleasure: My go-to space, most solely a haven of celebration of myself. I reserve myself the power and the right to be loud or quiet in the enjoyment of the pleasure I experience. All the pleasure I viciously and abundantly indulge in, including and not limited to the pleasure of solitude and silence.

Leisure: biking, music festivals, eating, wine discoveries, dancing in Haitian traditional Vodou dances are amongst many that occur at the moment.

Rest: is what I live for. As an overachiever and a person that is literally in love with work, it is a paradox how lazy I am. No one knows that because all of what the world sees is this: an accomplished overworker. They do not know how I can just, uncompromisingly and profoundly indulge in idleness.

Gender Impact Investing & The Rise of False Solutions:

An Analysis for Feminist Movements

Gender Impact Investing (GII) is now trending as a solution to gender inequality. Yet, as our report indicates, it is actually part of the problem. Public and private institutions marketing GII equate it with promotion of gender equality and with increased resources for women and girls.

Neither claim is evidence-based.

Rather, GII is another expression of subjecting our lives and societies to the same financial logic that has shaped, and continues shaping, the profound inequalities in our world.

With this report, AWID offers the readers - feminists, gender justice advocates and stakeholders in gender impact investing - a critical analysis and substantiated evidence to understand GII, its narratives, and economic and political implications for feminist movements.

Arménien·ne·s, le féminisme est notre passé et notre avenir

par Sophia Armen 

Que cela vous plaise ou non, les ungerhouis font partie intégrante de nos histoires de résistance et elles ne disparaîtront pas de sitôt.  (...)

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Dieula and the Black Dolls

by Ana María Belique

The Naranjo Batey community is far from the city, but it’s full of hard-working people brimming with enthusiasm. A girl named Dieula lived there. (...)

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< artwork: “Fury” by Diana Manilla Arroyo

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Our women ancestors form a circle
Sacred, alive, powerful
We are in the middle
Feeling their strength.
The drum beats a sound of earth  
Our skin dresses in colours
We are green, red, orange, blue, violet, black
The drum beats a sound of earth  
A voice vibrates, a scream emanates, a song rings out, lulling to sleep, awakening consciousness.
The drum beats a sound of earth  
A gaze of complicity, friendship profound.
The drum beats a sound of earth  
Ours is but one heart, beating a rhythm of the soul, inviting us to move, inspiring desire, and showing us a path.
One of communal togetherness, power of the people, self-government, a women’s revolution of subversive communal care.
The drum beats a sound of earth  
And I invite you to join, to be voice, skin, gaze, seed, fire, song, communion.
The drum beats a sound of earth  
And I invite you to discover it, to love it, to know it, and to defend it from the heart of the community
 
For 25 years they have lived along the same dusty streets, at the top of a hill named after a lion. They come from different places, many from traditional farming communities. Their skin is the colour of rebellion, the colour of a cardon cactus, because in them lives the spirit of the semi-arid Lara State, which is where their love for life comes from, their appreciation, care and protection of water and land. They are heiresses of the Gayon and Ayaman lineages, Indigenous communities that lived and live in the northern part of Lara State.

From the time they were very young they learned that maternity is a role from which it is not easy to escape. Caring for children, home and husband, washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning—everything had to be impeccable, people insisted.

And that was life—that and violence, insults, abuse, hitting, scheming, complaints were to be expected. It seemed almost natural, and that is how they spent their days. Everyday life on those dirt streets living in little houses of tin sheet metal without any electricity or running water. That was poverty, the precarity of when a man would arrive, yes, a man, a project. And then, an unusual revolution because it came about without war.

Then they were invited to go out, they were invited to take to the streets and occupy public space. In the process, the women tore down doors and windows, broke chains, let their hair down and they felt free, free like runaway slaves, Caribbean rebels, freedom fighters.

And those concepts of independence and sovereignty are something that those who had the chance to study had read about, but feeling it, feeling like the protagonists of a process of social transformation—that is an important victory that we have to mention and we cannot forget.

At the top of that hill one can feel the complicity, the shared fire, the years of struggle. They tell of how one of them would go around with her parasol in the afternoons from house to house having coffee and conversing with the people she would invite, convincing them
We are going to make a community council!
Let’s move forward together as a community!
Let’s make plans for education, sports, health, nutrition, a women and gender equality committee, the economy.
We can form our own People’s Government so our Neighbourhood can Be Beautiful!

And that is how the houses came, the doctor’s office, daycare, electricity, potable water. These are some of the community’s achievements, some of our common dreams come true.
And you might ask how a cuentera, a storyteller, made her way to a hill with the name of a lion
And I will tell you: it’s that I was born rowdy, always fighting, I was born a wanderer my grandmother would say, born ready Comandante Chavez would add, from so much walking, grumbling, fighting, and doubting that military man, that I would end up becoming convinced by the community project, by the idea of self-government, of the people managing their own resources, of all the power going to the communities, and so I was convinced.

But I knew something was missing because the women, the women of the community kept building up the people’s power and putting our hearts in the anti-imperialist and anti-capitalist fight, but there is something that hurts and continues to affect us. There are wounds from a patriarchy still present.
So one day, I found myself crying and the drum of the earth beat and our women ancestors spoke.
I found myself surrounded by a group of women who held me up, who contained me as I spilled over in front of them, as it both hurt and liberated me at the same time. That is how I discovered that love among women heals you, saves you, and that our friendship is profoundly political and that sisterhood is a way of being, of living life. From that moment on I never felt alone again, I never felt like an island again, because I know there is a group of women who carry me, bring me, love me, care for me and me for them. I know that this way of becoming a feminist with the mysticism of women loving life is an experience of feeling connected and loved by women, even if you never see them again. How not to want this that happened to me, to happen also to other women, this new beginning, this birth of a new heart is a gift from the goddesses that must be shared.  

So I decided to join the women and I began walking from community to community to learn about others’ experiences. We began debating health, education, nutrition, we began preaching the anti-patriarchal word and calling for communities free of machismo. We insisted on recovering ancestral knowledge, intuition, we decided to defend life by talking about abortion and we found ourselves laughing, crying, debating, reflecting. I find myself with Macu, with the China, Yenni, Carolina, Maria, Ramona, Irma, and even with our sister Yenifer who left us not long ago.

This is my homage to them, the women of the hill, the lioness women, the ones who without a doubt have sown a seed in me with so much force it now beats with my heart.
Without a doubt they blaze a path, they are the ones who make caring for a family possible, collective care. They are also a force, a force in a territory that fights to overcome the embargo, the patriarchal violence, the political treason, to overcome the bureaucracy and the corruption.

Without a doubt they blaze a path
Without a doubt they are a compass
Without a doubt they are the heart of the community

Thank you.

The Forum is a live example of what the bigger WE can do. We go to the Forum, we are seeds, we then get sowed. This we have to celebrate.
- Sara Abu Ghazal, Lebanon

Ya está disponible nuestro programa final del Club de Cine Feminista: “Films from Nuestramérica” es una serie de películas sobre realidades feministas latinoamericanas / centroamericanas curada por Alejandra Laprea (Venezuela).

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Es exactamente el mismo proceso, con la misma fecha límite. Por favor utiliza el mismo formulario para presentar tu propuesta de actividad, ya sea esta presencial, en línea o híbrida (presencial y en línea).

Carta de amor al feminismo

Por Marianne Mesfin Asfaw

Tengo muchos recuerdos queridos de mi recorridofeminista, pero hay uno en particular que se destaca. Fue durante mi época en la escuela de posgrado, una conferencia a la que asistí como parte de un curso de Teoría Feminista. La conferencia trataba sobre feminismo africano y, en ella, la profesora habló de la historia del panafricanismo, de su carácter patriarcal, centrado en los hombres, y de cómo los estudiosos panafricanistas perpetuaban el borramiento de las mujeres africanas. La conferencista señaló que las contribuciones de las mujeres africanas a las luchas anticoloniales y descoloniales en el continente rara vez, o nunca, se analizany no se les da el debido crédito. Leímos acerca de las académicas feministas africanas que desafían ese borramiento y dan a conocer  activamente las historias de los movimientos y los esfuerzos de resistencia liderados por mujeres africanas. Parecetan sencillo, pero lo que más me llamó la atención fue que alguien juntara las palabras africana y feminista. Mejor aún: descubrir que había muchas más de nosotras ahí afuera, luchando contra las complicaciones de la historia, la política y las normas sociales en distintos rincones del continente, y que todas estábamos utilizando una perspectiva feminista para hacerlo. Salí de esa conferencia conmovida y completamente alucinada. res de mis amigas (todas feministas africanas) y yo nos quedamos un rato comentando fuera del aula. Todas estábamos impresionadas por la genialidad de la conferencia y su contenido pero, sobre todo, sentimos que estábamos siendo tenidas en cuenta. Ese sentimiento fue el que más me llamó la atención.

Enamorarse del feminismo fue electrizante. Fue como sentir que por fin puedes hablar con la persona que te gusta desde hace mucho tiempo y descubres que también le gustas. Lo llamo mi enamoramiento porque durante la escuela secundaria me consideraba feminista pero sentía que no sabía lo suficiente sobre el tema. ¿Había una forma correcta de ser feminista? ¿Y si no lo estaba haciendo bien? Cuando asistí a mi primera conferencia de Estudios de las Mujeres obtuve respuestas para algunas de estas preguntas. Fue emocionante conocer historias de resistencia feminista y de desmantelamiento del patriarcado. Me sentí muy afirmada y validada, pero también sentí que algo me faltaba.

Profundizar mi relación con el feminismo a través de la academia en una institución en la que el estudiantado y el personal docente eran en su mayoría blancx, significó que, durante esos primeros años, me diera cuenta de que rara vez hablábamos sobre cómo la raza y la antinegritud se ponen en juego en los movimientos feministas hegemónicos. En la mayoría de las asignaturas teníamos tal vez una semana, o peor aún, una clase, dedicada a la raza donde por lo general leíamos algo de bell hooks, el trabajo de Kimberly Crenshaw sobre interseccionalidad, y tal vez, a Patricia Hill Collins. A la semana siguiente volvíamos a dejar de lado el tema. Lidié con todo esto dándole un lugar central a la raza y al feminismo negro en casi todas mis tareas, escribiendo sobre el pelo negro y las políticas de respetabilidad, la hipersexualización de los cuerpos de las mujeres negras, y mucho más. Con el tiempo me di cuenta de que intentaba llenar un vacío, pero no sabía muy bien cuál era.

 

 

Para mí, el feminismo es la antítesis de la apatía social y política. También significa que una vez que adoptas una perspectiva feminista, nada puede ser igual. Con mis amigas solíamos decir que era como ponerse unos anteojos que nunca te puedes quitar porque ahora ves el mundo tal y como es, con todos sus desastres. Desastres que no puedes ignorar ni dejar de lado. Es por eso que mi compromiso con el movimiento feminista es no dejar nunca de aprender, seguir ampliando el alcance de mi empatía y no vivir nunca de forma pasiva. Dedicar más tiempo y espacio en mi vida a los movimientos feministas, y seguir amplificando, celebrando, documentando y citando el trabajo de las feministas africanas. También me comprometo a darle un lugar central al cuidado y a dar prioridad al placer en este recorrido feminista porque no podemos sostener nuestros movimientos sin esto.

Cada tres o cuatro años, AWID celebra su principal evento internacional. Es el mayor foro mundial que concentra a los movimientos feministas y de justicia de género en toda su diversidad. Es una reunión global de activistas feministas, movimientos aliados, académicxs, donantes y formuladorxs de políticas. Los Foros alternan entre distintas regiones y países del Sur global.