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, možda očekujete da ću pričati o poslednjim filantropskim trendovima, onim o kome trenutno Vol Strit i Svetska banka pričaju, kako investirati 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 ja ne. Mene interesuje kako žene spašavaju nas. One nas spašavaju redefinisanjem i ponovinim osmišljavanjem budućnosti koja prkosi i zamagljuje opšte prihvaćene polaritete, polaritete koje smo mi uzimali za gotovo dugo vremena, kao one između modernog i tradicije, prvog i trećeg sveta, ugnjetavanja i mogućnosti. Usred velikih izazova sa kojima se suočavamo kao globalna zajednica, ima nešto u ovom novom pristupu zbog čega mi srce peva. Ono što me najviše intrigira je to kako ove žene to rade, uprkos skupu paradoksa koji su u isto vreme frustrirajući i fascinirajući.
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 sa jedne strane žestoko ugnjetavane običajima, a ipak, u isto vreme, su čuvari kulture u većini društava? Da li je hidžab ili marama za glavu simbol potčinjenosti ili otpora? Kada je toliko puno žena i devojaka tučeno, silovano, osakaćeno, svakodnevno, u ime raznih povoda, časti, religije, nacionalnosti, šta omogućava ženama da opet posade stabla, da opet izgrade zajednice, da vode radikalne, nenasilne pokrete radi socijalnih promena? Da li to drugačije žene rade na očuvanju i radikalizaciji? Ili su one iste? Da li smo krivi, kako nas je Čimamanda Adiči podsetila na TED konferenciji u Oksfordu, što pretpostavljamo da postoji samo jedna priča o ženskoj borbi za prava, iako postoje u stvari mnoge. I šta, ako išta, muškarci imaju sa 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 mog života je bila traganje da dobijem neke odgovore na ova pitanja. Odvelo me je širom sveta i upoznalo sa mnogim neverovatnim ljudima. U tom procesu sam sakupila nekoliko odgovora koji su mi pomogli da bacim malo svetla na tu zagonetku. Među onima koju su mi pomogli da otvorim oči ka trećem "putu", su posvećene Muslimanke iz Avganistana grupa usaglašenih lezbejki u Hrvatskoj i tabu kršilac u Liberiji. One su me zadužile, kao što sam dužna svojim roditeljima, koji su zbog prekršaja u prošlom životu, blagosloveni sa tri ćerke u ovom. I zbog razloga meni podjednako nejasnih, čudno su 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.
Ja sam rođena i odrasla ovde u Indiji, i naučila sam u ranim godinama, da budem veoma sumnjičava prema ujnama i ujacima, koji bi se savili, pomazili nas po glavi i onda rekli mojim roditeljima bez ikakvih problema "Jadni vi. Imate samo tri ćerke. Ali mladi ste. I dalje možete da pokušavate." Moj osećaj besa, u vezi ženskih prava je doživeo tačku ključanja kada sam imala oko 11 godina. Moja ujna, neverovatno rečita i brilijantna žena, postala je rano udovica. Jato rođaka se obrušilo na nju. Uzeli su joj sarije u boji, naterali je da nosi samo beli. Obrisali su joj bindi sa čela. Slomili su joj narukvice. Njena ćerka, Rani, par godina starija od mene, sedela je u njenom krilu, zbunjena ne znajući šta se desilo sa jakom ženom koju je nekada znala kao svoju majku. Kasno te večeri, čula sam moju majku kako moli mog oca, "Molim te Ramu, učini nešto. Zar ne možeš da se umešaš? A moj otac, je tihim glasom, mrmljajući, "Ja sam samo najmlađi brat, ne postoji ništa što ja mogu da uradim. To je tradicija." To je noć kada sam naučila pravila o tome šta znači biti žensko u ovom svetu. Žene ne prave ta pravila ali ona nas definišu i definišu naše mogućnosti i naše šanse. i muškarci su pogođeni tim pravilima takodje. Moj otac, koji se borio u tri rata, nije mogao da spasi svoju 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.
U 18. godini pod odličnim tutorstvom moje majke, prkoseći postala sam, kao sto se i moglo očekivati, feministkinja. Na ulici vikala, (Hindi) (Hindi) "Mi smo žene Indije. Mi nismo cveće mi smo varnice promena" Do trenutka kada sam otišla za Peking 1995. bilo mi je jasno, da je jedini put ka ravnopravnosti polova bio da se preokrenu vekovi opresivne tradicije. Ubrzo kako sam se vratila iz Pekinga dobila sam šansu da radim u predivnoj organizaciji, osnovanoj od strane žena, radi podrške organizacijama za ženska prava po celom svetu. Jedva šest meseci po početku mog novog posla sam upoznala ženu koja me je naterala da preispitam sve moje pretpostavke. Njeno ime je Sakena Jakubi.
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.
Ušla je u moju kancelariju u vreme kada niko u Americi nije znao gde se nalazi Avganistan. Rekla mi je: "Nije u pitanju burka". Ona je bila najodlučnija zagovornica za ženska prava koju sam ikada slušala. Rekla mi je da žene vode ilegalene škole u njenim zajednicama u Avganistanu, a da je njena organizacija, Avganistanski Institut za učenje. pokrenula školu u Pakistanu. Ona je rekla: "Prva stvar koju neko ko je Muliman zna je da Kuran zahteva i jako podržava pismenost. Prorok je želeo da svaki vernik može sam da čita Kuran". Da li sam dobro čula? Da li se zagovornica ženskih prava poziva na religiju? Ali Sakena prkosi oznakama. Ona uvek nosi maramu za glavu. Ali smo šetale plažom i njena kosa je bila puštena i letela na povetarcu. Svako predavanje je počinjala molitvom, ali ona je sama, odlučna, finansijski nezavisna žena u zemlji gde su devojčice udavane sa 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.
Ona je takođe izuzetno pragmatična. "Ova marama za glavu i ova odeća," govorila je, "daje mi slobodu da radim ono što moram da radim da govorim sa onima čija je podrška i pomoć ključna za ovaj posao. Kada sam morala da otvorim školu u izbegličkom kampu, otišla sam da vidim imama. Rekla sam mu: "Ja sam vernik, a ženama i deci u ovom teškim uslovima potrebna je vera da bi preživeli" Osmehnula se lukavo. "Bio je polaskan. Počeo je da dolazi dva puta nedeljeno u moj centar zato što žene nisu smele da idu u džamiju. I kada bi odlazio, žene i devojčice su ostajale. Počinjali smo malim časom primenosti da bi čitale Kuran zatim čas matematike, čas engleskog i čas kompjutera. Za nekoliko nedelja, svako iz kampa je dolazio na naše časove." Sakena je bila učitelj u vreme kada je obrazovati ženu u Avganistanu bilo jako opasno.
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.
Ona je bila na talibanskoj listi za odstrel. Brinula sam se svaki put kada je putovala kroz zemlju. Ona sleže ramenima kada je pitam o bezbednosti. "Kavita-džan, ne možemo da dozvolimo da budemo uplašene. Pogledaj te devojčice koje su se vratile u školu nakon što im je kiselina bačena u lice." Ja sam se smešila i klimala glavom shvatajući da gledam žene i devojke koje koriste svoju religioznu tradiciju i umeće, kao instrumente otpora i mogućnosti. Njihov put je samo njihov i gleda ka Avganistanu koji će se promeniti.
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 drugačiji je nešto što žene Lesbora u Zagrebu, u Hrvatskoj znaju veoma dobro. Biti lezbejka, "dyke", homoseksualac u većini delova sveta, uključujući i ovde u našoj zemlji, Inidiji, znači zauzeti mesto ogromne neprijatnosti i ekstremnih predrasuda. U post-konfliktnom društvu kao što je Hrvatska, gde su hiper nacionalizam i religija stvorili okruženje, nepodnošljivo za bilo koga ko bi se mogao smatrati društvenim izgnanikom. Upoznajte grupu "izgnanih-lezbejki" maldih žena koje vole staru muziku koja se jednom širila kroz ceo region od Makedonije do Bosne, od Srbije do Slovenije. Ove devojke su se upoznale na univerzitetu na rodnim studijama. Mnoge od njih su u 20-im godinama. Neke su majke. Mnoge su se borile da svojim zajednicama priznaju svoje opredeljenje. U porodicama religioznih verovanja je teško prihvatiti da njihove ćerke nisu bolesne, već samo homoseksualke. Kao što Lea, jedna od osnivača grupe kaže, "Ja jako volim tradicionalnu muziku. Ali takođe volim i rok en rol. Tako je Lesbor spojio ta dva. Tradicionalnu muziku posmatram kao vrstu pobune, u kojoj ljudi stvarno mogu da kažu ono što žele, posebno tradicionalne pesme iz drugih delova bivše Republike Jugoslavije. Posle rata, mnoge od ovih pesama su izgubljene. Ali one su deo našeg detinjstva i naše istorije, i mi ne smemo da ih zaboravimo."
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.
Neverovatno, ovaj L.G.B.T pevački hor je demonstrirao kako žene investiraju u tradiciju da bi napravile promene, kao što alhemičari pokušavaju da razdor pretvore u harmoniju. Njihov repertoar uključuje hrvatsku nacionalnu himnu, bosansku ljubavnu pesmu i srpske duete. I Lea dodaje sa smeškom "Kavita, mi smo posebno ponosne na našu Božićnu muziku jer pokazuje da smo otvorene ka religioznim obredima iako Katolička crkva mrzi nas L.G.B.T." Njihovi koncerti su izvučeni iz njihovih zajednica, da, ali takođe i od starijih generacija, generacija koje možda sumnjaju u homoseksualizam, ali su nostalgične za njihovom muzikom i prošlosti koju predstavlja. Jedan otac koji je prvobitno odbacio svoju ćerku kada je došla u ovaj hor, sada piše pesme za njih. U srednjem veku, trubaduri su putovali kroz zemlju pevajući svoje priče i deleći svoje stihove. Lesbor tako putuje Balkanom, pevajući, povezujući ljude koji su podeljeni religijom, nacionalnošću i jezikom, Bosanci, Hrvati i Srbi pronalaze retke zajedničke trenutke ponosa u svojoj istoriji i Lesbor ih podseća da pesme koje jedna grupa često prisvaja, u stvari pripadaju svima njima.
(Singing)
(Pevanje)
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.
Juče nam je Malika Sarabhai pokazala da muzika može da stvori svet koji više prihvata različitost nego onaj koji nam je dat. Svet koji je dat Lajmi Bovi bio je svet rata. Liberija je bila rascepana građanskim ratom decenijama. Lajma nije bila aktivistkinja, ona je bila majka troje dece. Ali bila je bolesna od brige. Strahovala je da će njen sin biti otet i da će postati dete vojnik. Strahovala je da će njene ćerke biti silovane. Strahovala je za njihove živote. Jedne noći, sanjala je san. Sanjala je kako su ona i hiljade drugih žena zaustavile krvoproliće. Sledećeg jutra u crkvi, pitala je ostale kako se osećaju. Svi oni su bili umorni od borbi. Potreban nam je mir, a i potrebno je da naše vođe znaju da se mi nećemo smiriti dok ne bude mira. Među Lajminim prijateljima, bila je žena policajac koja je bila Muslimanka. Ona je obećala da će da pokrene to pitanje sa svojom zajednicom.
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.
I sledećeg petka na misi žene koje su sedele u sporednoj sobi džamije počele su da izražavaju nezadovoljstvo trenutnim stanjem. "Šta je tu bitno?" rekle su one, "Metak ne pravi razliku između Muslimana i Hrišćanina." Mala grupa žena je odlučila da rat privede kraju. Odlučile su da koriste svoju tradiciju da bi pokazale šta misle. Liberijske žene obično nose dosta nakita i šarenu odeću. Ali ne, za protest, one su se obukle u belo, bez šminke. Kao što je Lajma rekla: "Mi nosimo belo da bi rekle da smo za mir." Stajale su na strani puta na kojoj povorka automobila Čarlsa Tejlora svakodnevno prolazi. Stajale su tako nedeljama, prvo samo njih 10, pa 20, onda 50 i na kraju stotine žena noseći belo, pevajući, igrajući govoreći da su tu zbog mira.
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."
Konačno, suprotstavljene snage u Liberiji su bile prinuđene da održe mirovne razgovore u Gani. Mirovni razgovori su se odužili. Lajmi i njenim sestrama je bilo dosta svega. Sa preostalim sredstvima, povele su malu grupu žena na mesto gde se mirovni razgovori održavaju, i okružile su zgradu. U sada već poznatom, CNN snimku, možete ih videti kako sede na zemlji, držeći se za ruke. Znamo ovo u Indiji. Zove se [Hindi]. Tada su stvari postale napete. Pozvana je policija da fizički pomeri žene. Visoki oficir pristupa sa palicom, Lajma ustaje, razmišlja, kreće svojim rukama ka svojoj glavi i počinje, veoma plako da odvezuje maramu koja joj pokriva kosu. Možete videti lice policajca. On izgleda posramljeno. Povlači se. I sledeća stvar koja se dešava je da je policija nestala. Lajma mi je kasnije rekla, "To je tabu, znaš, u Zapadnoj Africi. Ako se starija žena skine ispred muškarca zato što ona to hoće, porodica tog muškarca će biti prokleta." (Smeh) (Aplauz) Rekla je: "Ne znam da li je to uradio zato što veruje u to, ali je znao da mi nećemo nigde otići. Mi nećemo otići sve dok se mir ne potpiše."
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.
I mir je potpisan. A žene Liberije su se tada udružile i podržale Elen Džonson Sirlif, ženu koja je isto razbila nekoliko tabua i postala prva izabrana žena na čelu države u Africi u poslednje vreme. Kada je imala svoje predsedničko obraćanje, priznala je hrabrost ovih žena Liberije koje su joj pomogle da pobedi protiv fudbalske zvezde - za vas Amerikance, mislim na evropski fudbal - ne 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.
Žene kao Sakena i Lea i Lajma su me načinile skromnom i promenile me i pomogle da shvatim da ne treba da budem brzopleta sa bilo kakvim pretpostavkama. Takođe su me spasile mog pravednog gneva nudeći uvid u ovaj "treći način". Filipinska aktiviskinja mi je jednom rekla, "Kako kuvaš tortu od pirinča? Sa toplotom sa dna i sa vrha." Protesti, marševi, beskompromisni stav da ženska prava jesu ljudska prava, i tačka. To je toplota sa dna. To su Malcolm X i oni koju su glasali za prava žena i tu su gej parade. Ali nam je takođe potrebna i toplota sa vrha. U većini delova sveta taj vrh i dalje kontrolišu 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 Marksa: Žene prave promene ali ne u okolnostima po sopstvenom izboru. One moraju da pregovaraju. Moraju da poruše tradiciju koja ih je jednom ućutkivala kako bi dale glas novim težnjama. I potrebni su im saveznici u njihovim zajednicama, saveznici kao imam, saveznici kao otac koji piše pesme za grupu lezbejki u Hrvarskoj, saveznici kao policajac koji je poštujući tabu ustuknuo, saveznici kao moj otac, koji nije mogao da pomogne svojoj sestri, ali je pomogao svojim trima ćerkama da slede svoje snove. Možda je ovo zato što feminizam, za razliku od svih ostalih društvenih pokreta, nije okrenut protiv tačno određenog ugnjetavača. Nije u pitanju vladajuća klasa niti okupatori ili kolonizatori, usmeren je protiv duboko urezanog sistema razmišljanja i pretpostavki da mi žene prečesto suzdržavamo svoje mogućnosti.
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.
I možda je ovo glavni dar feminizma, da je lično u stvari politička stvar. Tako da, kako je Elenor Ruzvelt jednom rekla o ljudskim pravima, i isto važi i za jednakost polova, da se sa time počinje na malim mestima, blizu doma. Na ulicama, da, ali takođe i u pregovorima za kuhinjskim stolom i u bračnom krevetu i u odnosima ljubavnika i roditelja i sestara i prijatelja. I tada, tada shvatite da uključivanjem aspekata tradicije i zajednice u svoje borbe, žene poput Sakene, Lee i Lajme, ali takođe i Sonje Gandi ovde u Indiji i Mihele Bačelet u Čileu i Shirin Ebadi u Iranu rade nešto drugo. One dovode u pitanje samu osnovu zapadnjačkih modela razvoja. One kažu, ne moramo biti kao vi da bismo napravile promenu. Možemo nositi sari ili hidžab ili pantalone ili boubou, i možemo voditi partije i biti predsednice i advokati za ljudska prava. Možemo koristiti tradiciju kao vodilju kroz promene. Možemo ukidati vojske i prebacivati resurse umesto toga u izvore prave 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 ličnim pričama, ja vidim radikalno epsko delo koje pišu žene širom sveta. Upravo u ovim nitima koje se pletu u jak materijal koji će opstati u zajednicama, ja vidim nadu. I ako mi srce peva, to je zbog ovih malih fragmenata, s vremena na vreme, uhvatimo tren potpuno, potpuno novog sveta. I ona je definitivno na svom putu.
Thank you.
Hvala vam.
(Applause)
(Aplauz)