الصبايا والشباب بنسوية بلّشوا برنامج تدريبي من فترة اسمو” غيري عادتك، بتزيد سعادتك” وكانو عم يطلعو ع صور وع مخيمات صيفية وحتى راحو عل “اي يو بي” وقعدو مع صبايا وشباب وعملو معون نقاشات عن النوع الاجتماعي والنسوية وتاريخ النساء بلبنان والمطالب والحقوق يلي بتتعلّق بالنوع الاجتماعي وصولاً بالعدالة الاجتماعية والمتعلقة بالمساواة وكيف ممكن تصير بلبنان.

“صوت النسوة” فكرت كتير بالبرنامج  هيدا وتحديدا بإسم هل البرنامج، انو كيف يعني “عادة” وشو يعني “سعادة”، لأنو في مثل بقول ” يلي يغيّر عادتو بتقل سعادتو” وهو مثل مش كثير منطقي اذا من فكر في، خصوصا انو الانسان بشكل عام ومن اول ما بلش الكون كان طول الوقت لازم يغير “عادتو” مشان يعيش ويستمر.  بس يعني كيف ممكن الواحد يغيّر “عادتو” شو مفترض يعمل؟ وكيف مفترض اذا النساء مثلا غيّرت عادتا راح تزيد سعادتا؟

هاي الاسئلة كلها راح تتجاوب بمؤتمر برنامج “غيري عادتك، بتزيد سعادتك” ولكن من هون ل ٧ ايلول ٢٠١٠ حبّت صوت تسأل هل كم سؤال:

-إزا ما في ضغط  بموضوع النصاحة والوزن المثالي على النساء، شو بصير؟

- إزا ما نحط صورة  بنت مزلاطة  على دعايات ما خصا اصلا بالنساء، شو بصير؟

- شو بصير اذا بكي الرجال؟ واذا كان بكاء الرجال شي مقبول اجتماعيا، شو بصير؟

- ازا نضّف الرجال المجلى والمرا صلحت التلفزيون بشي بيت، شو بصير؟

-ازا كان في مساواة بين الرجال والمرأة، شو بصير؟

فيكون تقروا اكتر عن المؤتمر من خلال نص الدعوة :

يسرّ “المجموعة النسوية” دعوتكم/ن الى مؤتمر “غيري عادتِك بتزيد سعادتِك: الأدوات النسوية للتغيير” الذي يهدف الى تعريفكم/ن بمضمون وأهداف وآليات عمل برنامج “غيري عادتِك بتزيد سعادتِك” الذي أطلقته “المجموعة النسوية” في شهر نيسان من العام الحالي 2010. ويتضمن البرنامج أفكارا جديدة ومختلفة من وجهة نظر نسوية عن الجندر/ النوع الاجتماعي والجنس البيولوجي وعلاقتهما ببعضهما، وتأثيراتهما على وضع المرأة في لبنان بالتقاطع مع العوامل العنصرية والعرقية والطائفية والطبقية الأخرى. كما يهمّ “المجموعة النسوية” التأكيد أن أحد أهداف اللقاء، تأمين التعاون مع جانبكم/ن لتقديم ورش عمل “غيري عادتِك بتزيد سعادِك” في المراكز والنوادي التابعة لكم/ن.

الزمان: يوم الثلاثاء في السابع من شهر أيلول/ سبتمبر 2010

من الساعة الثانية ظهرا حتى الخامسة عصرا

المكان: مسرح المدينة – الحمرا – بيروت

البرنامج: – استقبال الحضور

• عرض تعريفي عن “المجموعة النسوية”

• عرض تعريفي عن “غيري عادتِك بتزيد سعادتِك”

• مناقشة وتبادل الأفكار

• استراحة قهوة وتعارف

لتأكيد الحضور أو الاستفسار :

farah@nasawiya.org , leenhashem@gmail.com

70 – 800 258

”

Last night I heard the screaming

Loud voices behind the wall

Another sleepless night for me

Won’t do no good to call the police

Always come late, if they come at all

Every time I hear the loud, painful wailing echo out from the apartment block across from my flat, Tracy Chapman’s haunting words float through my head.

When you hear a woman’s piercing screams punctuated by a man’s hoarse yell, you know that they are not merely involved in the arguments that all couples experience. You know that something far darker is at hand; you know you are hearing the soundtrack of domestic violence.

I have heard this screaming several times over the past year and a half. And every time I do, I think, damn, I should really be doing something to stop this. I should try and help that woman. I focus on the noise and try to figure out which flat it is coming from. but in the wide space surrounded by several buildings, the screams are echoed and reverberated of many walls, and it is difficult to tell.

As I look around I also see other people standing out on their balconies, also listening to the sharp cries that float in the heavy air around us. Some twist their heads up down, also trying to locate the source of the agony; others stare directly ahead of them, perhaps already aware of the location of that room of pain and not prepared to directly acknowledge it.

And as we all stand there, listening, I deplore myself for still doing nothing, for turning into just another voyeur on this hot summer evening. My inaction renders me just another perversely curious and passive spectator to the drama being played out in the shadows near us. I should act, I need to act.

But what can I do? I think of calling the darak, of requesting some sort of intervention to save that poor woman and punish that brutal monster who makes her weep. But at the same time, I know that there is no law criminalising domestic violence in this country. Therefore, even if I were to call the police and lodge a complaint, I’m pretty sure that nothing would come of it. What other options do I have? Going over there and saving her myself? Not realistic.

And by the time I’ve run through the narrow options in my mind, I realise that the screams have stopped, only to be replaced by soft sobs. And the balconies are empty. And once again, I’ve done nothing. I am part of this collective inaction, I now inhabit this refusal to acknowledge and act against domestic violence.

The last time I heard the screaming, a journalist friend of mine was over. Again, we both debated what we could do. She was livid, and I had to practically physically retrain her skinny frame from marching out into the street, knocking on doors till she found the culprit and knocking him out with a frying pan. No, I said, that will not make the situation any better.

Ok, she said, let’s call Kafa’s violence hotline. She dialled the number, got connected to someone and explained the situation: we can hear spine-chilling screams coming from an apartment nearby. What should we do about it? Can you help us? The voice on the other end explained that no, they could not do anything, that they could only act if they were contacted directly by the person suffering from the violence. My friend hung up, looking hopeless, just as another ear-splitting scream broke through the night. What are we supposed to do now? Go round the neighbourhood sticking Kafa’s stickers with the hotline to every door? Why do all the possible avenues for finding this woman support seem to be closed off?

The next day, I was speaking about the incident with a Lebanese colleague. “You should have called the darak”, she said. Her argument was that even if there is no legal framework that means they can intervene, by making the point of calling them and letting them know that this is behaviour that you, as a member of the community, will not accept, you are acting. She said that regardless of the potential for police intervention, I should have made that call in order to add my voice to the rising chorus that is taking a stand against domestic violence in this country.

I realised that she was right. A lack of legal mechanisms for redress, or public apathy, or any other structural obstacle should never lead to personal inaction. It is, in fact, only by choosing to raise our voices against the backdrop of such publicly sanctioned silences that any justice can be achieved. And, despite my commitment to achieving gender equality by taking a stand against all forms of gender-based violence, I realised that I myself had forgotten this and temporarily succumbed to apathy.

My own forgetting highlights the need for broader and sustained group action. We, as a feminist movement, need to find ways of constantly encouraging people in communities to not be disillusioned by the legal status quo and to not continue to be silent when they hear the screams (perhaps a guerrilla stickering of the neighbourhood with the hotline number is, in fact, in order?). Because although there are voices arguing that greater change can be achieved through individual action and refusal, and although these voices are growing louder, they are still fighting an upward battle against the dominant norms and structures constantly produced through insidious patriarchy.

So I will start at home. The next time I hear those screams, I pledge not to forget. I pledge to raise my voice, to the police and to Kafa again, even if to just leave my mark as a statistic. And I will speak and write and unite with others and, basically, do everything in my power to ensure that the screams of domestic violence, or any other gender-based violence, are never met with silence.

In one episode of CSI Miami, the group of skilled detectives have to deal with a crime at a neighborhood under ‘planned’ gentrification. The government was evicting inhabitants from their homes, paying half the property price and selling it to a development company to build a hotel. The law-respecting squad then finds itself in an ethical dilemma: does it allow the eviction and follow the court decision, or does it fight it for the sake of disinherited powerless families? And if the law is allowing for such an action to happen, could the law be wrong?

This is not different from what is happening across Lebanon. When land owners around Beirut Downtown cut electricity and water to evict renters, when land prices shoot up to 10,000$/meter, and when we see the poor of the Beirut driven out to Aramoun and Naameh with no safety nets, we realize that these are blunt cases of gentrification– a well-planned draining of city dwellers.

The first thing to be demolished by gentrification is the neighborhood. What is a neighborhood? It’s when people form a community, when they become familiar with each other, sharing interests along with food, care and afternoon coffee.

In my own neighborhood, in the old city of Sour, old women aren’t capable of fighting gentrification. They don’t know what it is, and they can’t really put their finger on what is changing their place.

Most of the old women who live around here – and they are mostly women because they tend to live longer than men, are middle aged and older. At least the ones I know live alone; they are either unmarried or have witnessed their kids move out to find jobs outside Sour. After the 2006 war and the invasion of UN and NGO employees and professionals, these old ladies found a financing source in renting their houses. Some of them built an additional room in the garden, others allocated a room in their house, while some had their children move out of the house and find a flat outside Sour so they could lease room or more in their homes.

The new comers, on the other hand, are generally foreigners or city-dwellers, young, with a higher education and of higher economic status. Their presence leads to imposed new urban places (cafes, bars, luxurious hotels…), as the city is changes little by little to adapt to the needs of the guests. And this is what we recognize as the process of gentrification, whereby “poor and working class neighborhoods in the inner city are refurbished by an influx of private capital and middle-class homebuyers and renters” (Smith, 1996, p.7).

There isn’t an accurate Arabic word for gentrification. The best I could find is ‘tahjir’ (تهجير ), which is too general and doesn’t carry the socio-economic reasons behind the process. Even in the UNFPA (United Nations Population Fund), the ‘international development agency’ which is supposed to work on promoting ‘equal opportunities’, doesn’t proclaim gentrification as a menace for the subsistence of disadvantaged communities.

One of my friends argued ‘this is how it works. This is the story of evolution in cities’.

But not at this rate: not this fast, not without a resistance from the original community and not with such hegemonic consumerist zeal. This new wave of “evolution” of the city “ is far more systematic and widespread” (Ilkucan and Sandıkcı, 2005). In ten years or so, these old ladies of the Sourian city will be gone. Their children have long ago left the place, the empty houses will be then amazing assets for hotels, hostels and bars. Who will live there?

History, heritage, traditional architectural styles, and the way people use a place and the existing social relations are therefore entirely twisted by the new incomers. I dare not call them a community because of their transience.

They are transient because they live here for a period of a few short months to three years as their contract might require; and because of their backgrounds and lifestyles, they don’t develop the sustainable social relations which might allow them to ‘belong’ to this place. And because of their status in the socio-economic hierarchy, they don’t generally desire to belong anyway.  Instead, they are inclined to impose their own cultural background and block any possible dialectic.

What is created is a neo-liberal space par excellence. A place empty of its original owners-dwellers, a place stripped of its use and staged in an aesthetical commodified performance for the tourists and foreigners to be ‘wow’-ed.

I am aware that most of our culture has become like that. We feel happy, civilized and Phoenician when the white man takes out his camera and clicks it at the sight of limestone walls.

One example of how it works is what happened to the old building in front of the American University of Beirut main gate on Bliss Street. The building houses a copy center, a language teaching center and most importantly Abu Naji, the famous small grocery shop whose owner knew all those who went to the university. The building was bought by a developer who closed down Abu Naji and will be opening a TSC in its place. So the family-owned local shop which developed relationships with thousands of students every year will now be replaced by the multi-million dollar franchise lacking any human relation with the customer and treating its own workers on modern slavery terms.

Going back to the CSI team, we see Horacio’s scrupulous conscience having to choose between following the law or defending the families against private property and the law of the market. We are in the same situation here. The squad ended up guiding the families through court hearings and celebrating the victory of the poor against the private real-estate monster.

But it doesn’t always happen this way. And in Lebanon? Do you seriously want to know how it happens and start guessing who would win in such a fight?

We have the same choice though. Standing with rule of the law, believing that what law decides must be right, or hearing the stories of these people and acknowledging the legitimacy of their cause.

References_

1-      Smith, Neil ‘The New Urban Frontier: Gentrification and the Revanchist City’, London: Routledge. 1996.

2-      Ilkucan, Altan and Sandıkcı, Özlem ‘Gentrification and Consumption: An Exploratory Study’ , Advances in Consumer Research, Volume 32, 2005.

Additional readings_

http://globalvoicesonline.org/2009/08/11/puerto-rico-the-battle-over-public-lands/

http://www.isreview.org/issues/44/whokilledNO.shtml

http://www.acrwebsite.org/volumes/v32/acr_vol32_137.pdf

شاء القدر أن يكون للبنان حظ في النجاة من الحوادث الفردية والجماعية والحروب والأزمات على خير، وعلى الأرجح أنّ النجاة هذه تكلف لبنان شباناً يقتَلون وسيارات تحرَق و بضعة مئات من الرصاص والذخيرة تستعمل هباء والى ما هنالك، وما هذا إلاّ كلفة رمزية لبلد لا تشرق الشمس فيه إلاّ وهناك احتمال في قلب المئات من النائمين والنائمات على أرضه بأنّ الحرب قادمة.

أيار ٢٠٠٨

أشعل سيجارة وأنتظر أن تصلني رسالة نصية من أختي بأنّ الوالدة نجحت في الانتقال من بيتها في المزرعة إلى خارج بيروت. صديقتي التي تزورني من نيويورك تنظف المطبخ وتلفزيون “الجديد” ينقل الحرب مباشرة، رغم أنني أسمع الرصاص والقذائف في راس النبع. أنتبه أنّ جارتي على السطح تسقي زهورها. أعلم أنها ستدق بابي بعد قليل لتعطيني بعضاً من الغاردينيا. صديقتي النيويوركية تلعن في المطبخ: لم يعد لدينا نعنع يابس. تكسر عرقاً وتجلس قرب باب البلكونة في صمت تام.

لم أكن نفسي في أيار ٢٠٠٨. كنت أشبه بجثة تحاول أن تحسم قرارها بين التنفس والبقاء جسداً وبين البقاء في السرير أسابق الوقت بالنوم. في أيار ٢٠٠٨، لم أكن أحب أحداً ولم أكن أهتم بعدد القتلى ولم يكن يعنيني من سينتصر ولم أكن أفكر إلاّ في سؤال واحد : متى ينتهى الموضوع وهل سينتقل الاقتتال الى القنطاري وهل سأضطر الى مغادرة بيتي؟ لم أكن أريد مغادرة المنزل. سيدي محمد غادر منزله في حيفا في ظروف مشابهة ولم يعد- صوت الرصاص والقذائف يردّني الى ذاكرة ليس لي- أشارك صديقتي أفكاري. تبتسم لي وتطلب مني أن أتابع الأخبار وأترجم لها ما يجري فلا جدوى من الهواجس الفكرية الآن، خصوصاً أننا نعيشها في الواقع. حضنتني صديقتي النيويوكية لساعات متواصلة- صوت القذائف والرصاص يعيدني الى جثة رأيتها وأنا طفلة تتعفن على مدى أيام-..

ظهر انسحاب الميلشيات. ذهبت الى بيت صديقتي في الصنائع وكانت قد وصلت من عمان. كان لا بد من تهوئة منزلي من الخوف. لم تكن بيدي حيلة سوى أن أشارك معها حكايات عن شجاعة مختلقة، عن تحليلات سياسية منمقة، أي شيء إلاّ الحقيقة.

بعد أيار

ماذا تفعل النساء في هذا البلد؟ غير البديهي، ماذا يفعلن في بلد يتقاتل القاطنين فيه بالأسلحة المتوسطة على أتفه الأمور؟ هل يقمن بأي دور غير تلقي الحرب كما هي ومحاولة النجاة من الشبان المنفعلين على أمن البلد؟ وما هو أمن البلد إلاّ أمن الرجال فيه وأمن طموحاتهم. كيف تتجاهل النساء هذه الحوادث كل يوم؟ كيف نبرر لأنفسنا أننا نستطيع أن نقدم اقتراحات لمجلس النواب لتعديل قوانين مميِزة في حقنا من دون أن نفهم أنّ مجموع حيواتنا هنا لا تساوي شيئاً، لأننا لا نملك القوة التي يفرضها السلاح على القانون؟

“لنفترض أنّ النساء الناشطات في السياسة قررن حمل السلاح والدخول في اللعبة السياسية كما هي وقررن أن ” يجررن البلد نحو الفتن، ماذا قد تكون ردة الفعل؟ ماذا لو قررت النساء إلغاء جندرهن والانضواء إلى طائفة جديدة اسمها ” طائفة النساء”؟ ماذا قد ينتج عن ذلك؟ أعلم أنه في الافتراض هذا الكثير من الاستسلام للطرق الذكورية في العيش  وربما النهار الذي تقرر فيه النساء هذا، يكون النهار الذي يكون الأمل في التغيير هنا معدوماً بالتأكيد.”

أكتب هذا في مفكرتي بعد أيار، وأعلم أنني أخطأت التفكير ولكنني أعلم أيضاً أنني لا أستطيع أن أكتفي بالهامش فقط إذ رصاص الحرب يطال الهامش. وإن كنت أجيد ادّعاء الشجاعة في العيش هنا أمام أولئك المتعطشين إلى سماع قصص عن الحرب، فأنا لا أستطيع ادّعاءها أمام نفسي.

وطن التستستيرون

تخبرني صديقتي عن سيارتها المهشمة والزجاج الذي انتشر على جسدها خلال مرورها أمام المعترضين على انقطاع الكهرباء في بيروت. أسمعها وأفكر في أزمة الكهرباء وأفهم الغضب الذي يعتري الشباب والأهالي وأفهم بالتحديد الغضب الذي يولده الحرمان وخصوصاً إذا كان حرماناً ظالماً. غير أنني لا أفهم كيف تؤثر الكهرباء على الشبان، فبحسب تقاليدنا التي يفتخرون بالمحافظة عليها، في المنزل، لا يقوم الرجال بالاعمال المنزلية إذ تلك مسؤولية النساء والفتيات. وربما تؤثر الكهرباء على أوقات مشاهدة التلفاز وربما المروحة أو المكيّف واستعمال الكمبيوتر ( خصوصاً الأصغر سناً) ولكنها تؤثر في الغالب على البراد واستعمال المولينكس والغسالة والهوفر والآلات التي غالباً ما تكون النساء مسؤولة عنها. في انقطاع الكهرباء هذا، تتأثر الأعمال المنزلية أكثر من غيرها ولا يعود نظام البيت كما يجدر به أن يكون. في مشهد وأخبار الشبان المعترضين على انقطاع الكهرباء دليل على أزمة تتشابك، عن فقر وعن سياسات حكومية مقلقة وعن غضب محذر ولكن في المشهد هذا أيضاً صمت مريب، صمت عما يجري داخل المنازل حين تقطع الكهرباء عنها.

أن نعيش في هذا البلد هو أمر وأن نعيد إنتاج السياسة فيه كما هي أمر آخر، نقع في فخ إنتاج أنفسنا كما نحن. نساء في وطن التستستيرون.

Deema Kaedbey

… So I have a question to ask you all about women, writing and self censorship. Why do women censor themselves? Why is our relationship to writing steeped in holding back?

“Does part of it have to do with being diplomatic and being brought up to please everyone? To not be angry or forthright?”

“Bas I don’t think the self censorship of diplomacy is always a bad thing. Women are diplomatic because this is “our art”. Many women have learned to get through, to get what they want, through being diplomatic, because they have no direct decision-making power. This is something we have to respect because it’s sometimes the only tool for some women.”

“There a philosopher in me (or probably someone I’ve read) who is saying that what doesn’t scare you isn’t worth writing about. So maybe it’s the fear. Fear of being criticized. Fear of hurting someone. Maybe it’s internalizing those forces that don’t want you to give your opinion about politics or religion or whatever topic…”

“Bas I think there’s something more to it than an issue of self confidence, or lack of, amongst women as a result of our socialization. Maybe it’s about women knowing that there is something deeper than what we are taught. That there is a deep knowledge coiled inside us that we are resisting to pull out. And that to bring this knowledge out means that so much of what we know and do will change, radically.”

“But that’s essentialism ya3ni. You’re assuming women have this hidden power that is inherent to their nature.”

“This is not just about essentializing womanhood. Part of this is about not having power for so long, not being part of the mainstream production of knowledge, so you gain a more comprehensive perspective on this mainstream culture. But you’re also able to give alternatives because you haven’t been completely subsumed within this culture.”

“Why do I censor myself? Because of all the taboos that restrict us. Because I know so much of what I will write is unmentionable to people. In every community I belong to. I can’t talk about being sexually harassed by our neighbor’s son with my parents; bas I also can’t talk about how all my sexual fantasies are a form of domination/submission power relation to my feminist community, masalan.”

“And I can’t talk about being attracted to men among some of my lesbian community.”

“Then there’s the censorship around spirituality, and my own coming out of the closet as a spiritual person, which is something as important to me as my coming out as a sexually active woman. All these inhibitions affect what I write or don’t write. I won’t write what won’t be read or what would make me seem as a mad woman.”

“So it’s about fear again. We are afraid of the consequences of disclosing our intimate experiences; not because they are trivial, but because we know they will leave an immense impact…”

“Yes, bas the fear isn’t just about sharing these intimate stories with our communities. Sometimes I can’t even write for myself alone. If I have done something I am not proud of; if I am afraid of confronting my own racism, I stop wanting to put my thoughts and feelings on paper, because they will be fixed there forever.”

“So censorship is about choosing silence? When there are many loud voices in your head, and you choose to either not say anything, or to acknowledge just one of these voices. Or when you don’t speak or write because it is not “cool” in a certain space. When the things my parents say about another sect is ringing loudly in my head but I go on pretending that sectarianism has never touched my life. This is a common self censorship of our experiences as well.”

“Yes, and some of us are always looking for spaces and people where we don’t need to filter our thoughts. The reason our leftist and feminist and queer communities are not perfect is because they are not always safe spaces for everyone. Not that we need to create leftistqueerfeminist spaces that permit racist jokes, or classist or homophobic remarks. But maybe our goal should be to create spaces safe enough to allow us to reflect on our backgrounds, on our thought processes, on what we have to unpack and unlearn, and what we need to learn all over again.”

*Inspired by true conversations with feminist friends.

Teta Sabra

It was 1992, in a small apartment in west Beirut. I had developed an attachment for men with thick beards surrounded by the yellowiest flowers one’s memory could preserve. Later I learned it was called “marj el zohor.” Much later I realized it was the first understanding of an extended Palestine I had developed, that my own little small existence continues in reverse, passing through these men in the fields, all the way to Palestine. I had composed a song for these men, a song that my mother made me entertain her guests with, a song about Marej El Zohor.

These are some of the early memories I have about connecting with the bigger and more extended Palestine. And for many years Palestine was about going in the Eid to visit “Teta Sabra”, my grandmother who lived somewhere around Sabra and Shatila, not really in the mokhayem, but not completely out of its range.

Teta Sabra’s version of Palestine had remained a sealed mystery, something that I still regret . How come I never asked her about her own version of the story? All I know about Palestine was narrated by my Sidi (grandfather)  to his children, in which I assume they have passed it along, censoring many of the inconveniences that made their lives easier and their traumas lighter. Everyone must survive in the end of the day.

Falasteen

I find myself in need of not losing these memories, in connecting them together, building a narrative of where I come from.  Sidi had told the story to his children, and his children never shared it again. I don’t know if the story was too complicated to be re told, if it was a humiliating burden on them. What I know of my history is details in incomplete bits and pieces, few sentences stolen from conversations here and there. I remember that Baba, despite his love of Falasteen, had this fear of those who worked for its liberation, including his sister.

I’m Palestinian and like all Palestinians, when I say her name, I get a choke-like feeling in my throat, and most probably my shoulders widen and my face gets a serious expression. I don’t know what that means though, being Palestinian. I know it means that I experience the world differently, I can shift through many stereotypes, from a victim all the way to a freedom fighter, that my sense of nationalism doesn’t serve only Palestinians but it serves one of the greatest battles of this world, the battle between good and evil. But I don’t what it means to be Palestinian away from these constructions, off TV screens, speeches, gadgets and songs. I don’t know what does being a Palestinian between oneself and to one’s self.

Rania Ignatios

The day I was born, my feminist future was determined. I was brought up to become a woman, and while everything around me conspired to teach me how to be one, I became a feminist instead.

It was not a text that I read, nor a song that I heard, and it certainly was not a particular experience I went through. Rather: my whole life was a feminist school.

Everything in our life is predetermined just by being female: Do you remember when the first time something was done or said to you solely because you’re a girl? Well, then, how could I determine the first time I decided I was a feminist? There was no first feminist awakening, there was no first feminist thought. Becoming a feminist was a process for me and it happened accidentally while my parents, school and society were teaching me how to become a woman.

I was not oppressed by my parents for being a girl. On the contrary, I was considered the smart one in the family, and my dad bragged about how I was going to become an engineer. I was also allowed to do everything I wanted to do, and encouraged to do it. But I don’t like it when people say how they don’t understand the real struggle that we, feminists, talk about just because they did not face oppression. I simply knew I was oppressed when I did something my guy friend could have just as easily done and got extra praise for it just because I was a girl doing it.

Something else happened the day I was born: my dad was not excited. I represented his third and last failed attempt at having a boy. But he did not give up on me; he was determined to make me the toughest of his girls, the closer to a guy. He took me everywhere he went. I was his favorite little boy. And I looked up to him. He taught me everything he knew. He tells people today how he used to teach me addition and multiplication long before they were taught in school. I think he is convinced that he’s the reason I became a math major today. And maybe he is.

I grew up in a poor neighborhood where all the friends I had were boys, I learnt to survive in an environment people would usually judge unsuitable for a girl. My Motto was: If he says something you don’t like, kick him. I left that neighborhood when I was ten, but spending the first ten years of my life on those streets taught me how to be tough. When I was playing football at eight years old on a court filled with guys a few years older than me, and when I saw their faces looking at me with admiration and shock, I knew that everything I was going to hear about being a girl was wrong and I understood that I am capable of everything a guy is capable of. But it did not end here; this was going to be the story of my life. The same happened in school when the sports teacher would kiss me just for running as fast as the other boys in class, or when the French teacher would be surprised that I knew how to fix the tape player when the four boys in my class didn’t know what to do. And you ask me how I became this angry? Anger, my dear, was building up throughout all this. I would get angry every time a teacher would say sentences like: “Girls are not usually interested in electronics and mechanics”. The word “usually” is used to hide the gaps in their statements. “Girls are not good at sports” and that’s why you cannot find good running shoes for women. Try to go into any sports shop and go to the shoe section; you can see the beautiful collection of sports shoes for men, and next to it, a couple of pink sports shoes designed for women.

Later in my teenage years, I made a best friend who had my concerns and anger. She was determined to surpass all those obstacles as well. We learnt about feminism together. The day I discovered there was a word to all those feelings and thoughts I was having was a happy day for me. I was what we call a feminist, and other feminists like me do exist. I finally had a word to google in order to read about all the things I always wanted to say, but never heard anyone else talking about. I found out there’s a book that started the feminist revolution in France and Europe called “The Second Sex” by Simone de Beauvoir. My best friend got it, and gave it to me. Reading that book was the most empowering thing ever. During my teenage years, I learnt about the feminist movement. I remember creating a folder on my computer called “Feminism” and collecting all the feminist things I got on the internet. My appreciation to the feminist movement we are building today comes from all those lonely feminist teenage years when I only dreamt of being part of this feminist collective that comes together to share all this anger and frustration and prepare for the revolution that is going to change everything.

Question: Was it the self-esteem and toughness my dad raised me to have, or the confidence I built on the all-men football court, was it the anger from all the discrimination you face at school, or the best friend I made that shared my feminist thoughts, was it that amazing feminist book I read, or all the amazing feminists I met in this collective I am part of today that made me a feminist?

Answer: None and all of the above. My whole life was a feminist school. Any woman’s life is a feminist school, but whether she graduates or not, and how early, is only up to her.

Ghiwa Sayegh

Mirage

cheek to cheek

in the moist cavity

of another sacrilege

profane twins close

when daughterlies

glide in the dissonant music of unbounded breaths

I smile when

they search my grainy

body of grinded leaves and

hammered peel when

I’m only shadow

in the light of fluttery

receptions

when my womb painfully

dissected

pain

on a bench of experts and monosighted lenses

as you listen to me

muffled

to the speck of sand

clinging to sliding curves

to the seashell on gills

of ears or

perhaps what would be

I draw

in archaic letters

fine line of flush

that accuses

memory and dream of

mating

under the dizzy fragrance

recognized

or the promises of a sunken

envelope

in archaic letters

again and again

I hum her body

and blow out her gasp

to better reminisce

what is engraved

in archaic letters

my throat

becomes a world

of colors and planets

leaving absurd traces

of purple eyelids and

devoured characters

Once, I will be thousands of particles dissipated that will tap on car windows and they will call it

doubt

It had been long since I had connected with where I come from, when I came across a very special feminist encounter…

I met Sabreena Da Witch on women’s day 2010, and it all came together very nicely. I had watched her perform the night before at the closing fundraiser for Israeli Apartheid Week in Toronto. And now, a bunch of us sat together talking about what feminists coming together usually talk about: politics, which leads only to the most personal.

Sabreena had so much to say and we were all ears – we had all obsessively watched her movies and listened to her music for about a year now. And as expected, what she had to say resonated with us all; she was so raw in her expression on women’s issues, the meaning of justice and a national revolution. She carried a piece of home with her that was a part of all of us as Palestinian, Arab, women and feminist. There was a very special feeling to this gathering… almost like a coincidence.

Sabreena is part of a strong hip-hop movement happening all over the Arab world and especially in Palestine. Music is being used as a medium for speaking out and is now becoming a growing influence in Palestinian cultural resistance. It has become a popular avenue for self-expression to young people during a time when most spaces are sealed off to Palestinians. It also plays an important role in attempting to build bridges between the isolations suffered by Palestinians as a result of apartheid policies. Artists from Gaza, the West Bank and the Diaspora are using this common passion for speaking into the mike to sound voices of Palestinian struggles.

Hip-hop as a political force started to develop and take shape specifically during the second Intifada, a moment considered most crucial and defining amongst our generation in reviving a sense of national political struggle and identity. Sabreena’s own political awakening around Palestine also came in the wake of the second intifada:

“I didn’t know what Palestine is, I never was told what it is to be a Palestinian – the 2^nd intifada put that in my face. 13 Palestinians inside of Israel were shot – it just comes to show you that having an Israeli passport doesn’t make you any special.”

Of course once Israel was mentioned, we all started ranting about the hypocrisy of Zionism in preserving an image of itself as democratic, liberal and free to the West. Especially in issues related to women and queer people where Israel claims tolerance and equality but only uses these issues to showcase tokenistic gestures that are intended to mask Israel’s racism and spite towards Palestinians.

“I got fired from my work for speaking Arabic in Israel – democracy, it is not. If you live there for just 2 days, you will realize that if you are not Jewish then you are a nothing… this is what the state of Israel is for me, I’m always treated as a Palestinian, as an Arab, they make sure they remind you of that everyday. There isn’t even the illusion of a democracy.”

When it comes to speaking on women’s issues and Israel in the west, as feminist Palestinians living in the Diaspora, we all shared the experience of being asked numerous times why we thought critically of Israel where women have much more rights than women in Palestinian societies. It felt incredibly refreshing to have a Palestinian woman who lives in Israel and experiences it first-hand to respond to this:

“Israel never protected Arab women when it comes to honor killing; they know what is happening but they use it against Palestinians. So, if it is very obvious that a woman is to be killed, they just step out of it saying that it has nothing to do with us. It is not a country that is equal to all its citizens. They say to you these tribes have their own tribal issues. They don’t care about me.”

The issue of silencing Palestinians is very familiar to us as Palestinians living in the Diaspora. Israeli propaganda has infiltrated all mainstream media as well as popular cultural and academic spaces. The power of their lobby has succeeded in erasing out the existence of an alternative Palestinian voice. A famous example of this is the spotlight on Tel Aviv in the Toronto International Film Festival in 2009. Palestinians were outraged that after the brutal attack on Gaza a few months prior, Israel would be allowed to showcase itself as a modern developed state. This constant wiping out of Palestinian experiences not only plays to normalizing the state of Israel as an occupying colonizing force but also claims to speak of the Palestinian experience of this violence as well.

“I live what I live and no body can cancel that. You be an Arab woman and a Palestinian woman and come tell me what it is like, don’t tell me what my experience is! Don’t speak for me. Speak of your own experience as an Israeli or an American, and I will speak of mine.”

The intersection of women and Palestine proves to be challenging even within the hip-hop movement itself. Similar to national Palestinian resistance movements, national resistance through hip-hop contains a great deal of sexism and misogyny. Women artists face pressure to sing about Palestine before they can talk about their issues as women. Being Palestinian and a woman are perceived as mutually exclusive issues; together they are too distracting from the main nationalist agenda. Notice as well that this strand of thought is very similar to what we face when attempting to speak on justice for Palestine in mainstream queer rights spaces.

“I recall going to events were I was told that I’m not allowed to speak of women issues – politics first, they said to me, women rights are not our main subject. But I am Palestine. I’m a Palestinian person – whenever I speak, I speak of Palestine – whether it is right here or not, when I speak of women’s issues, I speak as a Palestinian woman – there is no such thing as we’ll take care of women’s rights later”

Women artists also have the added challenge of navigating cultural boundaries to be able to perform. Sabreena recalled difficult struggles with her family to accept her as a hip-hop artist. As she spoke, it seemed very obvious that at the core of her resistance for Palestine was her own struggle for her right to exist as a woman making her own choices, and somehow to the outside world the two couldn’t co-exist. The fight for a just and free Palestine excluded her as a woman.

“I was disappointed because I was treated as a woman first and then Palestinian. Even singing for Palestine gave me trouble, I would sing for Palestine and then my parents would yell for hours when I come home. I had to convince them every day to please let me perform.”

It was very obvious that the depth of our struggles as women is tied to this idea of women upholding the honor of our entire societies and culture. However, in order to be truly full in our analysis, we could not ignore the grander scheme of things and as feminists, we could not but point out how racism and sexism intermingle and inform one another to fulfill greater agendas of patriarchy existing everywhere.

“Up until I came to American, I had issues with the men in my community, they were the problem, Arab people don’t know how to deal with women especially if they are strong. I come here and it is worst because here they think that women are free”

We talked about the growing BDS movement (Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions) as a powerful and hopeful opportunity for resistance. We find it empowering because it is mass-based, calls for the participation of the entire world and gives agency to the individual as a contributing force towards achieving Palestinian liberation.

“I believe it brings results; take note on how many cities took part in IAW this year. It shows you where we were and where we are. You know that Zionists are freaking out when they pay attention to us and say: boycott these boycott events!”

We also talked about the complexities of BDS as Israel tries to cut corners in its process of normalizing their presence as an apartheid and colonialist state. It is also a difficult strategy to nuance and, while it is broad enough to fit any context and place, it needs to reflect the specificities of each locality.

“I was asked once what I thought of Palestinians taking part in Eurovision with an Israeli artist. I was completely against it. We don’t have a country! Don’t play this game with us, to have us representing ourselves in a show as Palestinians but we are not really Palestinians – I can’t even tell you here is my country, you can’t give a Eurovision spot and expect me to say thank you very much for letting me sit next to the Israeli representative.”

But our discussion didn’t end sorely – we somehow were celebrating each of our presence and mostly learning from Sabreena about what it takes to lead revolutions:

“Sabreen in Arabic with a double E means patience. If you study revolution, you realize that without patience you are not a revolutionary because if you expect things to change with a finger point you are down to a losing battle. It takes a long time to change generations of sexism, apartheid and racism. But I am not only Sabreen or patient but also a witch that is powerful and can rock your world”

In hindsight, this was a lot more than just a coincident gathering of women with similar experiences of resistance…it was a feminist one, like the kind that you attract to yourself. It was revolutionary like most of our choices have been. This was in fact a feminist encounter, one that we paved our path to, one that is as deliberate as encounters come.

NOTE: Information included in this piece and all quotations are taken from an interview done by Kan Ya Ma Kan – a women-run Arab radio show that airs in Toronto, Canada every Tuesday on CKLN.

Sabreena’s Newest Album “Women under the influence” includes 15 songs written and composed by her. You can purchase her album online.

Brainstorming Nakba

At curious four I asked my mother why Superman did not speak the same language I did

She told me that

Our cartoon hero is a little boy forever ten

His hands clasped behind his back, invisible handcuffs

She told me I had to learn another alphabet, another geography,

In the Big Yellow Atlas, for kids, full of pictures

We stenciled in your awkward shape into maps that didn’t even want you

We had to learn your name in their language
They told me I spoke funny.

So I rinsed my accent at school; madraseh instead of madrasa

I read about diaspora and exile and power structures

Without knowing what they meant

So you’re American? On paper

And Jordan? Is what I know

And Gaza? An old wives tale

We are bastard children of hyphens and supplements and sentences that start with

Originally I’m from…

At home,
Baba counted in dead bodies, in ratios, and for breakfast we had

Nostalgia and symbols

We read Kanafani, Darwiche and Said

When we found tongues

We learned to speak from the margins of pages,

From the periphery

Maybe this is Freud’s “oceanic feeling”.

A veritable storehouse in the unconscious

To be from a place and not know the place

There are simpler ways of being in the world, I’m told.

Still I choose Za3tar and Shatta and this awkward Fat7a.