So my story starts on July 4, 1992, the day my mother followed her college sweetheart to New York City from Egypt. As fireworks exploded behind the skyline, my father looked at my mother jokingly and said, "Look, habibti, Americans are celebrating your arrival." (Laughter)
Moja priča počinje 4. jula 1992. godine, dana kada je moja majka pratila svoju ljubav sa fakulteta iz Egipta do Njujorka. Dok je vatromet eksplodirao iznad horizonta, moj otac je u šali pogledao moju majku i rekao: „Vidi, draga, Amerikanci slave tvoj dolazak.“ (Smeh)
Unfortunately, it didn't feel much like a celebration when, growing up, my mother and I would wander past Queens into New York City streets, and my mother with her hijab and long flowy dresses would tighten her hand around my small fingers as she stood up against weathered comments like, "Go back to where you came from," "Learn English," "Stupid immigrant." These words were meant to make us feel unsafe, insecure in our own neighborhoods, in our own skin.
Nažalost, nije izgledalo baš kao proslava kada bismo, dok sam odrastala, moja majka i ja krenule da iz Kvinsa tumaramo ulicama Njujorka, a moja majka sa hidžabom i dugim haljinama bi stegla svoju ruku oko mojih prstića dok bi se suprotstavljala oštrim komentarima poput: „Vrati se odakle si došla,“ „Nauči engleski,“ „Glupi imigrant.“ Ove reči su imale za cilj da se osećamo nebezbedno, nesigurno u svom komšiluku, u sopstvenoj koži.
But it was these same streets that made me fall in love with New York. Queens is one of the most diverse places in the world, with immigrant parents holding stories that always start with something between three and 15 dollars in a pocket, a voyage across a vast sea and a cash-only hustle sheltering families in jam-packed, busted apartments. And it was these same families that worked so hard to make sure that we had safe microcommunities -- we, as immigrant children, to feel affirmed and loved in our identities.
Ali zbog tih istih ulica sam se zaljubila u Njujork. Kvins je jedno od mesta sa najviše različitosti na svetu, gde roditelji imigranti imaju priče koje uvek počinju iznosom između tri i 15 dolara u džepu, putovanjem preko ogromnog mora i plaćanjem u kešu za sumnjive smeštaje koji su skrivali porodice u pretrpanim, oštećenim stanovima. Upravo te porodice su toliko naporno radile da bi se postarale da imamo bezbedne mikrozajednice - mi, kao deca imigranata, da se osećamo podržano i voljeno u svojim identitetima.
But it was mostly the women. And these women are the reason why, regardless of these statements that my mom faced, she remained unapologetic. And these women were some of the most powerful women I have ever met in my entire life. I mean, they had networks for everything. They had rotations for who watched whose kids when, for saving extra cash, for throwing belly dance parties and memorizing Koran and learning English. And they would collect small gold tokens to fundraise for the local mosque. And it was these same women, when I decided to wear my hijab, who supported me through it. And when I was bullied for being Muslim, I always felt like I had an army of unapologetic North African aunties who had my back.
Ali to su uglavnom bile žene. Te žene su razlog zašto je moja majka, uprkos izjavama sa kojima se suočavala, ostala nepokolebljiva. Te žene su među najsnažnijim ženama koje sam ikada srela u životu. Mislim, imale su mreže za sve. Imale su sistem smenjivanja za to ko će čuvati čiju decu i kada, za štednju novca, za priređivanje zabava sa trbušnim plesom, učenje Kurana napamet i učenje engleskog jezika. Sakupljale bi male zlatne žetone da bi prikupile sredstva za lokalnu džamiju. Upravo su ove žene, kada sam rešila da nosim hidžab, bile te koje su me u tome podržale. Kada su me maltretirali jer sam muslimanka, uvek sam se osećala kao da imam vojsku nepokolebljivih severnoafričkih tetki koje su mi čuvale leđa.
And so every morning at 15, I would wake up and stand in front of a mirror, and wrap beautiful bright silk around my head the way my mother does and my grandmother did. And one day that summer 2009, I stepped out into the streets of New York City on my way to volunteer at a domestic violence organization that a woman in my neighborhood had started. And I remember at that moment I felt a yank at the back of my head. Then someone pulled and grabbed me, trying to remove my hijab from off of my head. I turned around to a tall, broad-shouldered man, pure hate in his eyes. I struggled and fought back, and finally was able to get away, hid myself in the bathroom of that organization and cried and cried. I kept thinking to myself, "Why does he hate me? He doesn't even know me."
I tako bih se svakog jutra u 15. godini probudila, stala pred ogledalo i obmotala divnu jarku svilu oko glave kao što to radi moja majka, i kao što je to činila moja baka. Jednoga dana, tog leta 2009. godine, izašla sam na ulice Njujorka i bila sam na putu da volontiram u organizaciji protiv nasilja u porodici koju je osnovala jedna žena u mom komšiluku. Sećam se da sam u tom trenutku osetila trzaj na potiljku. Onda me je neko povukao i zgrabio, pokušavajući da mi skine hidžab sa glave. Okrenula sam se ka visokom muškarcu sa širokim ramenima, sa čistom mržnjom u očima. Borila sam se, uzvratila, i na kraju sam uspela da pobegnem, sakrila se u kupatilu te organizacije i plakala. Neprestano sam razmišljala: „Zašto me mrzi? Ni ne poznaje me.“
Hate crimes against Muslims in the US increased by 1,600 percent post-9/11, and one in every four women in the US will suffer some form of gender violence. And it may not seem like it, but Islamophobia and anti-Muslim violence is a form of gender violence, given the visibility of Muslim women in our hijabs. And so I was not alone, and that horrified me. It made me want to do something. It made me want to go out there and make sure that no one I loved, that no woman would have to feel this insecure in her own skin.
Zločini iz mržnje nad muslimanima u SAD povećali su se za 1 600 procenata nakon napada 11. septembra, i jedna na svake četiri žene u SAD doživi neku vrstu rodnog nasilja. Možda ne deluje tako, ali islamofobija i nasilje usmereno protiv muslimana su vrsta rodnog nasilja, imajući u vidu vidljivost muslimanki sa našim hidžabima. Nisam bila sama i to me je užasavalo. To je podstaklo želju da nešto uradim. Nateralo me je da istupim i da se pobrinem da niko koga volim, da nijedna žena ne mora da se oseća ovako nesigurno u svojoj koži.
So I started to think about how the women in my own neighborhood were able to build community for themselves, and how they were able to use the very little resources they had to actually offer something. And I began to think about what I could potentially offer to build safety and power for women. And through this journey, I learned a couple of things, and this is what I want to share with you today, some of these lessons.
Počela sam da razmišljam o tome kako su žene u mom komšiluku uspele da izgrade zajednicu za sebe, i kako su umele da iskoriste vrlo malo resursa koje su imale kako bi nešto ponudile. Počela sam da razmišljam o tome šta mogu da ponudim da bih ženama izgradila bezbednost i snagu. Kroz ovo putovanje sam naučila par stvari, i to bih želela da podelim sa vama danas, neke od tih lekcija.
So lesson number one: start with what you know. At the time, I had been doing Shotokan karate for as long as I could remember, and so I had a black belt. Yeah. And so, I thought -- surprise.
Lekcija broj jedan: počnite sa onim što znate. U to vreme sam se bavila šotokan karateom otkad sam znala za sebe, i imala sam crni pojas. Da. Pa sam pomislila - iznenađenje.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
I thought that maybe I should go out into my neighborhood and teach self-defense to young girls. And so I actually went out and knocked on doors, spoke to community leaders, to parents, to young women, and finally was able to secure a free community center basement and convince enough young women that they should come to my class. And it actually all worked out, because when I pitched the idea, most of the responses were, like, "All right, cute, this 5'1" hijabi girl who knows karate. How nice." But in reality, I became the Queens, New York version of Mr. Miyagi at 16 years old, and I started teaching 13 young women in that community center basement self-defense. And with every single self-defense move, for eight sessions over the course of that summer, we began to understand the power of our bodies, and we began to share our experiences about our identities. And sometimes there were shocking realizations, and other times there were tears, but mostly it was laughs. And I ended that summer with this incredible sisterhood, and I began to feel much safer in my own skin. And it was because of these women that we just kept teaching. I never thought that I would continue, but we just kept teaching. And today, nine years, 17 cities, 12 countries, 760 courses and thousands of women and girls later, I'm still teaching. And what started as a self-defense course in the basement of a community center is now an international grassroots organization focused on building safety and power for women around the world: Malikah.
Pomislila sam da bi možda trebalo da krenem po komšiluku i učim devojke samoodbrani. I zaista sam krenula i kucala na vrata, razgovarala sa vođama zajednice, sa roditeljima, sa devojkama, i konačno sam uspela da obezbedim besplatan podrum mesne zajednice i da ubedim dovoljno devojaka da dođu na moj čas. I zapravo je uspelo, jer kada sam predložila ideju, većina odgovora je bila u fazonu: „U redu, simpatično, devojka od 155cm sa hidžabom koja zna karate. Baš lepo.“ Ali zapravo sam postala kvinska, njujorška verzija gospodina Mijagija sa 16 godina, i počela sam 13 devojaka, u tom podrumu mesne zajednice da učim samoodbrani. Sa svakim potezom samoobrane, kroz osam susreta za vreme tog leta, počele smo da shvatamo moć svojih tela, i počele smo da delimo iskustva o svojim identitetima. Ponekad je bilo šokantnih saznanja, nekad je bilo suza, ali uglavnom smeha. Završila sam to leto sa tim neverovatnim sestrinstvom, i počela sam da se osećam mnogo bezbednije u svojoj koži. I upravo zbog tih žena smo nastavile da podučavamo. Nikada nisam mislila da ću nastaviti, ali nastavile smo da podučavamo. Danas, posle devet godina, 17 gradova, 12 zemalja, 760 kurseva i hiljade žena i devojčica, još uvek podučavam. Ono što je počelo kao kurs samoodbrane u podrumu mesne zajednice sada je međunarodna organizacija usmerena na stvaranje bezbednosti i snage žena širom sveta: Malika.
(Applause)
(Aplauz)
Now, for lesson number two: start with who you know. Oftentimes, it could be quite exciting, especially if you're an expert in something and you want to have impact, to swoop into a community and think you have the magic recipe. But very early on I learned that, as esteemed philosopher Kendrick Lamar once said, it's really important to be humble and to sit down.
Lekcija broj dva: počnite od onih koje znate. Često može biti veoma uzbudljivo, naročito ako ste stručnjak u nečemu i želite da ostvarite uticaj, da upadnete u zajednicu i mislite da imate čarobni recept. Ali vrlo rano sam naučila, kao što je cenjeni filozof Kendrik Lamar jednom rekao, da je vrlo važno biti skroman i spustiti se na zemlju.
So, basically, at 15 years old, the only community that I had any business doing work with were the 14-year-old girls in my neighborhood, and that's because I was friends with them. Other than that, I didn't know what it meant to be a child of Bengali immigrants in Brooklyn or to be Senegalese in the Bronx. But I did know young women who were connected to those communities, and it was quite remarkable how they already had these layers of trust and awareness and relationship with their communities. So like my mother and the women in her neighborhood, they had these really strong social networks, and it was about providing capacity and believing in other women's definition of safety. Even though I was a self-defense instructor, I couldn't come into a community and define safety for any other woman who was not part of my own community.
U suštini, u 15. godini, jedina zajednica sa kojom sam mogla da radim bile su devojčice od 14 godina u mom komšiluku, i to zato što sam im bila drugarica. Osim toga, nisam znala šta znači biti dete bengalskih imigranata u Bruklinu, niti Senegalac u Bronksu. Ali znala sam devojke koje su bile povezane sa tim zajednicama, i bilo je neverovatno kako su već imale slojeve poverenja, svesti i odnosa sa svojim zajednicama. Kao moja majka i žene u njenom komšiluku, imale su jako snažne društvene mreže, i radilo se o obezbeđivanju sposobnosti i verovanja u definiciju sigurnosti drugih žena. Iako sam bila instruktorka samoodbrane, nisam mogla da uđem u neku zajednicu i definišem sigurnost za neku drugu ženu koja nije deo moje zajednice.
And it was because, as our network expanded, I learned that self-defense is not just physical. It's actually really emotional work. I mean, we would do a 60-minute self-defense class, and then we'd have 30 minutes reserved for just talking and healing. And in those 30 minutes, women would share what brought them to the class to begin with but also various other experiences with violence. And, as an example, one time in one of those classes, one woman actually started to talk about the fact that she had been in a domestic violence relationship for over 30 years, and it was her first time being able to articulate that because we had established that safe space for her. So it's powerful work, but it only happens when we believe in women's agency to define what safety and what power looks like for themselves.
To je bilo zato što sam, kako se naša mreža širila, shvatila da samoodbrana nije samo fizička. To je zapravo vrlo emotivan posao. Mislim, imale bismo čas samoodbrane od 60 minuta, a zatim bi nam 30 minuta bilo rezervisano samo za pričanje i isceljivanje. Tokom tih 30 minuta, žene bi iznele šta ih je uopšte dovelo na časove, ali i druga iskustva sa nasiljem. Na primer, na jednom od časova, jedna žena je počela da govori o tome kako je preko 30 godina bila u vezi u kojoj je bilo porodičnog nasilja, i to je bio prvi put kada je to mogla da izgovori jer smo joj uspostavili siguran prostor. To je moćan posao, ali dešava se samo kada verujemo u sposobnost žena da same definišu šta sigurnost i snaga znači za njih.
All right, for lesson number three -- and this was the hardest thing for me -- the most important thing about this work is to start with the joy. When I started doing this work, I was reacting to a hate-based attack, so I was feeling insecure and anxious and overwhelmed. I was really afraid. And it makes sense, because if you take a step back, and I can imagine that a lot of women in this room can probably relate to this, the feeling, an overwhelming feeling of insecurity, is oftentimes with us constantly. I mean, imagine this: walking home late at night, hearing footsteps behind you. You wonder if you should walk faster or if you should slow down. You keep your keys in your hand in case you need to use them. You say, "Text me when you get home. I want to make sure you are safe." And we mean those words. We're afraid to put down our drinks. We're afraid to speak too much or too little in a meeting. And imagine being woman and black and trans and queer and Latinx and undocumented and poor and immigrant, and you could then only imagine how overwhelming this work can be, especially within the context of personal safety.
U redu, što se tiče lekcije broj tri - a ovo je za mene bilo najteže - najbitnija stvar u vezi sa ovim je da počnete sa radošću. Kada sam počela da se bavim ovim, reagovala sam na napad zasnovan na mržnji, pa sam se osećala nesigurno, nervozno i preplavljeno. Bila sam jako uplašena. To ima smisla, jer, ako se vratite korak unazad, a pretpostavljam da se mnogo žena u ovoj prostoriji verovatno može poistovetiti sa time, taj preplavljujući osećaj nesigurnosti je često neprestano uz nas. Mislim, zamislite ovo: vraćate se kući kasno noću, čujete korake iza sebe. Pitate se da li da hodate brže ili da usporite. Držite ključeve u ruci za slučaj da morate da ih upotrebite. Kažete: „Pošalji mi poruku kad dođeš kući, da znam da si bezbedna.“ A to i mislimo. Bojimo se da spustimo piće. Bojimo se da govorimo previše ili premalo na sastanku. A zamislite da ste žena i crne rase i transrodna i kvir i Latinoamerikanka i bez dokumenata i siromašna i imigrantkinja, i tek onda možete da zamislite kako ovaj posao može da preplavi, naročito u kontekstu lične bezbednosti.
However, when I took a step to reflect on what brought me to this work to begin with, I began to realize it was actually the love that I had for women in my community. It was the way I saw them gather, their ability to build for each other, that inspired me to keep doing this work day in and day out.
Međutim, kada sam se vratila unazad da razmislim o tome šta me je najpre navelo da se bavim ovim, počela sam da shvatam da je to zapravo bila moja ljubav prema ženama u mojoj zajednici. Način na koji sam videla da se okupljaju, njihova sposobnost da stvaraju jedna za druge, je ono što me je inspirisalo da nastavim da ovo radim iz dana u dan.
So whether I was in a refugee camp in Jordan or a community center in Dallas, Texas or a corporate office in Silicon Valley, women gathered in beautifully magical ways and they built together and supported each other in ways that shifted culture to empower and build safety for women.
Bilo da sam se nalazila u izbegličkom kampu u Jordanu, u mesnoj zajednici u Dalasu u Teksasu ili u kancelariji kompanije u Silicijumskoj dolini, žene su se okupljale na predivno čaroban način, zajedno su stvarale i podržavale jedna drugu na način koji je menjao kulturu ka osnaživanju žena i stvaranju sigurnosti za njih.
And that is how the change happens. It was through those relationships we built together. That's why we don't just teach self-defense, but we also throw dance parties and host potlucks and write love notes to each other and sing songs together. And it's really about the friendship, and it's been so, so fun.
Tako promena nastaje. Kroz te veze koje stvaramo zajedno. Zato ne samo da podučavamo samoodbranu, već i priređujemo igranke i okupljanja sa domaćom hranom, i pišemo ljubavne poruke jedna drugoj i zajedno pevamo pesme. Zapravo se radi o prijateljstvu i toliko je zabavno.
So the last thing I want to leave you with is that the key takeaway for me in teaching self-defense all of these years is that I actually don't want women, as cool as the self-defense moves are, to go out and use these self-defense techniques. I don't want any woman to have to de-escalate any violent situation. But for that to happen, the violence shouldn't happen, and for the violence not to happen, the systems and the cultures that allow for this violence to take place to begin with needs to stop. And for that to happen, we need all hands on deck.
Poslednja stvar kojom bih da zaključim je da je ključna stvar za mene u nastavi samoodbrane svih ovih godina da ja u stvari ne želim da žene, koliko god da su pokreti samoodbrane kul, krenu da koriste te tehnike samoodbrane. Ne želim da nijedna žena mora da smiruje nekakvu nasilnu situaciju. Ali da bi se to dogodilo, nasilje ne bi trebalo da se događa, a da se nasilje ne bi događalo, treba da se zaustave sistemi i kulture koji omogućavaju da dođe do nasilja. A da bi se to desilo, treba nam da se udružimo.
So I've given you my secret recipe, and now it's up to you. To start with what you know, to start with who you know and to start with joy. But just start.
Dakle, dala sam vam moj tajni recept, i sada je na vama. Da počnete sa onim što znate, počnete od onih koje znate i da počnete sa radošću. Ali samo počnite.
Thank you so much.
Mnogo vam hvala.
(Applause)
(Aplauz)