Salaam. Namaskar. Good morning. Given my TED profile, you might be expecting that I'm going to speak to you about the latest philanthropic trends -- the one that's currently got Wall Street and the World Bank buzzing -- how to invest in women, how to empower them, how to save them.
Salaam. Namaskar. Dobro jutro. S obzirom na moj TED profil, vjerojatno očekujete da ću vam govoriti o najnovijim filantropskim trendovima -- o onome o kojemu Wall Street i Svjetska banka trenutno bruje -- kako uložiti u žene, kako ih osnažiti, kako ih spasiti.
Not me. I am interested in how women are saving us. They're saving us by redefining and re-imagining a future that defies and blurs accepted polarities, polarities we've taken for granted for a long time, like the ones between modernity and tradition, First World and Third World, oppression and opportunity. In the midst of the daunting challenges we face as a global community, there's something about this third way raga that is making my heart sing. What intrigues me most is how women are doing this, despite a set of paradoxes that are both frustrating and fascinating.
Ali ne ja. Mene zanima kako žene spašavaju nas. Spašavaju nas iznova definirajući i zamišljajući budućnost koja prkosi i zamagljuje prihvaćene suprotnosti, suprotnosti koje smo dugo uzimali zdravo za gotovo, poput onih između suvremenosti i tradicije, razvijenih zemalja i onih u razvoju, ugnjetavanja i mogućnosti. Usred zastrašujućih izazova s kojima smo kao globalna zajednica suočeni, ima nečega u ovoj melodiji promjene zbog koje moje srce pjeva. Ono što me najviše zanima jest kako žene to rade, unatoč skupu paradoksa, frustrirajućih i fascinantnih u isto vrijeme.
Why is it that women are, on the one hand, viciously oppressed by cultural practices, and yet at the same time, are the preservers of cultures in most societies? Is the hijab or the headscarf a symbol of submission or resistance? When so many women and girls are beaten, raped, maimed on a daily basis in the name of all kinds of causes -- honor, religion, nationality -- what allows women to replant trees, to rebuild societies, to lead radical, non-violent movements for social change? Is it different women who are doing the preserving and the radicalizing? Or are they one and the same? Are we guilty, as Chimamanda Adichie reminded us at the TED conference in Oxford, of assuming that there is a single story of women's struggles for their rights while there are, in fact, many? And what, if anything, do men have to do with it?
Zašto su žene, s jedne strane, okrutno ugnjetavane kulturnim običajima, a u isto su vrijeme one te koje će u većini društava kulturu očuvati? Je li hidžab, odnosno marama simbol pokornosti ili otpora? Kad je toliko žena i djevojaka svakodnevno prebijeno, silovano i osakaćeno zbog svakojakih razloga -- časti, religije, nacionalnosti -- što omogućava ženama da ponovno posade drveće, da izgrade društva, da predvode radikalne, nenasilne pokrete za društvenu promjenu? Jesu li to različite žene koje rade na očuvanju i na radikaliziranju? Ili su one jedna, ista žena? Jesmo li krivi, kako nas je Chimamanda Adichie podsjetila na TED konferenciji u Oxfordu, za pretpostavljanje da postoji samo jedna priča o borbama žena za svoja prava, dok ih, zapravo, ima mnogo? I što, ako išta, muškarci imaju s tim?
Much of my life has been a quest to get some answers to these questions. It's taken me across the globe and introduced me to some amazing people. In the process, I've gathered a few fragments that help me shed some light on this puzzle. Among those who've helped open my eyes to a third way are: a devout Muslim in Afghanistan, a group of harmonizing lesbians in Croatia and a taboo breaker in Liberia. I'm indebted to them, as I am to my parents, who for some set of misdemeanors in their last life, were blessed with three daughters in this one. And for reasons equally unclear to me, seem to be inordinately proud of the three of us.
Većina moga života bilo je traganje za odgovorima na ova pitanja. Odvelo me u sve krajeve svijeta i upoznala sam neke nevjerojatne ljude. Tijekom toga, skupila sam nekoliko dijelova koji su mi pomogli da shvatim ovu slagalicu. Među onima koji su mi pomogli da shvatim novi način jesu: pobožna muslimanka iz Afganistana, skupina raspjevanih lezbijki iz Hrvatske i kršiteljica tabua iz Liberije. Dužnica sam im, kao i svojim roditeljima, koji su zbog nekih nepodopština u prošlome životu bili blagoslovljeni trima kćerima u ovome. Iz nekih, meni nejasnih razloga, oni su, čini se, neizmjerno ponosni na nas tri.
I was born and raised here in India, and I learned from an early age to be deeply suspicious of the aunties and uncles who would bend down, pat us on the head and then say to my parents with no problem at all, "Poor things. You only have three daughters. But you're young, you could still try again." My sense of outrage about women's rights was brought to a boil when I was about 11. My aunt, an incredibly articulate and brilliant woman, was widowed early. A flock of relatives descended on her. They took off her colorful sari. They made her wear a white one. They wiped her bindi off her forehead. They broke her bangles. Her daughter, Rani, a few years older than me, sat in her lap bewildered, not knowing what had happened to the confident woman she once knew as her mother. Late that night, I heard my mother begging my father, "Please do something Ramu. Can't you intervene?" And my father, in a low voice, muttering, "I'm just the youngest brother, there's nothing I can do. This is tradition." That's the night I learned the rules about what it means to be female in this world. Women don't make those rules, but they define us, and they define our opportunities and our chances. And men are affected by those rules too. My father, who had fought in three wars, could not save his own sister from this suffering.
Rođena sam i odrasla ovdje, u Indiji, i u ranoj sam dobi naučila da treba biti sumnjičav prema rodbini koja bi se sagnula, potapšala nas po glavi i rekla mojim roditeljima bez suzdržavanja, "Jadni vi. Imate jedino tri kćeri. No mladi ste, još uvijek možete pokušati." Moj osjećaj bijesa u vezi prava žena kulminirao je kad mi je bilo oko 11 godina. Moja tetka, nevjerojatno rječita i briljantna žena, rano je ostala udovicom. Oko nje se skupilo jato rođaka. Skinuli su njezin raznobojni sari. Natjerali su ju da nosi bijeli. Obrisali su joj bindi s čela. Razbili narukvice. Njezina kći, Rani, nekoliko godina starija od mene, zbunjeno je sjedila u njezinu krilu, ne shvaćajući što se dogodilo samouvjerenoj ženi koju ju je znala kao svoju majku. Kasno te večeri, čula sam svoju majku kako preklinje oca: "Molim te, učini nešto, Ramu. Ne možeš li se umiješati?" Zatim je moj otac tiho promrmljao: "Ja sam samo najmlađi brat, ne mogu ništa učiniti. To je tradicija." Te sam večeri naučila pravila o tome što znači biti žensko u ovome svijetu. Žene ne smišljaju ta pravila, ali ona određuju nas, i određuju naše mogućnosti i naše prilike. Ta pravila utječu i na muškarce. Moj otac, koji se borio u tri rata, nije mogao spasiti vlastitu sestru od ove patnje.
By 18, under the excellent tutelage of my mother, I was therefore, as you might expect, defiantly feminist. On the streets chanting, "[Hindi] [Hindi] We are the women of India. We are not flowers, we are sparks of change." By the time I got to Beijing in 1995, it was clear to me, the only way to achieve gender equality was to overturn centuries of oppressive tradition. Soon after I returned from Beijing, I leapt at the chance to work for this wonderful organization, founded by women, to support women's rights organizations around the globe. But barely six months into my new job, I met a woman who forced me to challenge all my assumptions. Her name is Sakena Yacoobi.
Do 18. sam godine, pod izvrsnim vodstvom svoje majke, postala, kako ste možda već i pogodili, prkosna feministkinja. Na ulicama sam pjevala, "[Hindi] [Hindi] Mi smo žene Indije. Nismo cvijeće, mi smo iskre promjene." Kad sam stigla u Peking 1995., već mi je bilo jasno da je jedini način da se postigne jednakost spolova bio da se sruše stoljeća okrutne tradicije. Nedugo nakon povratka iz Pekinga, spremno sam prihvatila priliku da radim za divnu organizaciju koju su osnovale žene kako bi podržale prava žena diljem svijeta. No, nakon jedva šest mjeseci na tom poslu, upoznala sam ženu zbog koje sam morala posumnjatiu sve svoje pretpostavke. Njezino je ime Sakena Yacoobi.
She walked into my office at a time when no one knew where Afghanistan was in the United States. She said to me, "It is not about the burka." She was the most determined advocate for women's rights I had ever heard. She told me women were running underground schools in her communities inside Afghanistan, and that her organization, the Afghan Institute of Learning, had started a school in Pakistan. She said, "The first thing anyone who is a Muslim knows is that the Koran requires and strongly supports literacy. The prophet wanted every believer to be able to read the Koran for themselves." Had I heard right? Was a women's rights advocate invoking religion? But Sakena defies labels. She always wears a headscarf, but I've walked alongside with her on a beach with her long hair flying in the breeze. She starts every lecture with a prayer, but she's a single, feisty, financially independent woman in a country where girls are married off at the age of 12.
Ušetala je u moj ured u vrijeme kad nitko u SAD-u nije znao gdje se nalazi Afganistan. Rekla mi je: "Nije stvar u burki." Bila je najodlučniji zagovaratelj prava žena kojega sam ikad čula. Rekla mi je da žene drže i vode tajne škole u njezinim zajednicama u Afganistanu, te da je njezina udruga, Afganistanski institut za učenje, otvorila školu u Pakistanu. Rekla je: "Jedna stvar koju zna svaki musliman jest ta da Kuran zahtijeva i snažno potiče pismenost. Prorok je želio da svaki vjernik bude u mogućnosti sam čitati Kuran." Jesam li dobro čula? Zar se to zagovarateljlica prava žena pozivala na religiju? No, Sakena prezire etikete. Oko glave uvijek nosi maramu, no hodala sam uz nju na plaži, gdje svoju dugu kosu pusti da leti na povjetarcu. Svako predavanje započinje molitvom, no ona je sama, borbena, financijski neovisna žena u zemlji gdje djevojke daju u brak s 12 godina.
She is also immensely pragmatic. "This headscarf and these clothes," she says, "give me the freedom to do what I need to do to speak to those whose support and assistance are critical for this work. When I had to open the school in the refugee camp, I went to see the imam. I told him, 'I'm a believer, and women and children in these terrible conditions need their faith to survive.'" She smiles slyly. "He was flattered. He began to come twice a week to my center because women could not go to the mosque. And after he would leave, women and girls would stay behind. We began with a small literacy class to read the Koran, then a math class, then an English class, then computer classes. In a few weeks, everyone in the refugee camp was in our classes." Sakena is a teacher at a time when to educate women is a dangerous business in Afghanistan.
Također je neizmjerno pragmatična. "Ova marama i odjeća", kaže, "daju mi slobodu da radim što moram kako bih razgovarala s onima čije su potpora i pomoć ključne za ovaj posao. Kada sam trebala otvoriti školu u izbjegličkom kampu, posjetila sam imama. Rekla sam mu: 'Ja sam vjernica, a žene i djeca u ovim užasnim uvjetima trebaju vjeru kako bi preživjeli.'" Lukavo se nasmiješila. "Bio je polaskan. Počeo je dolaziti dvaput tjedno u moj centar, budući da žene nisu mogle ući u džamiju. Nakon što bi otišao, žene i djevojke su ostajale. Počeli smo s malim satovima pisanja i čitanja Kurana, zatim sa satom matematike, zatim engleskog, pa informatike. Kroz nekoliko tjedana, svi iz izbjegličkog kampa počeli su pohađati te satove." Sakena je učiteljica u vrijeme kad je obrazovanje žena u Afganistanu opasan posao.
She is on the Taliban's hit list. I worry about her every time she travels across that country. She shrugs when I ask her about safety. "Kavita jaan, we cannot allow ourselves to be afraid. Look at those young girls who go back to school when acid is thrown in their face." And I smile, and I nod, realizing I'm watching women and girls using their own religious traditions and practices, turning them into instruments of opposition and opportunity. Their path is their own and it looks towards an Afghanistan that will be different.
Na talibanskoj je listi za odstrel. Brinem se za nju svaki put kad putuje kroz tu zemlju. Ona samo slegne ramenima kad ju pitam za sigurnost. "Kavita jaan, ne možemo si dopustiti strah. Pogledaj sve ove djevojke koje se vraćaju u školu nakon što im bace kiselinu u lice." Samo se nasmijem i kimnem, shvativši da gledam žene i djevojke koje koriste vlastite religijske tradicije i običaje i pretvaraju ih u sredstva otpora i novih prilika. Njihov je put samo njihov i vodi prema Afganistanu koji će biti drugačiji.
Being different is something the women of Lesbor in Zagreb, Croatia know all too well. To be a lesbian, a dyke, a homosexual in most parts of the world, including right here in our country, India, is to occupy a place of immense discomfort and extreme prejudice. In post-conflict societies like Croatia, where a hyper-nationalism and religiosity have created an environment unbearable for anyone who might be considered a social outcast. So enter a group of out dykes, young women who love the old music that once spread across that region from Macedonia to Bosnia, from Serbia to Slovenia. These folk singers met at college at a gender studies program. Many are in their 20s, some are mothers. Many have struggled to come out to their communities, in families whose religious beliefs make it hard to accept that their daughters are not sick, just queer. As Leah, one of the founders of the group, says, "I like traditional music very much. I also like rock and roll. So Lesbor, we blend the two. I see traditional music like a kind of rebellion, in which people can really speak their voice, especially traditional songs from other parts of the former Yugoslav Republic. After the war, lots of these songs were lost, but they are a part of our childhood and our history, and we should not forget them."
Biti drugačijima nešto je što žene Le Zbora u Zagrebu, u Hrvatskoj znaju i više nego dobro. Biti lezbijka, lezbača, homoseksualac, u većini dijelova svijeta, pa tako i ovdje u našoj zemlji, Indiji, znači biti izložen beskrajnoj nelagodi i ekstremnim predrasudama. U postkonfliktnim društvima poput Hrvatske, gdje su hipernacionalizam i religioznost stvorili nepodnošljivu okolinu za bilo koga tko bi se mogao smatrati društvenim izopćenikom. Pogledajmo skupinu priznatih lezbi, mladih žena koje vole staru glazbu koja se nekada orila tom regijom od Makedonije do Bosne, od Srbije do Slovenije. Te pjevačice narodne glazbe upoznale su se na rodnim studijama. Mnoge imaju 20-ak godina, neke su majke. Mnoge su se mučile da se otkriju svojim zajednicama, obiteljima čija religijska uvjerenja otežavaju da prihvate da njihove kćeri nisu bolesne, samo neobične. Lea, jedna od osnivačica skupine, kaže: "Jako volim tradicionalnu glazbu. Također volim rock and roll. U Le Zboru, spajamo to dvoje. Smatram tradicionalnu glazbu nekom vrstom pobune, u kojoj ljudi zbilja mogu reći što misle, posebno tradicionalne pjesme iz drugih dijelova bivše Jugoslavije. Nakon rata, mnogo je tih pjesama izgubljeno, no, one su dio našega djetinjstva i naše povijesti i ne bismo ih trebali zaboraviti."
Improbably, this LGBT singing choir has demonstrated how women are investing in tradition to create change, like alchemists turning discord into harmony. Their repertoire includes the Croatian national anthem, a Bosnian love song and Serbian duets. And, Leah adds with a grin, "Kavita, we especially are proud of our Christmas music, because it shows we are open to religious practices even though Catholic Church hates us LGBT." Their concerts draw from their own communities, yes, but also from an older generation: a generation that might be suspicious of homosexuality, but is nostalgic for its own music and the past it represents. One father, who had initially balked at his daughter coming out in such a choir, now writes songs for them. In the Middle Ages, troubadours would travel across the land singing their tales and sharing their verses: Lesbor travels through the Balkans like this, singing, connecting people divided by religion, nationality and language. Bosnians, Croats and Serbs find a rare shared space of pride in their history, and Lesbor reminds them that the songs one group often claims as theirs alone really belong to them all.
Začudo, ovaj LGBT zbor pokazao je kako žene ulažu u tradiciju kako bi potaknule promjenu, poput alkemičarki pretvaraju nesklad u sklad. Njihov repertoar uključuje hrvatsku himnu, bosansku ljubavnu pjesmu i srpske duete. Lea sa smiješkom dodaje: "Kavita, izrazito se ponosimo našom božićnom glazbom, jer pokazuje da smo otvorene prema religiji iako Katolička crkva mrzi LGBT." Inspiraciju pronalaze u vlastitim zajednicama, istina, no također i u starijoj generaciji: generaciji koja možda osjeća sumnju prema homoseksualnosti, ali i nostalgiju prema svojoj glazbi i prošlosti koju predstavlja. Jedan otac, koji je isprva sprječavao kćer da se otkrije u takvome zboru, sada za njih piše pjesme. U Srednjem su vijeku trubaduri putovali diljem zemlje pjevajući svoje priče i stihove: Le Zbor tako putuje Balkanom, pjevajući, spajajući ljude podijeljene religijom, nacionalnošću i jezikom. Bošnjaci, Hrvati i Srbi dijele rijedak zajednički osjećaj ponosa u svojoj povijesti, a Le Zbor ih podsjeća da pjesme koje jedan narod često svojata zapravo pripadaju svima njima.
(Singing)
(Pjevanje)
Yesterday, Mallika Sarabhai showed us that music can create a world more accepting of difference than the one we have been given. The world Leymah Gbowee was given was a world at war. Liberia had been torn apart by civil strife for decades. Leymah was not an activist, she was a mother of three. But she was sick with worry: She worried her son would be abducted and taken off to be a child soldier, she worried her daughters would be raped, she worried for their lives. One night, she had a dream. She dreamt she and thousands of other women ended the bloodshed. The next morning at church, she asked others how they felt. They were all tired of the fighting. We need peace, and we need our leaders to know we will not rest until there is peace. Among Leymah's friends was a policewoman who was Muslim. She promised to raise the issue with her community.
Jučer nam je Mallika Sarabhai pokazala da glazba može stvoriti svijet koji prihvaća različitost spremnije nego ovaj u kojem živimo. Svijet u kojem je Leymah Gbowee živjela bio je svijet u ratu. Liberija je desetljećima razdirana građanskom sukobom. Leymah nije bila aktivistkinja, bila je majka troje djece. No, razdirala ju je briga. Brinula se da će joj oteti sina i učiniti ga malim vojnikom, bojala se da će joj kćeri biti silovane, bojala se za njihove živote. Jedne je noći usnula san. Sanjala je da su ona i tisuće drugih žena stale na kraj krvoproliću. Idućeg je jutra u crkvi druge pitala što misle o tome. Svima je bilo dosta borbe. Želimo mir i želimo da naši vođe znaju da nećemo mirovati dok ne nastupi mir. Među Leyminim prijateljicama bila je policajka, muslimanka. Obećala je da će problem iznijeti svojoj zajednici.
At the next Friday sermon, the women who were sitting in the side room of the mosque began to share their distress at the state of affairs. "What does it matter?" they said, "A bullet doesn't distinguish between a Muslim and a Christian." This small group of women, determined to bring an end to the war, and they chose to use their traditions to make a point: Liberian women usually wear lots of jewelry and colorful clothing. But no, for the protest, they dressed all in white, no makeup. As Leymah said, "We wore the white saying we were out for peace." They stood on the side of the road on which Charles Taylor's motorcade passed every day. They stood for weeks -- first just 10, then 20, then 50, then hundreds of women -- wearing white, singing, dancing, saying they were out for peace.
Idućeg petka na misi, žene koje su sjedile u posebnoj prostoriji džamije izrazile su zabrinutost oko stanja stvari. "Kakve veze ima?" rekle su, "Metak ne razlikuje muslimana od kršćanina." Ova mala skupina žena, odlučna da stane ratu na kraj, uzele su tradiciju kao oruđe kojim bi nešto dokazale: žene Liberije obično nose mnoštvo nakita i šarenu odjeću. Međutim, za protest su se odjenule u bijelo, nenašminkane. Leymah je rekla, "Obukle smo bijelo da pokažemo da smo tu zbog mira." Stale su na stranu ceste na kojoj je povorka Charlesa Taylora prolazila svaki dan. Stajale su tjednima -- prvo njih 10, zatim 20, pa 50, zatim stotine žena -- sve u bijelom, pjevajući, plešući, govoreći da su tu za mir.
Eventually, opposing forces in Liberia were pushed to hold peace talks in Ghana. The peace talks dragged on and on and on. Leymah and her sisters had had enough. With their remaining funds, they took a small group of women down to the venue of the peace talks and they surrounded the building. In a now famous CNN clip, you can see them sitting on the ground, their arms linked. We know this in India. It's called a [Hindi]. Then things get tense. The police are called in to physically remove the women. As the senior officer approaches with a baton, Leymah stands up with deliberation, reaches her arms up over her head, and begins, very slowly, to untie her headdress that covers her hair. You can see the policeman's face. He looks embarrassed. He backs away. And the next thing you know, the police have disappeared. Leymah said to me later, "It's a taboo, you know, in West Africa. If an older woman undresses in front of a man because she wants to, the man's family is cursed." (Laughter) (Applause) She said, "I don't know if he did it because he believed, but he knew we were not going to leave. We were not going to leave until the peace accord was signed."
Naposljetku, suprotstavljene snage Liberije bile su prisiljene održati mirovne pregovore u Gani. Pregovori su se odužili u nedogled. Leymi i njenim sestrama bilo je dosta. S preostalim su sredstvima povele malu skupinu žena do mjesta mirovnih pregovora i opkolile zgradu. U poznatom CNN-ovom isječku može ih se vidjeti kako isprepletenih ruku sjede na zemlji. Mi u Indiji znamo za ovo. Zove se [Hindi]. Stvari postaju napete. Pozvana je policija da fizičkom silom odvede žene. Kako se policajac približavao s pendrekom, tako je Leymah promišljeno ustala, podigla ruke iznad glave i, vrlo polako, počela razmotavati maramu koja joj je pokrivala kosu. Moglo se vidjeti policajčevo lice. Izgledao je posramljeno. Ustuknuo je. I prije nego se itko snašao, policija je nestala. Leymah mi je kasnije rekla: "Znaš, to je tabu u Zapadnoj Africi. Ako se starija žena razodjene pred muškarcem jer ona to želi, njegova je obitelj prokleta." (Smijeh) (Pljesak) Rekla je: "Ne znam je li to učinio jer je vjerovao u to, ali znao je da mi ne kanimo otići. Nismo mislile otići dok mirovni sporazum ne bude potpisan."
And the peace accord was signed. And the women of Liberia then mobilized in support of Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, a woman who broke a few taboos herself becoming the first elected woman head of state in Africa in years. When she made her presidential address, she acknowledged these brave women of Liberia who allowed her to win against a football star -- that's soccer for you Americans -- no less.
Sporazum je i bio potpisan. Žene Liberije tada su krenule u potporu Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, ženi koja je i sama kršila tabue postavši prvom ženom koja je izabrana na čelo države u Africi nakon mnogo godina. Kad je držala svoj predsjednički govor, odala je priznanje ovim hrabrim ženama Liberije, koje su joj omoguće da odnese pobjedu nad nogometnom zvijezdom, ništa manje.
Women like Sakena and Leah and Leymah have humbled me and changed me and made me realize that I should not be so quick to jump to assumptions of any kind. They've also saved me from my righteous anger by offering insights into this third way. A Filipina activist once said to me, "How do you cook a rice cake? With heat from the bottom and heat from the top." The protests, the marches, the uncompromising position that women's rights are human rights, full stop. That's the heat from the bottom. That's Malcolm X and the suffragists and gay pride parades. But we also need the heat from the top. And in most parts of the world, that top is still controlled by men.
Zbog žena poput Sakene i Lee i Leyme postala sam skromnija i promijenila sam se. Zbog njih sam shvatila da ne trebam brzati prema bilo kakvim zaključcima. Također su me spasile od moga pravedničkog bijesa pokazujući mi ovaj treći način. Jedna filipinska aktivistica jednom mi je rekla: "Kako ispeći kolač od riže? Vrućinom odozdo i vrućinom odozgo." Protesti, marševi, nepopustljiv stav da su prava žena ljudska prava, točka. To je vrućina odozdo. To su Malcolm X i sufražetkinje i gay pride parade. No, trebamo i vrućinu odozgo. A u većem dijelu svijeta, taj vrh još uvijek drže muškarci.
So to paraphrase Marx: Women make change, but not in circumstances of their own choosing. They have to negotiate. They have to subvert tradition that once silenced them in order to give voice to new aspirations. And they need allies from their communities. Allies like the imam, allies like the father who now writes songs for a lesbian group in Croatia, allies like the policeman who honored a taboo and backed away, allies like my father, who couldn't help his sister but has helped three daughters pursue their dreams. Maybe this is because feminism, unlike almost every other social movement, is not a struggle against a distinct oppressor -- it's not the ruling class or the occupiers or the colonizers -- it's against a deeply held set of beliefs and assumptions that we women, far too often, hold ourselves.
Da parafraziram Marxa: Žene prave promjenu, ali ne u okolnostima koje su same izabrale. Moraju pregovarati. Moraju rušiti tradiciju koja ih je nekoć ušutkavala kako bi dale glas novim težnjama. Trebaju im i saveznici iz njihovih zajednica. Saveznici poput imama, saveznici poput oca koji sada piše pjesme za lezbijsku skupinu iz Hrvatske, saveznici poput policajca koji je ispoštovao tabu i ustuknuo, saveznici poput mog oca, koji nije mogao pomoći sestri, no pomogao je trima kćerima da slijede snove. Možda je tako jer feminizam, za razliku od gotovo svih drugih društvenih pokreta, nije borba protiv određenog tiranina -- ne bori se protiv vladajućih, niti okupatora ili kolonizatora -- to je borba protiv duboko ukorijenjenih uvjerenja i pretpostavki u koje mi, žene, prečesto, i same vjerujemo.
And perhaps this is the ultimate gift of feminism, that the personal is in fact the political. So that, as Eleanor Roosevelt said once of human rights, the same is true of gender equality: that it starts in small places, close to home. On the streets, yes, but also in negotiations at the kitchen table and in the marital bed and in relationships between lovers and parents and sisters and friends. And then you realize that by integrating aspects of tradition and community into their struggles, women like Sakena and Leah and Leymah -- but also women like Sonia Gandhi here in India and Michelle Bachelet in Chile and Shirin Ebadi in Iran -- are doing something else. They're challenging the very notion of Western models of development. They are saying, we don't have to be like you to make change. We can wear a sari or a hijab or pants or a boubou, and we can be party leaders and presidents and human rights lawyers. We can use our tradition to navigate change. We can demilitarize societies and pour resources, instead, into reservoirs of genuine security.
Možda je konačni dar feminizma taj da je ono osobno u stvari političko. Tako da, kako je Eleanor Roosevelt jednom rekla za ljudska prava, isto vrijedi i za jednakost spolova: počinje na malim mjestima, blizu doma. Na ulicama, istina, ali i u raspravama za kuhinjskim stolom i u bračnoj postelji, i u vezama između ljubavnika i roditelja, i sestara i prijatelja. Zatim shvatite da integrirajući aspekte tradicije i zajednice u svoje borbe, žene poput Sakene, Lee i Leyme -- ali i žene poput Sonie Gandhi ovdje u Indiji i Michelle Bachelet u Čileu i Shirin Ebadi u Iranu -- rade nešo drugo. One osporavaju samu ideju zapadnjačkih modela razvoja. Govore: ne moramo biti poput vas da bismo nešto promijenile. Možemo nositi sari ili hidžab, hlače ili boubou, i možemo biti stranački vođe i predsjednice i odvjetnice za ljudska prava. Možemo iskoristiti svoju tradiciju da usmjerimo promjenu. Možemo demilitarizirati društva, a resursima puniti rezervoare istinske sigurnosti.
It is in these little stories, these individual stories, that I see a radical epic being written by women around the world. It is in these threads that are being woven into a resilient fabric that will sustain communities, that I find hope. And if my heart is singing, it's because in these little fragments, every now and again, you catch a glimpse of a whole, of a whole new world. And she is definitely on her way.
Upravo u ovim malim pričama, ovim individualnim pričama, vidim radikalni ep koji pišu žene diljem svijeta. Upravo u ovim nitima koje se šiju u tkaninu otpora koja će poduprijeti zajednice, nalazim nadu. I ako moje srce pjeva, to je zato što u ovim komadićima, svako malo uhvatimo dašak novog, potpuno novog svijeta. Ona je definitovno dolazi.
Thank you.
Hvala.
(Applause)
(Pljesak)