There is power in our bodies present. Sometimes I think the state just wants us to be records in their databases. Serial numbers, demographics. It is easier to catalog us when we are data entries. Absent. In our designated houses, our shopping malls, our rock concerts. Our bodies are only welcome when they’ve bought a ticket, crossed a checkpoint, or created a username. The state doesn’t want our bodies gathered randomly in public spheres. Only controlled in privatized venues. Organized bodies, civilized bodies. Bodies with IDs. Bodies on CCTV. Individual bodies. Shaved bodies, clothed bodies, starved bodies, branded bodies.

The power of our bodies is unleashed in occupying a space. Bodies that dance, bodies that squat. Tents and dirt: our bodies will sleep here. Blood and asphalt: our bodies will ache here. Vomit and cement: our bodies will leak here. Scars and skin: our bodies will strip here. Our bodies will sing here. Our bodies will scream here.

Our bodies on the street. The most real part of us. Not bar codes or credit card statements or social security numbers or avatars or profiles. But bodies. Bodies with hearts and lungs and people inside them. Feminine bodies, masculine bodies. Bodies that are in the wrong bodies. Colored bodies. Tired bodies. Bodies that take up space. Bodies that contaminate space. Space the state wants empty and clean and pure. Space that was never meant for too many bodies. Bodies they have no choice but to beat and trample and jail. Bodies they want to hurt just enough to make them go away. Not enough to kill. Just enough to drive back into houses and stores and classes and cubicles.

Such power in bodies coming out into the open. A sea of bodies. A mass of bodies. Bodies that bring chaos, bodies that won’t budge. This body. Some body. Every body. Your body. Occupy.

خرجت النسوية يوماً إلى الغابة العملاقة والتي هي المجتمع اللبناني ، وإذا بها تلتقي بذئبِ الإعلام اللبناني اللئيم.
سأل الذئب بإبتسامة عريضة الأنياب: “إلى أين تذهبين يا نسوية؟”
أجابت النسوية: “اذهب إلى جدتي! أحمل لها سلةً مليئةً بأفكارٍ جديدة رائعة، أفكار عن ثورة وعدالة ومساواة حقيقية لنساء غابتنا، قد زرعتُها وسقيتها بقراءاتٍ و نقاشات ورأيتها تزهر فقطفتها وصنعت منها المربى والدبس والحلوى، وآخذها إلى جدتي لترى ماذا صنعت بحديقتها الصغيرة التي أوصتني بها!”
دُهش الذئب وفكر (عيناه تلمعان بالدولار الأميركي): “ااااه كم تبدو لذيذة هذه الحلوى.. لو أخذتها أبيعها للمشاهدين ملفوفةً بالدراما والدعايات والجرصة.”
قال الذئب: “أعطيني السلة، عزيزتي نسوية. سآخذها وأحسّنها وأجمّلها وأوصلها إلى الشعب في لبنان!”
أجابت النسوية: “كلا، السلة كاملةٌ مثلما هي، لا أريد بيعها لأحد. هل توصلها مثلما هي؟”
صرخ الذئب: “غرررررر! كم أنت عنيدة!” وركض بسرعةٍ ليسبق النسوية إلى بيت جدتها.
فكرت النسوية قائلةً: “ما أحمق هذا الذئب”، وأكملت طريقها إلى جدتها، فرحةً بافكارها وسياساتها الجديدة. قالت لنفسها: “سوف أغيّر العالم! سوف اذهب بمبادئي النسوية إلى جميع نساء الغابة، سوف أنادي بالحرية والمساواة لكل النساء!

وصلت إلى منزل جدتها تصرخ: “جدتي! جدتي! لقد أتت نسويتُك الصغيرة، معها آمال وأحلام جميلة!”
لكنها عندما رأت جدتها استغربت من شكلها، فقد لبس الذئب ثياب الجدة التي كانت قد خرجت في صبحيّة مع جيرانها في الغابة.
قال الذئب: “أهلاً، أهلاً، عزيزتي النسوية! أخبريني عن أفكارك الجديدة! هل فيها نساء مسكينات مضروبات ومتورّمات يبكين وينحن؟”
استغربت النسوية وقالت: “كلا، أبداً، فيها نساء قويات يقاومن العنف ويساعدن غيرهن ليرفضن كل أنواع العنف في عائلاتهن وبيوتهن ومجتمعاتهن.”
فكر الذئب: “همم، لا شيء لذيذ في هذا الموضوع.” فسأل: “ماذا عن النساء اللواتي يتحاربن مع نساء اخريات ينتمين الى طوائف واحزاب أخرى أم مع جارتهن الأجمل منهن أم اللواتي اشترين سيارات أجدد من سياراتهن؟”

أجابت النسوية: “ما هذا السؤال يا جدتي؟ طبعاً لا. النساء في سلتي النسوية لا يأبهن بالطوائف والاحزاب… النساء في سلتي متّحدات مع بعضهن البعض، يدعمن بعضهن بعضاً من دون أن يكترثن لماديّات الأخرى ولا لونها ولا خلفيتّها ولا شكلها ولا مذهبها. لقد حسّنت حديقتنا، جدتي، لقد زرعتها بأفكارٍ تتحدى الطائفية والعنصرية والطبقية والتمييز.”

فكر الذئب: “كم هذا ممل” ثم سأل: “هل لديك نساء عوانس بشعات جداً يكرهن الرجال لأنهن لم يلتقين بمن يتزوّجهن؟”
“كلا، كلا، يا جدتي… ما هذا الكلام الفارغ؟ ولا واحدة من النسويات تكره الرجال بل ننادي بالمحبة والمساواة والسلام، فكيف نكره أحداً؟ نسويتي تقف بوجه الذكورية والتمييز بحقوق نصف المجتمع على أساس الجندر. تشجّع الإستقلال الذاتي للمرأة في مجتمعاتها. ألا تعرفين أن محاربة الذكورية تعني الحرية للمرأة والرجل معاً؟”
قال الذئب في نفسه: “أفففف.. لا أفهم شيئاً، أريد مادّة لذيذة دسمة لبرامجي… شو عم تستهبلني هيدي النسوية؟ لحظة! وجدتها!” وسأل: “هل لديك نساء رخيصات، جاهلات يدمّرن مجتمعنا بتصرفات ضد تقاليدنا وشرفنا؟”
“معقول هذا الكلام يا جدتي؟ كيف يعقل للحرية أن تدمر مجتمعاً؟ ألم تدمر كل سنوات الحرب والكراهية مجتمعنا أصلاً؟ ألم تُقمع أجساد النساء عبر القرون بإسم الشرف والتقاليد؟ ألم نكتفي ذلاً وإهانةً وسجناً؟ علينا أن نقف في وجه الهيمنة على أجسادنا وافكارنا وأنفسنا، أن نقف ضد كل الأصوات التي تقول لنا: ’لست جميلة، استعملي مستحضرات التجميل. لست نحيفة، استعملي أدوية الرجيم. لست محترمة، إبقي في  منزل والدك حتى يأتي العريس فيهديك إحتراماً وشرفاً وهدفاً لحياتك.‘ علينا أن نثور، جدتي، علينا أن نصرخ حتى تعلو أصواتنا فوق كل صوت يقول لنا: ’لست جميلة كفايةً، لست ذكية كفايةً، لست جديرة كفايةً!‘”

غضب الذئب وصرخ: “ما هذا الهراء! تعبت من هذه التفاهات!” وكشف عن وجهه المغتاظ، “ظننت أن لديك أفكاراً مشوّقة صنعت منها حلوى لذيذة، لكن أفكارك فارغة، سوف تقع على آذانٍ صمّ! من يأبه بالنسوية؟ لا الرجال ولا النساء. ماذا ستغيّرين أيتها النسوية البلهاء؟ ما هذه الحرية السخيفة التي تنادين بها؟ ولّت أيام الثورة والراديكالية… ارحلي من هذه الغابة! ارحلي بعيداً أو اخرسي واقبلي ما كتب لك ولأمثالك!”
وقفت النسوية مصدومة ومذعورة من صوت الذئب الجبّار. فهجم عليها وإنتزع سلتها ومزّق محتوياتها النسوية وصرخ: “لا أحد يأبه بك يا نسوية! الكل في هذه الغابة يستمعون اليّ،  يأكلون ما أطعمهم، يرقصون على النغمات التي العبها لهم، يصدقون الحكايات والآراء التي أرويها لهم كل يوم، لن تقدري على محاربة سلطتي ونفوذي وسرعتي!”
ترك الذئب النسوية في منزل جدتها، تلملم أفكار سلتها والدموع تنهمر على وجهها… وإذ تصل الجدة عائدة من صبحية جيرانها تتمتم “قلتلن بلدنا عم يخلق جديد… لبنان الكرامة والشعب العنيد… بحبك يا لبنان..” فصرخت النسوية ودموعها تنهمر: “جدتي!”

هرعت إليها الجدة: “ماذا حصل يا نسويتي الصغيرة؟!” فأخبرتها النسوية قصتها مع الذئب وبكت قائلةً:” لقد دمّر سلتي، جدتي! دمّر كل أفكاري النسوية!”
فأجابت الجدة: “كيف يدمّر أحد نسويتك يا نسوية؟! انها مزروعةٌ في فكرك وقلبك وقناعاتك!”
“لكنه أقوى مني بكثير يا جدتي… يصل بسرعة إلى الغابة كلها… يستمع إليه الجميع… لن يسمح بأن أوصل أفكاري إلى أحد!”
فأجابت الجدة: “طبعاً لن يقبل بأفكارك يا نسوية، الذئب يريد أن يبيع صورة مرأة لبنانية بلاستيكية تعنى بالأمور الصغيرة، لا رأي سياسي لها إلا إذا كان يصب في مصلحة السياسة المعتادة. يريد نساءً يتكلمن عن مآسيهن بدراما وبكاء، أو يرقصن ويغنّين على مسرح برامج تسلية. وهل توقعت أن يتصرف الذئب المسيّس الرأسمالي غير ذلك؟”
“لكنه يستطيع أن يصل إلى سكان الغابة باكملها في غضون دقائق جدتي، كيف سأصل اليهم وحدي؟”
فكرت الجدة وقالت: “عليك أن تصبحي ذئباً.”
سألت النسوية بحيرة: “كيف؟”
“عليك أن تخترعي إعلاماً جديداً، إعلامك الخاص النسويّ!”
“وإن حاولت يا جدتي؟ لن استطيع أن أتبارى مع الذئب!”
“إذاً تحاولين أكثر! تعملين بجهد أكبر! تصرخين وتنادين حتى يصل صوتك إلى الناس!”
فكرت النسوية وهي تمسح دموعها وقالت: “وعندما تسمعني النساء يضممن أصواتهن إليّ ويعلو صوتنا النسوي… فأصواتنا مجتمعةً ستعلو فوق صوت الذئب!”
صرخت الجدة: “أجل! كم من فتاةٍ وإمرأة تنتظر صوتك النسوي منذ سنوات؟ كم منهن تنتظر أن تقول: ’ها قد أتت النسوية تنادي بالحرية التي أريدها‘؟
قفزت النسوية وغمرت جدتها وركضت إلى الغابة تقول لنفسها بفرح وبهجة: “سوف نركض أسرع من الذئب، سوف يعلو صوتنا فوق صوته، سوف نصل إلى كل النساء اللواتي ينتظرننا، سوف نثور، وسوف نخترع وسائل اعلامنا الخاصة النسوية!”
فلما وصلت النسوية إلى حديقتها الصغيرة، زرعت بذور جريدة جديدة أطلقت عليها اسم: “صوت النسوة.”

• A: Let’s go to Shtrumpf and have a salad bar.
• B: No, let’s not go to Shtrumpf; they are too expensive.
• A: You can never pick a good restaurant (or you are such a cheapo) (or you are a party pooper).

Here we see how A, instead of answering the argument of B, which is a valid argument, resorts to attack or belittle or ridicule or try to discredit B on false grounds. If A had said: you are a liar (or no, Shtrumpf is affordable), she would have had a point. Instead she commits the ad hominem fallacy by talking about person B rather than about his arguments.

At the time, ad hominem was meant to be a gender-neutral term like mankind, but it is interesting to observe how the fallacy actually becomes a strategy when addressed at women. This could probably be referred to as “ad feminem.” An example would be:

• Ah, you got into a car accident because you are a woman & women can’t drive well (as opposed to “you got into a car accident because you didn’t hit the brakes at the right moment”)

Ad feminem is a fascinating world of bad logic in itself, but I will focus on a specific type of sexist argumentation which I will call “ad feministem.” Yes, my friends, ad feministem is probably the most common form of sexist argumentation. This is the technique of discrediting women who believe in gender equality and won’t take any bullshit about it by making reference to their personal beliefs or politics or qualities (regardless if these qualities are true or false). For example:

• C: So what if Lebanese women can’t grant nationality to their kids; they shouldn’t be marrying foreigners anyway.
• D: It’s every person’s right to grant citizenship to their family, be they women or men. Why discriminate?
• C: What do you know? You’re always pissed off at everything.
• or C: Of course you’ll think that, you’re a woman so you’re biased.

Ad feministem gets worse when we’re talking about sexuality matters. Women are immediately made out to be whores and nymphos and lesbians and sluts. Here is an example:

• E: I think women should have the right to have sex on their own terms as long as they are educated about sexual health and birth control and feel confident to make their own decisions.
• F: But that will lead our society to disintegrate, women won’t get married anymore and they won’t stay loyal to their partners, it will all become chaotic.
• E: Actually, allowing women the same freedoms allowed to men and promoting a positive approach to sex and sexuality from both genders leads to a society that is more equal, more open, and more healthy.
• F: Actually, you’re a slut who likes sleeping around, so you want all women to behave like you.
• or F: You’re a lesbian who hates men and wants to delete them from society.

And the attacks can get pretty vicious (not that there is anything wrong with being a lesbian or a slut) and personal, against the selves and the bodies of women. That makes it really hard for any woman to keep on fighting. That’s probably why very few do. Every time we try to stand up for women’s rights, we get called angry, jealous, bitter hags. Every time we try to deconstruct gender, we get called ugly, sick, complicated man-haters. Sometimes we get called violent too because we raise our voices and refuse to be “polite” when “polite” is synonymous with shutting up. Often, people think we can’t take a joke. We can take plenty of jokes, when they’re funny, and laughs at the expense of women aren’t funny. When we try to wake up the little powerful voice inside a young woman, we are accused of sabotaging the entire society and ruining what is otherwise seen as a very successful social order. When we said Mohammad Iskandar’s song was not only sexist and demeaning towards women but actually promoted (promoted!) sexism as a cool thing, we were called ball-busting, uncivilized, rude, violent bitches. And when young men comfortable enough with their gender stood by us, they were called faggots. This is all not just isolated name-calling but a systematic argumentative technique that silences us, scares us, falsely discredits our arguments: ad feministem!

Friends, you call me feminist like it’s a bad thing. It’s not. I wear the political label with more joy than anything I have ever worn. But regardless of what you think of the word, whether by calling me a feminist you are praising or cursing me, sound logic dictates that you can’t use it as an argument to discredit or shut me up. You can’t use anything that I am (or you think I am) against me. Fight my ideas, my arguments, my logic instead. The next time I find you attacking me personally, I will consider myself winning.

But anyway, this particular billboard from Abed Tahan wins my vote as the champion of all misogyny towards mothers. Buy her a present so she can keep cleaning after you. What else, after all, is a woman’s role in this country than to clean after her family?

I have no idea. And yet I went down to Dawra and Bourj Hammoud on Sunday with a few of my feminist friends to talk to migrant women in Lebanon about the problems they face. It was the second day of “Hello Women,” a project we devised for International Women’s Day, where we stationed ourselves on the streets of 15 Lebanese cities and villages to ask women what they thought of women’s rights. In Dawra and Bourj Hammoud on Sundays, hundreds of migrant women go out shopping – the small percentage of them who actually get a day off on Sunday and can leave the houses where they work. And so we decided we needed to talk to them about their issues, primarily so that we, as Lebanese feminists, learn more from their experiences, and so that they, as migrant women, can learn about our different initiatives that support them.

From the beginning of the idea, some of us felt an unease towards the endeavor. Why, we were not entirely sure. But there was something about the dynamic of us going to meet the migrants, to talk to them in English and Arabic, to ask them about their problems, that made us a little hesitant. We already knew that dozens of them were dying from suicide or murders every year and we knew that almost all of them faced severe racism and abuse every day. We knew that many of the women would refuse to talk to us about their problems. We were, after all, Lebanese, and nothing about that warranted their trust. And we had little to offer except free language and computer classes and embarrassment for our racist people.

But we went down anyway. And little did we know that one particular woman would explain to us exactly why we were feeling so uncomfortable.

The markets were very crowded. More women stopped to talk to us than we had expected and every one of them had plenty to say about discrimination. I spoke to around 50 women from all sorts of nationalities. They shared the same problems but their stories were unique. Two women told me it was the first time they had left the houses where they worked in months. A group of four Filipino women said they could not fly home for holidays because of the travel ban. One Sri Lankan woman told me her niece has been jailed in Lebanon for over a month because her employer refuses to finish her paperwork and let her leave.

But none of these encounters prepared us for the intensity of meeting Nana, a middle-aged Sri Lankan woman who has been working in Lebanon for over 25 years and spoke better Arabic than me. I introduced myself to her and asked her what she thought were the challenges facing migrant women. She looked at me skeptically, asked if I was Lebanese, said something to her friend, looked at me again silently for a few seconds, and then said: “Ok, I will tell you about problems.”

Nana had brought her daughter to Lebanon a few years ago to find work. Her daughter was recruited to work in the house of a family in Sin el Fil. Immediately, the abuse started from her employers. Less than one month after she had started work, she jumped from the balcony in an attempt to escape. She broke her legs, her front teeth, and suffered a bad head injury. The family refused to shoulder any responsibility or even allow her to receive proper medical care. Nana had to fight them fiercely on her own to sign the papers to allow her daughter to return to Sri Lanka to recover. “She is your maid,” she screamed at the Madame, “but she is my daughter. That is my daughter.” Her daughter eventually returned to Colombo in a wheelchair and till today suffers mental illness as a result of her trauma in Lebanon.

Nana finished her story and looked at me for another few seconds. “Are these ‘problems’ to you?” she asked, mocking my initial question. “Are these problems good enough for you?”

تغيظني وبشدة هذه الحملات الفارغة وأراها تهين العاملات بالعنصرية ذاتها التي تُعامَلن بها في المنازل. لماذا نطلب بكل هذا التهذيب والطفولية من اللبنانيين أن يحسنوا معاملة العاملات كأنه عمل خيري؟ كأنه يتوجب علينا تبرير المطلب؟ عيب.

أقترح على كاريتاس (بما أنني لا أملك تمويل أوروبي لأنشر مئات الإعلانات في شوارع بيروت) إستعمال التصميم التالي بديلاً.

Your daily routine: do the dishes, hang the laundry, channel your anger down an eco-friendly disposer. Or sweat it out through your skin. Or spit it out like mucus. Something, anything, besides this soul-wrenching process of convincing you why I have the right to feel the way I do.

The wretched are always angry. I wish women found it easier to ex instead of im plode. I have images of myself exploding in the middle of your living room leaving blots of my blood and veins and intestines all over your floor. But then I worry about who’s going to clean this big mess up and I decide it’s better to keep it all inside.

It is easier to feel sad than angry. It is better to get angry than depressed.

It is impossible to talk to you for three reasons a) you never listen and b) why should I have to explain it in the first place and c) you won’t make an effort to learn my language and d) your power makes you need not be sincere and e) I find it hard to hold my tears but I don’t want to cry because then you’ll say I am too emotional and f) I’ve waited so long you’ll think it irrelevant now that I bring up what happened in 1989 91 96 98 2000 and 2 and g) your voice mail is full.

I’m starting to believe that something needs to break, and it’s not the mug on the wall this time and not the lock on the door this time and not my dignity this time, but something bigger and more divine. I’m starting to believe that overcoming is not a big bang but the slow chipping away at big huge mountains until you come to the realization that you’re more than half-way through.

~

I’ve been wanting to write up some articles about basic arguments we have to face as feminists every day, dealing with stupid questions that are often sexist comments disguised as questions. This time, I decided to do a video rant instead of a written one.