domingo, 21 de dezembro de 2014

sábado, 6 de setembro de 2014

A Response to ‘Women Against Feminism.’

Imagine this:

The year is 2014. You are a white Western woman. You wake up in the morning in a comfortably sized house or flat. You have a full or part-time job that enables you to pay your rent or mortgage. You have been to school and maybe even college or university as well. You can read and write and count. You own a car or have a driver’s licence. You have enough money in your own bank account to feed and clothe yourself. You have access to the Internet. You can vote. You have a boyfriend or girlfriend of your choosing, who you can also marry if you want to, and raise a family with. You walk down the street wearing whatever you feel like wearing. You can go to bars and clubs and sleep with whomever you want.

Your world is full of freedom and possibility.

Then you pick up a newspaper or go online. You read about angry women ranting about sexism and inequality. You see phrases like ‘rape-culture’ and ‘slut-shaming.’ You furrow your brow and think to yourself: ‘What are they so angry about? There is no such thing as sexism anymore.’

Now imagine this:

The year is 2013. You are a 25 year-old Pakistani woman. A few months ago, you married the man you love. A man you choose for yourself. You are also pregnant with his child. You see your life stretching out before you, filled with hope and happiness. Suddenly, you and your husband are dragged away from each other. You are both beaten with bricks and batons. You can’t fight back. You can’t escape. No one comes to help you. Through your fading vision, you look up, and look into the eyes of one of your assailants: into the eyes of your father.

The year is 2013. You are a 23 year-old Indian woman. You are a physiotherapy student with a promising career ahead of you. You are sitting on a private bus travelling home alone on a warm December evening. You gaze out of the window as the buildings of New Dheli rush past you and feel content. Suddenly, a blunt force hits the back of your head and you fall to the floor of the bus. A group of strange men are standing over you. They bring the metal bar down on you again and again and again until all you can taste is the blood filling up your mouth. You pray that you will die soon. And you do, but not then. You are raped, beaten, and tortured over and over again. Death is slow and agonising.

The year is 2014. You are a 13 year-old girl from Niger. You no longer live there though. You are now living in the neighbouring country Nigeria, sitting alone in small room on a small bed in a small apartment high above the city of Kano. You are not allowed to leave. Your stomach is swollen from the unwanted life growing inside of it. You had no choice. The father is a man in his 40s. He is a businessman. He has bought you as his wife. You were a penniless, uneducated girl when he came for you. You don’t know of any life you could have had. Neither did your family: just one less mouth for them to feed. You still have the body of a child, and it’s straining under the pressure from the one inside of you. You feel like you’re about to be split in two. You don’t wonder if you will survive the birth. A part of you doesn’t want to.

These are fictionalised accounts of real events that have happened to real women living in our world today. They follow the past 250 years of women and men campaigning for women to be given equal rights to men to prevent these kinds of injustices and abuses on the grounds of gender taking place. Over the course of this time, campaigners – Feminists, both female and male – have been locked up, beaten, tortured, and even killed, in the pursuit of equality. They did this with pen and ink and print; they did this with their voices; they did this with their bodies; they did this with art and music; they did in courts of law and halls and houses of government that they fought be to allowed into.

They did this so that women would no longer been seen as property, livestock, breeding machines, sex objects, punching bags, or infantile morons. They did this not just for themselves, but also for their daughters, and their daughters, and their daughters for generations to come. They did this for women they would never meet – women who lived across countries, across vast oceans, across the entire globe, and even across time.

They did this so that women like me – a white Western woman – could attend school and university; to learn to read, write, and think critically; to gain a degree; to get a job and be paid an equal salary to a man in the same position; and to sit here with my own computer and type all of this.

Feminism is a movement for freedom, equality, choice, love, compassion, respect, solidarity, and education. We may argue, we may disagree, we may struggle to understand the choices and perspectives of others sometimes, but these core beliefs of the movement have never changed, and they never will.

That is why I am a Feminist.

If you feel that you have so far lived your life unaffected by even the mildest form of sexism – anything from feeling uncomfortable when a man catcalls you in the street, to feeling scared walking home alone at night in a secluded area – and are treated with love and respect by every man in your life, then to you I say: I’m glad for you. If you don’t think you need feminism, then that is a victory for the movement. You have fulfilled all those dreams that every suffragette being force-fed in prison and every ‘witch’ burnt at the stake dreamed you would one day.

But perhaps take a second to consider the life of the Pakistani woman who was beaten to death by her own family for marrying a man of her choosing. Or the life of the Indian woman who was raped, beaten, and murdered on a bus by a gang of men. Or the life of the little girl in Niger who was sold to a man more than twice her own age and forced to carry a baby that may kill her to deliver. Do they still need feminism?

And perhaps take a second to consider this too: Even in our liberal, Western world, why do women still only fill 24% of senior management jobs? Why are more women than men domestically abused or even killed every week at the hands of their male partner or ex-partner? Why is there still a pay gap (in the UK specifically) of 15% for women doing the same jobs and working the same hours as men?

And what about on a cultural level? Have you ever noticed how comedy panel shows usually only have one female panellist compared to 4-5 male ones? That almost every dieting product on the market is solely aimed at women? How a lot of newspapers and advertising campaigns will use a sexualised or pornographic image of a woman to sell news or products that have nothing to do with sex?

Or perhaps on a personal level: Do you choose to wear certain clothes because you want to or because you feel ‘unfeminine’ if you don’t? Do you choose to cover yourself up because you want to or because you feel ashamed or intimidated by a man looking at your body? Do you shave your legs and underarm hair because you want to or because you will look ‘ugly’ if you don’t? Did you parents dress you in pink as a baby because they liked the colour or because you were born a girl? Do you want to have children because you want to or because you are a woman?

When you look at yourself in the mirror in the morning, do you see yourself through your own eyes, or through the eyes of the men that will look at you when you walk out the door?

The fact is, like it or not, you still live a world where gender matters. Where gender controls not just the entire course of your life – but the lives of women all over the world. Every second, a child will be born female in a country where she will persecuted for this random biological occurrence for the rest of her life. So before you hold up your anti-Feminist placard proudly and smile at your own sense of empowerment, think not what Feminism can do for you, but what it can do for that one girl. She needs someone to stand up for her. That someone could be you.


domingo, 31 de agosto de 2014

O mal absoluto são dois dedinhos numa folha de Excel

"Os piores crimes são cometidos por funcionários diligentes que não fazem mais nada que cumprir ordens de forma acéfala. Vale para a guerra como para a austeridade

Numa das mais célebres experiências de sempre da psicologia social, pensada pelo psicólogo Stanley Milgram, tentou-se analisar os mecanismos da autoridade e entender as razões que levaram tanta gente a obedecer a ordens que provocaram o massacre de milhões de pessoas durante o nazismo.

A chamada experiência de Milgram começou em Julho de 1961, três meses depois de começar o julgamento de Adolf Eichmann em Jerusalém. O dispositivo era simples: uma universidade angaria voluntários para um suposto estudo sobre o papel dos castigos na aprendizagem. Na sala está um cientista, um suposto voluntário a responder a perguntas, e a pessoa que realmente se sujeita à experiência tem como missão carregar num botão. Os dois primeiros são intervenientes combinados. Quando o “aluno” da cadeira falha uma resposta, o voluntário e sujeito da experiência recebe instruções para carregar num botão que provocaria um choque eléctrico. Os choques são supostamente crescentes com cada nova resposta errada, até níveis que, a serem verdade, poriam em perigo de vida o aluno. Este berra e finge desmaiar. Perante as dúvidas da pessoa que pressiona o botão, o alegado cientista, vestido com uma impecável bata branca, diz de uma forma fria: “A experiência deve continuar.” Perante o cenário, em que por causa de um estudo académico uma pessoa estaria a ser electrocutada até à morte, a maioria continua a executar as ordens do cientista de uma forma quase automática. São muito poucos aqueles que se insurgem e se recusam a provocar os choques eléctricos.

Ontem tive o privilégio de ver o filme sobre Hannah Arendt e o caso Eichmann. Para escândalo de muitos, a filósofa judia chega à conclusão que Eichmann era um homem normal. E que não existe um mal radical, ligado a uma anormalidade maléfica e tenebrosa; o mal é sempre excessivo, mas o dos nazis, como o responsável pelo programa de transporte dos judeus para os campos de concentração, é um mal feito por um funcionário burocrático mesquinho e cumpridor de ordens. Segundo Arendt, a Eichmann “nunca ocorreu fazer o mal como princípio, como a Ricardo III. Tirando o seu interesse extraordinário pela sua carreira, não tinha nenhum móbil, e o carreirismo não é um crime. Não teria certamente assassinado o seu superior para lhe ficar com o lugar. Simplesmente nunca lhe passaram pela cabeça as consequências daquilo que fez...” O mal feito era um mal banal, cumprido por funcionários diligentes em horário de expediente. As reacções ao texto de Hannah Arendt foram violentas porque as suas conclusões são muito mais assustadoras: o mal não é feito por seres diabólicos de excepção, é executado por pessoas comuns que no fim do dia vão cuidar dos filhos.

Para Hannah Arendt o mal não era radical, era excessivo. Ao qual tinha de se opor um bem radical para o conseguir travar. Uma desobediência que pudesse romper a textura do respeitinho e dos pequenos poderes. E isso vale para os dias de hoje. Quando aqueles que nas suas folhinhas de Excel calculam os cortes sem ver que ceifam vidas, é preciso que alguém lhes desobedeça. Eles dizem para seu sossego que não fazem mais que cumprir ordens de alguém, seja a troika seja um grande outro qualquer. Mas aquilo que fazem é espalhar um mal embebido na normalidade de quem cumpre ordens burocráticas, como se fosse uma praga de cogumelos, como exemplificava Arendt. É preciso opor-lhes o pensamento. E isso custa mais que obedecer. Mas só isso faz a diferença."


quinta-feira, 12 de junho de 2014



... apercebo o lume dum coração antigo e simples
atravesso a cor luminosa dos sonhos sem me deter...
... aqui deixo o espólio daquele cuja vida
é cintilação de lugares nítidos...

(um pouco de café, uma carta, um pedaço de vidro)

... tenho a certeza de que se virasse o corpo do avesso
ficaria tudo por recomeçar...
... mas se aqui voltares
talvez encontres estes papéis escritos
no recanto mais esquecido da noite... talvez
descubras o vazio onde o corpo desgasto esperou...

... vou destruir todas as imagens onde me reconheço
e passar o resto da vida assobiando ao medo...

- Al Berto -

terça-feira, 6 de maio de 2014



no interior do corpo desarrumado
o medo invade o penumbroso corredor
descubro uma cintilação de água no estuque
uma cicatriz de cristais de bolor abre-se
porosa ao contacto dos dedos indica
que não haverá esquecimento ou brisa
para limpar o tempo imemorial da casa

deste simulado sono ficou-lhe o amargo iodo
as madeiras enceradas cobertas de poeira
ervas secas à chuva molhos de rosmaninho
junquilhos, bocas de lobo silenas, trevo
mas nenhuma fuga foi recomeçada
a infância permanece triste onde a abandonei
quase não vive
no entanto ouço-a respirar dentro de mim

agora tudo é diferente
recomeço a viver a partir do vazio
da treva dos dias em silêncio
por entre a pele e um feixe de magnificas veias
sinto o pássaro da velhice arrastando as asas

onde desenvolve o calmo voo lunar

enumero cuidadosamente os objectos, classifico-os
por tamanhos por texturas, por funções
quero deixar tudo arrumado quando a loucura vier
da extremidade aguçada do corpo alado
e o rosto for devassado por um estilhaço de asa

então a vida abater-se-á sobre a folha de papel
onde verso a verso
me ilumino e me desgasto
- Al Berto -

sábado, 8 de fevereiro de 2014

"Vou sair para a rua, apetece-me andar à chuva. 
Sentir o peso da tempestade nos ossos. 
Enterrar-me na própria tempestade. 
A chuva escorrendo pela cara lavar-me-á da poeira da noite insone e do medo, branco medo daqueles tortuosos corredores onde me perco durante o sono, e procuro uma mão, uma corda de luz, um pedaço de espelho que me indique o caminho para ti." 

- Al Berto, em Diários

domingo, 5 de janeiro de 2014

Waves of emotion

Amanhã, ou enquanto dormes - agora mesmo -, vou pensar em ti

Amanhã, ou enquanto dormes - agora mesmo -, vou pensar em ti. Intensamente: até que as horas me doam sobre a pele, e o movimento dos dias passe como aves que perdem o sentido do voo - até que tudo o que me rodeia toma a forma do teu corpo.
E em mim circules - quando estendo a mão por dentro da noite e te acordo, no fogo dos meus olhos.

- Al Berto

This used to be my playground