Sawt al Niswa | صوت النسوة - Nasawiya

قُتِل حراكُ المخيمات، لكنّه أحيا فينا شيئاً

walid — Fri, 29 Nov 2019 09:43:13 +0000

الصورة ل باتريك سلّوم من مظاهرة دعم الحراك الفلسطيني من قبل لبنانيين

سارة قدروة

قبل تشرين الأول، كان لي فترة أعايشُ وأطبّعُ علاقاتي بلبنان، كما هو، لا كما أريده، وهو أمر مجهدٌ كوني لاجئة فلسطينية، أشعرُ بالاغترابِ عن محيطي اللبناني لدرجةُ بدأت معها بخسارة اللكنة اللبنانية، وقد كنت أتقنُها في الماضي لتجنبِ التنمرّ من زملائي في المدرسةِ الرسمية اللبنانية، وها هي تصبحُ أكثر صعوبة لأني أرفضُ أن أتناسى أنّي مختلفة. بالرغم من ذلك، كنتُ أعايشُ وأطبّعُ هذه العلاقة، وبطبيعةِ الحال ضمن نظام اقتصادي يخدعُنا أحياناً فنشعر أننا مرتاحون ضمنه إذا أصبح معاشُنا يغطي غرفة نوم قرب الحمرا واشتراكاً شهرياً في النادي الرياضي، بدأت أشعر بأنّي أفضل نفسياً وماديّاً. أستطيعُ العيش هنا. لم آخذ مهدئات أو مضادات للكآبة في السنتين الأخيرتين. لم أعد آكل ثلاثة أكياس من الـ"تشيبس" على العشاء كي أوفرّ. ها أنا أوفِّق بين عملي وأصدقائي، بل أجد أحياناً بعض الوقت لكي أقرأ عن الروبوتات وموقف البشرية منها. أعايشُ وأطبّع، وأحاول ألّا أفكر في ما جرى منذ بضعة أشهر.

منذ أشهر، نزلنا في كلّ المخيمات ضد قرار وزير العمل العنصري الذي فرضَ على اللاجئين الفلسطينيين والسوريين شروط الحصولِ على إجازات عمل لممارسة مهنهم. استمر هذا النزول لأكثر من عشرين أسبوعاً، والوجوه ألفناها، هم شبابٌ وصبايا ونساء وكبارٌ في السن، عادت لهم الحياة عندما لاحظوا أنهم حرّكوا الشارع دونَ العودة إلى مراجع أو فصائل، بل حرّكوه في كل المخيمات، من مخيّم الرشيدية في صور إلى مخيّم نهر البارد في طرابلس. حراكٌ شعبي لامركزي، يشبه ما نراه اليوم في الشارع اللبناني، لكن مشكلته الوحيدة أنّه ضمن حدود المخيمات، خلفَ حواجز العسكر، وأحياناً، داخل جدار الفصل العنصري الذي يحاصرُ مخيّم عين الحلوة الذي وافق على بنائه من يدّعي مقاومةَ عدوّنا في فلسطين المحتلة، من أجلِنا.

نهايةُ الحراك قتلها الصمت الذي فرضته كل تلك الحدود. ما يحصلُ في المخيم لا يسمعهُ العالم الخارجي. تنفجرُ الثورة عندنا، ولا يتأثر محيطنا بشيء. اليوم، تدبّ الثورة خارج المخيمات، وتعيش المخيمات مستوى جديداً من التدني في القدرة الشرائية والمعيشية، أقسى من التدني في خارجها. فبالرغم من كل محاولات إبقاء الأسعار ثابتة، فإنها ترتفع، لتذكر الفلسطيني بأنّه جزءٌ من الثورة، بالرغم من كل محاولات الفصائل الفلسطينية لإقصائه عن الصراع اللبناني وإشعاره بأن وجودَه في هذا البلد يمكن أن يكون سياسياً من قِبَل الآخرين فقط، لا من قِبَله أو عبر مشاركته. إذا لم يشعر اللبناني بأنه جزءٌ من حراك المخيمات، فهذا دليلُ تقصيرِ المعارضة في التأثير على الخطاب الشعبي عبر وضعِ العنصرية والتمييز بحق اللاجئين كجزء أساسي من حقيقةِ إضطهاد النظام اللبناني والطبقة الحاكمة للشعب، تحت ذريعةِ حربٍ أهلية بدأنا بتحطيم خرافات استمراريتها(الحرب الأهليىة) منذ ٤٠ يوماً.

مشت مسيراتٌ تضامنية بين أمّهاتِ منطقةِ الشياح الشيعية طائفياً والمحسوبة على الثنائي الحزبي الشيعي، وأمهاتِ منطقة عين الرمّانة المسيحية طائفياً والمحسوبة على أحزاب اليمينِ المسيحي، ليلتقينَ سويّاً، وتُخبرَنا الأمهاتُ أنّه بالرغمِ من تجييشِ الأحزابِ لإعادة شبانهن إلى الشوارع كي يتقاتلوا ويخيفونا من الحرب الأهلية، فإنها لن تعود. بعبعُ الحرب الذي تهددُنا به أحزابُ السلطة لا يرعبُنا كما كان يفعل في السابق. ولن نسمحَ له أن يلوي أيادينا كلّما رفعناها في وجه النظام الطائفي، ولن نسمحَ للطائفية أن تغطي على الإنقسام الطبقي الذي هو الشرخ الحقيقي بيننا وبينهم، نحن الذين نُجبَرُ على دفعِ ثمن سياساتهم المالية التي أفقرتنا وملأت جيوبهم.

كان اللقاءُ مليئاً بالدموع، تماماً كاللقاء الذي جرى بين اللبنانيين واللاجئين الفلسطينيين بعدما سرت مسيرةٌ من بدارو إلى مخيم شاتيلا، لتكسرَ مجدداً وهرة بعبع الحرب الأهلية الذي يلغي إنسانيةَ الفلسطينيين في تلك البقع المعزولة، ولا يسمحُ للبناني إلّا أن يرانا كضحايا بحاجةٍ للإنقاذ أو كخطر وجودي حقيقي، بدلاً من أن يرى تحررنا من هذه الصُور كشرط أساسي للتحرر من الحرب.

هل ماتَ حراكُ المخيمات الفلسطينية؟ لا، قُتِل، لكنّه أحيا فينا شيئاً، أيقظ فينا إيماننا بقدرتنا على المشي فوق جثثِ فصائلنا إذا مسَّنا الجوع. تلك الحقيقةُ التي أيقنها اللبنانيون أيضاً، فبالرغم من كل الخطاباتِ المضادة التي حوّرت المسؤوليةَ من الطبقةِ الحاكمة إلى الثورة، باتَ هناك ما لا يمكنُ التغاضي عنه. صوتُ الزعيم بات أقل صدى، وسيُمشى على جثته عندما يمسُّنا الجوع حقّاً.

قبل تشرين الأول، ردني يأسي من قتلِ الحراكِ الفلسطيني إلى اغترابي مجدداً ضمن الدوائر السياسية التي أنشط بها. لكنتي الفلسطينية زادت حدّة. علاقتي مع لبنان تطبّعت كما هي، علاقة زبائنية. أعيشُ في هذا الأوتيل وأدفعُ فيه ثمن إقامتى، أتوقعُ بعض اللطافة أحياناً، لكني لن أشتري غرفة، ولن أنتمى إليه، ولن أشعر بالإستقرار. لكن منذ نشوب الثورةِ وهذه العلاقةُ في تبدلٍ مستمر، مرهق ومذهل في الآن عينه. أخذتُ المهدئاتِ في أكثر من مناسبةِ عنفٍ وإعتقال، وبكيت كثيراً، أخبرتُ أحدهم أنّي أحبه لأول مرّة رغم قلقي المقيت. وبالرغم من ترديدي بأنّي ضد كل سُلطة إلّا سلطة أمي، أعدتُ النظر في علاقتي مع السلطة بكل أطيافها، وبأنّي إذا أريد أن أقول "لا" فعلاً، فسأقولها لأمي أيضاً. لم يعد يزعجني العلمُ اللبناني كثيراً، فلا أشعرُ كأنه بارودة موجهة ضدّي. كتبتُ عن وجودي في الشارع اللبناني كفلسطينية، وبالرغم من أني لا أنزل بنفسِ الوتيرة منذ ذلك الوقت، لا زلتُ أشعر باستمرارية الثورة، وبأنّي جزءٌ منها كفلسطينية، ولأنّها إذا ركَدت للحظة، ستعودُ تنفجر مجدداً، وستحملُني، وستحملنا جميعاً، ضد تطبيع علاقاتنا السامّة مع لبنان بشكله الحالي، لبنان الحرب الأهلية المستمرة وزعمائه، إلى لبنان يشبهنا نحن.

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Sawt al' Niswa

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Opinions

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Nasawiya

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ثورة نسوية، ثورة لبنان، محتوى نسوي من لبنان، بيروت، حب، تحرر

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" تأملات في العمل النسوي: دعوة للبوح"

Sara AbuGhazal — Fri, 02 Feb 2018 15:25:03 +0000

SAN images 2018: 3rd Generation of SAN.

Sawt al Niswa

في بداية العام الجديد، تتمنى لكم مجموعة صوت النسوة أن تكون الأيام المقبلة كلها حب ودعم نسوي. قد قامت المجموعة في عقد سلسلة من اللقاءات الداخلية وخلوة تقييمية هدفت الى إعادة ترتيب البيت الداخلي الخاص بالمجموعة، والتفكير في الممارسات السياسية التي تجمعُنا، ونوع المحتوى الصادر عن المجموعة، والحاجة إلى التفكير بالأدوار التي تمارسها كلً منها، وفي التزامنا بتحقيق الأهداف التي وضعناها وحفاظنا على الرؤية الأساسية للبذرة التي زرعتها النسويات من الجيل الأول في المجموعة، ومدى نجاح الهيكلية الخاصة بالمجموعة بعد 9 سنوات من العمل. بعد هذه الاحاديث واستخلاص دروس من هذه التجارب، أتت هذه اللقاءات بدروس هامة لنا كأفراد ضمن المجموعة، وايضا على صعيد المبادرة ككل. ونحن نقدم اشدّ التقدير للاجيال المختلفة التي عبرت المجموعة وطورتها وتركت جزءً من إرثها فيها.

كانت هذه الأحاديث المحرّك الأساسي لتحرير عدد خاص جدا على قلوبنا، والذي سيصدر في الثامن من آذار 2018، وبالتزامن مع اليوم العالمي للمرأة، تحت عنوان " تأملات في العمل النسوي: دعوة للبوح."

إنطلاقا من الأحاديث والأفكار التي بدأت مع المجموعة، نظرنا الى المسار الذي اتخذته صوت النسوة، والتغييرات التي طرأت عليها والتي ارتبطت بالعديد من الاحاديث والعمل المشترك وبالتجارب الشخصية مع مجموعات وناشطات نسويات، او من الاحاديث الداخلية للمجموعة والفِرق العاملة ضمنها وأيضا من خلال العلاقات السياسية الشخصية، كما التغييرات التي طرأت على الخطاب النسوي في لبنان وايضا التغييرات السياسية التي طرأت على البلد بشكل عام. كان واضحا، أن هناك ضرورة لتشكيل محتوى نقدي لمراجعة كل هذه التغييرات، ووضعها في صورة أشمل وتقديمها الى صاحبات الشأن في الحقل النسوي والحقل العام أيضا، كما تحريرها من الخوف الذي يرافق عملية البوح.

ولذلك ندعو النسويات والمهتمات في الكتابة عن الافكار المتعلقة بالعمل النسوي في لبنان من حيث: اشكالية عبور الاجيال، العلاقة الشائكة مع الاكاديمية، العلاقة مع منظمات المجتمع المدني، العلاقة في التنظيم مع او ضمن اليسار، التجارب الشخصية في الممارسات النسوية، التجارب الشخصية في التنظيم القاعدي النسوي، مقالات رأي عن تأريخ الحركة النسوية، الحراك والنسويات، او أي موضوع ذات صلة. هناك حاجة ماسة الى وضع التأملات، ووضع الافكار والتجارب الخاصة في 10 السنوات الاخيرة. نأمل بأن يساعد المحتوى الجديد حاضرنا في التخطيط بشكل أفضل للمستقبل، وأن نرسم ملامح تاريخ مشترك ننتمي اليه. ان المساهمة في العدد مفتوحة ل: النسويات من كل الاعمار والاجيال والمجموعات والاطر التنظيمية.

لماذا هذا العدد خاص؟

في آذار 2018 تطبق صوت النسوة العشرة الاعوام! لذا يقفل هذا العدد الاعوام العشرة بمواد تدعو للتفكير ومشاركة التأملات والتجارب والقصص والاحلام ومن بعد إصداره، تعقد صوت النسوة خلوة داخلية، تهدف الى إعادة بناء بيتنا الداخلي ووضع هيكلية جديدة قادرة على تلبية تطور ممارستنا السياسية النسوية وتوقنا الى خلق فضاء يشبهنا. سوف تستمر المجموعة في التنظيم السياسي واحترام كل الالتزامات تجاه الشبكات والتحالفات التي نعمل معها. سوف تستمر الخلوة والورشة الداخلية من آذار الى تشرين الاول 2018، على أن نعود لإصدار محتوى وقصص، كما الاعلان عن نوع البناء الجديد للمجموعة، والمسارات التي سوف نمشي عليها.

راسلونا على editor at saw al niswa dot COM

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Sawt al' Niswa

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Opinions

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Nasawiya

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بوح، كتابة نسوية، دعوة،

Featured:

أنا و النساء

Stega — Tue, 12 Jul 2016 08:03:05 +0000

Egyptian Artist Sad Panda - Photo by Sarah Carr

Najwa Sabra

في السادسة من عمري أصبح لخوفي اسم. كان اسم خوفي عبدو. و اكتشاف الخوف كان بطاقتي الى عالم النساء. هذا العالم السحري حيث نسرح فيما بيننا، ننظر الى بعضنا البعض و نبتسم :“أنا أعرف هذا الوجع”.

كبرت مع هذه القناعة:أن ما يعوض عن الخوف الذي يسكن خلايانا منذ الولادة كجزء متوارث من مخزوننا الجيني هو الجماعة. أنا و النساء و جلدنا المشترك. مساحات شاسعة من الجلد المشترك يعبرها جهاز عصبي واحد، خلايا عصبية مترابطة و دائمة التواصل، فما يلمس أو يوجع الجزء يلمس و يوجع الكل. كان يقيني أننا نحن النسوة كلنا نعرف الحقائق الأساسية دون الحاجة لتعلمها: أن الخوف يسكن في الركبة، و القلق في المعدة، و أن التحكم بشكل الشعر عبر قصه و تلوينه يساعدنا في السيطرة على الهلع حين نفقد القدرة على التحكم بأي شيء آخر. أنه حينما نقصّ أقاصيص المصائب التي تلحق بأجسادنا، دائماً ما نبدأ بجملة: “لم يكن بيدي فعل أي شيء لمنع هذا من الحدوث”و ذلك لاقناع انفسنا أكثر من أي شخص آخر. الأوجاع المشتركة كانت في ظنّي أساساً كافياً للتكاتف. فإني إن شهدت على تلقّي أحدهم لصفعة، يوخزني خدّي لعلمي المسبق و عن تجربة بالألم الذي ينمّ عن الصفع. فكيف لمن يتشاركن جلداً واحداً ألّا يتسابقن لحمايته؟

لذا، ورأفة بركبي، حملت خوفي وذهبت بها الى النساء حولي: “ان حاوطّتني على شكل دائرة، فلن يستطيع عبدو لمسي مجدداً!”. و رأيت النساء يلتففن حولي فعلاً، فأنا الآن بأمان. لكنني وجدت الدائرة تخفيني فتحمي عيون الرجال في عائلتي من رؤية ماقد يسيئهم و يرهق قلوبهم الضعيفة. أيعقل ألّا تكون الجماعة هي الخلاص؟

مع الوقت بدأ يتبين لي انه لإيجاد مكان لي في هذا العالم، سيكون عليّ أولاً استشفاف تفاوتات الجماعة و تناقضاتها. فليس كل من يدخل العالم السحري بأمان.

الجماعة اذاً لا تحمي الجميع. ربما هذه حقيقة ثابتة أخرى نعرفها بالفطرة و نتجاهلها أو نتناساها لأن شعور الخذلان الذي تخلّفه أشدّ مما نودّ. فغالباً ما أجد نفسي أصارع لأحمي إيماني بالدائرة. أذكّر نفسي دائماً بكل النساء اللواتي أنقذنني من الموت هلعاً، بمن علمنني كيف أكتب عن الأيادي التي تنهش جسدي دون أن أعتذر، بالغريبات اللواتي جلسن جنبي في الباص ليلاً و رفضن النزول قبل أن أصل الى محطتي، بأختي التي أدين لها بكل شيء. ربما أنا من المحظوظات اللواتي وجدن زاوية آمنة. ربما لهذا أشعر ليس فقط بالخذلان، انما أيضاً و خاصةً بالذنب حين أنظر لمن تلفظهم الجماعة خارجاً.

ربما عليّ أن أصارع للتغلب على أساطير طفولتي الساذجة بدلاً من التمسك بالإيمان. فخطورة الايمان أنه يؤخرنا عن الفعل العملي. حين تصاعدت الأخبار مؤخراً عن النساء و الفتيات السوريات اللواتي حبسن و استعبدن جنسياً في لبنان، صدمت لقراءة ردات فعل نساء لبنانيات وعربيات، “شريفات” يشرحن للملأ أن ضحايا الاستعباد اخترن مصيرهن بأفعالهن، ف”لا مبرر” لما فعلنه سوى أن “منبتهنّ سيء” و“أنهن بلا أخلاق”. لكن الصادم فعلاً هو صدمتي، هو تمسكي بميتولوجيا التضامن.

أستطيع تحليل وتعليل واستيعاب مكامن الخلل في إيماني. أعي إدراكياً لما لا تنتج التجارب المشتركة للألم تضامناً تلقائياً. فأنا أنتمي لشعب قُتل في قانا و غيرها بحجج واهية ولم يتوارى عن استخدام الحجج هذه بذاتها لتبرير المجازر في حلب و غيرها، و النوم قرير العينين. أعرف أن إيماني ساذج. يبقى لي أن أتعلم الكفر.

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Sawt al' Niswa

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Opinions

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Nasawiya

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الحبّ لا يخضع للسلطة

Sara AbuGhazal — Sat, 13 Feb 2016 10:51:48 +0000

SAN images 2016

إسلام وخلود

إسلام وخلود*

نتساءل عن مفهوم الحب في زمننا الحالي، فنرى أننا لا نستطيع تعريفه بمعزل عن الأفكار التي زرعتها المنظومة الأبوية فينا. ففي حين أن الحبّ مشاعر راقية بين شخصين (بمعزل عن جنسهما)، والوجه الأسمى للحرية الشخصية، إلا أن المجتمع بتقاليده البالية يعود ويعطي نفسه الحق في تعليم الناس كيف يجب أن يتصرّفوا، حتى في خياراتهم الشخصية، ليفرض عليهم أموراً في "الحب" تحوّل الحب إلى كابوس بدلاً من حلم جميل.

لقد أصبح الرابع عشر من شباط يوماً لتتويج الحب على الطريقة الأبوية، فإذا لم يجلب الحبيب لحبيبته هدية، عاتبته أو كرهته، لأنها في هذه الحالة ستخاف من الإجابة عن سؤال زميلاتها: "شو جابلك عالفالنتاين؟". الحب مفهوم تحرّري، وهو قبل أي شيء آخر، تجربة فردية، وجماعية. لكن، كالعادة، سمّم النظام الأبوي هذا المفهوم منذ قرون. الحب في ظل النظام الرأسمالي؟ ليس إلا جانباً من جوانب التسلّح الأيديولوجي الأبوي. فماذا عن الفالنتاين؟

خلود: بالنسبة إليّ، الفالنتاين هو مجرّد يوم تكسب من خلاله المحال التجارية أموالاً طائلة، ويستمرّ الحال على مدى شهر كامل. في السابق، كنت وأعزّ صديقاتي نحتفل بصداقتنا في هذا اليوم لكي لا نشعر بالوحدة التي تسبّبه لنا هذه المناسبة. لكننا بعد أن أفلتنا من قبضة النظام الأبوي، أدركنا أن الفالنتاين هو مجرّد تحقيق مصلحة للنظام، وأن خلقه لدى "العازبين/ات" شعوراً بالذنب، أمرٌ مقصود. حتى أننا بتنا نندم على دعمنا للمنظومة تلك في يوم من الأيام. من أحد أهم تجاربي مع الحب ضمن النطاق الأبوي، محاولتي إيجاد "الشريك المثالي" في شبّان "شرقيين" يستغلون العلاقات الغرامية من أجل تحقيق رغبات جسدية بحتة. فعندما كنت أرفض تحقيق غاياتهم، اتّهموني بالنفاق وقالوا لي "مش إنتي متحرّرة و open minded؟".
لكن من قال إن التحرّر يكمن في تحرّر الجسد فقط؟ لقد جعل النظام الأبوي من كل ممنوع مرغوب، فحوّله بالتالي إلى مفهوم "تحرّري" يتوق ويتلهّف إليه روّاد هذه المنظومة سرياً ومن دون التفوّه بكلمة. الحب حرية يتصرّف بها الشريكان/تان كما ي/تريدان. الحب يعني أن نكسر القيود وأن نرفض الانصياع لثقافة الاغتصاب الجسدي والمعنوي.

إسلام: أنا أرفض أن أسمّيه عيد الحب. ما هو الحب في ظلّ نظام يسلّع أجسادنا؟ ما هو الحب في ظلّ نظام يسمح للرجل بقتلنا واغتصابنا؟ ما هو الحب في ظلّ نظام يُفقرنا ويجوّعنا ويجبرنا على أن نشغل أنفسنا بادّخار المال لشراء "هدية"؟ ما هو الحب في ظلّ نظام يفرض الثنائية الجندرية؟ ما هو الحب في ظلّ نظام يقمع الأقليات الجنسانية؟ ما هو الحب في ظلّ نظام يربط مفهوماً تحررياً بالزواج والدولة؟ ما هو الحب في ظلّ أنظمة ترفض قصة حبي إذا لم "يُتوّج بالزواج"، أو إذا تشابهت أعضاؤنا التناسلية؟ 14 شباط ليس عيد الحب. 14 شباط هو يوم تمجيد العلاقات الأحادية المغايرة. علينا إعادة صياغة الحب بعيداً عن القصائد التي كتبها الرجال، وبعيداً عن الأفلام والروايات التي تحوّلنا إلى ماكينات للجنس والإنجاب لا أكثر. علينا استعادة اللون الأحمر أيضاً. الأحمر للشيوعية (لا أدري لماذا)، والحب هو حرية وتحرّر من كل القيود الأبوية. الحب لا يخضع للسلطة. وتجاربي القليلة علّمتني أن الحب ليس لأمثالي من "الفقراء".

*من مجموعة راديكال : "لنسوية، مناهضة العنصرية، النضال من أجل العدالة اﻹجتماعية. هذه هي بإختصار المبادىء العامة اﻷساسية التي بنيت عليها مجموعة "راديكال". راديكال هي مجموعة طلابية في الجامعة اللبنانية (الحدث و الاونيسكو) تهدف إلى تغيير اﻹطار اﻹجتماعي القائم خارج و داخل الحرم الجامعي و بناء على ذلك يمكن حصر أهداف المجموعة الحالية في: -تفعيل النشاطات الثقافية و اﻹجتماعية في الحرم الجامعي: نقاشات، ندوات ثقافية و علمية، مطالعة ومناقشة كتب ومقالات... الخ. و تأمين مساحة آمنة لنقاش المواضيع الجندرية وغيرها. -المساهمة في توسيع شبكة التواصل بين الطلاب و الطالبات. -مناهضة كافة أشكال الذكورية و العنصرية في الحرم الجامعي. -خلق جو تعاوني بين كل المجموعات الطلابية و الدكاترة و الموظفين/ات

لمتابعة اخبار و نشاطات المجموعة: https://m.facebook.com/radical.lu/

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صوت النسوة

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Opinions

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Nasawiya

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#OSRV عيد الحب

Featured:

نسوية في زمن الحراك

Sara AbuGhazal — Thu, 05 Nov 2015 11:48:51 +0000

SAN images 2015

ناي الراعي

هذه السطور اخذت وقتاً طويلاً لتخرج هكذا. صفيّتها من الغضب غير المهذب كي لا نثبت، من جديد، ما يقال عنا، نحن النسويات، اننا غاضبات ساعيات للإهتمام والضوء والحيّز. ها انا، نسوية راغبة بتوثيق تجربتها في الفضاء العام في زمن الثورة – او زمن اوّد بشدة لو يكون فعلاً زمن ثورة - لكن بتهذيب وبدون غضب، او بمنسوب مقبول منه كي لا ازعج احداً وكي يتمكن القراء من متابعة الأفكار دون ان تنخدش مشاعرهم(ن) او مبادئهم(ن) ودون ان يشعروا بالتهديد من مصطلحات معينة، كالنسوية والتحرش والذكورية مثلاً.

بعيداً عن التهكم، وبالبعد نفسه عن الكليشيهات الثورية التي سئمها الجميع، ليس الهدف مما سيتقدم "ضرب الحراك" ولا التنكر له ولا القول انه لا يمثلني بالمطلق، وطبعاً ليس وضع جميع المتحركين في إطاره في خانة واحدة. بل لمحاولة فهم التجربة النسوية ضمنه، وايجاد اجوبة – او مشاريع اجوبة - على اسئلة مشروعة، تبقى معلقة في هواء كل ثورة او حراك سياسي، في كل وقت وفي كل مكان، وتنتج عن ردات فعل متشابهة بالمضمون وغالباً بالشكل، على مشاركة النساء. ها انا افترض الأسوأ مجدداً، وابدأ كلامي بالتبرير، وكأن المطلوب – الذي بتنا نطلبه من انفسنا بعد ان طبعنا مع ما يتوقعه "المجتمع" بكل ما في هذا الطلب من ذكورية وطمس لتجاربنا – هو دوماً رفع المطالب الجماعية فوق مطالبنا، او دفع الأخيرة بإتجاه اسفل سلم الأولويات، ما يفكّ إرتباطها بالمطالب الأخرى ويعزلنا (النساء) كفاعلات سياسيات عن مجمل الفعل السياسي.

مشاهد متفرقة.

السبت 22 آب:

لحظة بدأنا بإزاحة الشريط الشائك، وقد كنا في الصف الأمامي نساءاً ورجال، سمعت احدهم يقول: "انتِ زيحي"، لكن لم يخطر ببالي انني كنت المُخاطبة. "زيحي، زيحي. قلتلك زيحي"، سمعت الصوت نفسه يردد. التفت لأجد مراهقاً، بدا كأنه لم يتخطى العشرين، يخاطبني بنبرة متوّعدة (من اين اتى بكل هذه السلطة؟)، لينتقل بعدها الى محاولة دفعي لإبعادي عن الشريط "لأنك بنت، ما بصير توقفي هون". لم يتسن لنا الوقت بعدها لفتح نقاش لأن القوى الأمنية كانت قد باشرت برشنّا بالماء والغاز.

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شكّلنا صفّاً من النساء بوجه عناصر قوى الأمن بجانب مبنى النهار، كنا نخاطبهم، نلقي عليهم الحجة السياسية تلو الاخرى. الى ان سمعنا صديقاً لنا من صفٍ خلفي "يهينهم": "يا عيب الشوم عليكن واقفين بوّج نسوان".

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الأربعاء 16 ايلول:

اولى جلسات الحوار. اعداداً من المتظاهرين والمتظاهرات تتجمع امام مداخل ساحة النجمة. القوى الامنية تهاجمهم بشراسة، ضرباً وإعتقالاً. حتى انها اعتقلت ناشطات. يا للهول. يتخوّف الخطاب العام من إستخدام السلطة لضرب وإعتقال النساء لترهيب الحراك. انها الإشارة الجدية الأولى ان السلطة تنوي فعلاً إنهائنا.

لنتوقف لحظة هنا. اليس مذهلاً هذا الخوف الفجائي على النساء من عنف النظام؟ وكأنهن لسن اولى المتضررات المباشرات من عنفه. حين يقلن النسويات ان النظام الأبوي قاتل، يعنين ما يقلن. النظام الأبوي هذا، لا يرى النساء ابعد من كونهن ملحقات بعائلاتهن، بنات او اخوات او زوجات او امهات. منجبات لأبطال الوطن، بدون اي حيثية سياسية. يوكل قضاياهن الشخصية من زواج وطلاق وامومة وإرث لرجال عائلاتهن وبعد ذلك، لطوائفهن التي تعطي الأفضلية لذكور العائلة على إناثها. هذا النظام عينه هو الذي يسمح لأرباب العمل ان يدفعوا للنساء رواتب اقل من الرجال للعمل نفسه، عينه الذي يسمح بصرف الحوامل واحياناً كثيرة المتزوجات لإحتمال الحمل، وعينه الذي يرفض إدراج العمل المنزلي في قانون العمل لأنه لا يراه تماماً كما لا يرى النساء اللواتي يقمن به. هذا النظام عينه الذي قاوم قانون يحمي النساء من العنف الأسري بشدّة، واقره مشّوهاً، لأنه لم يفهم كيف يكون الإغتصاب زوجياً. هذا النظام عيّنه الذي لم يعاقب بعد قتلة زوجاتهم. هذا النظام عينه الذي لا يرى التحرش بالنساء في الأماكن العامة جرماً، بل مفخرة لدرجة انه حتى القوى الأمنية تفخر بممارسته في مراكزها.

الا يعتبر كل هذا عنفاً؟ لماذا إذن خفنا على النساء في المظاهرات وهالنا مشهد "الشرطية تعتقل الناشطة"؟ الم يسبق لهذا النظام ان عنفنّا؟ الم يسبق له ان وضعنا بمواجهة بعضنا؟ بلى. لكننا اعتدنا العنف اليومي والممنهج ضدنا لدرجة اننا لم نعد نراه، ولا نرى سوى الفج والمباشر منه، والمنقول عبر الشاشات.

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الأحد 20 أيلول:

نتقدّم بإتجاه ساحة النجمة. هذه المرة لم يكن بيننا وبين مكافحة الشغب اسلاك ولا حواجز إسمنتية. بيننا وبينهم أيادينا المرفوعة، اجسادنا التي تدفع الى الأمام بدون توقّف وأطراف حديث سياسي غير مجدي على الأرجح. الوقوف في صف امامي في مظاهرة ممتع جداً، ولكنك ايضاً وعن غير قصد، تكتشفين اموراً مقيتة، وتسمعين كلاماً ذكورياً وتواجهين بتصرفات عنيفة كنت توّدين لو يخلو حراكك منها لأنك في الشارع اصلاً لأنك سئمتها. تكتشفين مثلاُ انه غير مرحب بك في صف المظاهرة الأمامي لأنك امرأة. يتم دفعك مراراً وتكراراً الى الوراء والى الجوانب بحيث يتوجب عليك ان تكوني غراندايزر لتثبتي في مكانك. كما يتم الصراخ في وجهك وكأنك قاصر او مخبولة لا تعين خطورة الموقف ولا تفهمين ما يجري، وكأنك واقفة هناك صدفة، ولا تقصدين ان تكوني وسط هذا التدافع. وحين تصرين على البقاء في مكانك، يغمز احد الواقفين في صفّك، عنصر قوى الأمن الواقف بمواجهتكما ويضحكان. اخيراً، وجد البطل الثائر على السلطة واحد ادوات هذه السلطة، قاسماً مشتركاً يجمعهما: السخرية منك... وهكذا، تجدين نفسك وسط معركة تدافع ثلاثية الأبعاد: مع المتظاهرين الأصدقاء المفترضين من جهة، ومع قوى الامن من جهة ثانية، ومع درعٍ بشري لم يحسم موقفه يمنع المتظاهرين من الإشتباك مع عناصر الأمن، لكن سرعان ما "قطف" نصر الإقتراب من ساحة النجمة حين اقتربنا منها. ما زلنا حتى الساعة لم نفهم ما اراد هؤلاء. فجأة، تسمعين احدهم يستنجد القوى الامنية بحرقة ان "في بنات، ع مهلكن". وهنا ايضاً، قرّبت وجهات النظر بين الثائر واداة السلطة. الإثنان حريصان عليكِ، وهكذا بتّ انتِ الآن حجة للدفاع عن النفس وتحضير مسبق، لكن لا واعي، لإدانة السلطة.

اجساد النساء مخيفة. لم نعتد بعد رؤية هذه الأجساد على الخطوط الأمامية، امام الخطر المجرد المباشر (عسكر بأسلحة وعتاد وعصي). فأولاً هذا موقع الرجل ودوره وبالتالي هو عمل منتقص للرجولة ان يُسمح لنساء بأن ينتزعن تلك المواقع من الأولى بها. وبالتالي يا له من عمل مهين ان يقف عناصر قوى الأمن الذكور "بوّج نسوان". لا يكفيهم عاراً ان يقفوا امام مواطنينٍ عزّل. على العزّل ان يكنّ نساء ليصبح عاراً كافياً.

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تحاولين ربط ما ترين وتسمعين وتعيشين وتشعرين، فتكتشفين:

اولاً: انك المرأة – الساحة او المرأة – الأداة، التي تستخدم للتفاوض السياسي ولتسجيل النقاط في السجال السياسي.لرسم الحدود بين الهم والنحن. لا اقول جديداً، بل أعطي امثلة حسية ومباشرة على ما يُتهم بأنه تنظير نسوي (مع ان التنظير النسوي جميل وليس تهمة).

الشرطة تهاجم "النساء العزل"، الشرطة تعتقل النساء. هنا المعركة بين السلمية والحضارية، (مشاركة النساء بالمظاهرات) والبربرية والوحشية (إعتقال النساء خلال المظاهرات). يخسر النظام ويربح الحراك في هذه الجولة. اما الساحة، فهي الناشطات.

ثم، ثمة تحرش بنساء في المظاهرات: السلطة تستخدم هذه المعلومة لتسجل نقطة على الحراك، ثم يرد الحراك او بعض من فيه، للدفاع عن الحراك ضد "فبركة" التحرش (لأنه من غير المعقول ان نجد تحرّشاً في الحراك). المعركة بين "الفلتان الأخلاقي" (التحرش في الحراك) والمحافظة على الشرف (السلطة التي تحرس قيّم النظام من الحراك). من خلال "أتهام" الحراك بأنه ساحة لل"فلتان الأخلاقي" والتحرش، تحاول السلطة شيطنة الحراك وإحراز نقطة وكسب الجولة. الأداة: شهادات حقيقية لنساء تعرضن لتحرش خلال المظاهرات. اين هو لب المشكلة التي طرحتها الشهادات التي وثّقت هذا التحرش؟ اختفت، ذهبت ضحية المعركة بين السلطة والحراك. اقصى ما ستحصل عليه ضحية التحرش اذن هو التحول الى نقطة تُسجل في صالح طرف على حساب الطرف الآخر، بدون فرصة جدّية للمطالبة السياسية ولا حتى للنقاش في إمكانية حراك خالٍ من التحرش الجنسي. يتضح هنا كيف ان نضالات النساء تحجّم وتستخدم لتسجيل النقاط بين لاعبين سياسيين يظهر ان الحراك للأسف احدهما.

ثانياً: عليك الإختيار بعناية اي نوع من الثائرات انت

في تظاهرة 20 ايلول، إقتحم الساحة حيث كان المعتصمون ينتظرون وصول المسيرة، مجموعة من شبيحة نبيه برّي، مُرهبين ومهددين كل من يفكر بشتمه بالإغتصاب والقتل (حرفياً). وبينهم امرأتان، تتوجهان للنساء في الساحة صارختين: "الرئيس بري وحسن نصرالله تاج راسِك"، فما كان مني الا ان اجبت احداهن: "تاج راسِك وحدِك". شتمتني وطردتني من الساحة: "روحي إنضبّي، انتي شرموطة". الا تتوافقي والسائد، يعني انكِ شرموطة وهذا ينتقص من شرعية وجودك في الشارع. لا تدري هذه المرأة انها لخصّت بالكلمات الكثير مما يُمارس بحقنا في هذه الساحة.

لاحظن الإنتقائية في قبول النساء-الثائرات في الساحة. من هي الثائرة (المتظاهرة) المقبولة والمُرحب بها؟ هي تلك التي لا تقف في الصف الأمامي، حيث يجب ان يقف الشبان الأبطال، ولا تلك التي تبادر بالتحدث الى عناصر القوى الأمنية او بإستفزازهم، وطبعاً ليست تلك التي تقاوم التحرش في المظاهرات، عبر توثيقها او الرد عليها لأن تلك ايضاً "شرموطة"، تريد ضرب الحراك او "نسوية" او الإثنين معاً والنسويات عادةً غير محبذات، وغالباً ما يحتجن الى من "يضب"هن. وقد يكون الضبّ عبر الدفع، التحرش، و-او السخرية والتحجيم

ثالثاً: مبروك عزيزتي، انت كائن سياسي لامرئي، او ممحو. في الدستور والأحكام والسياسة اللبنانية، اللبناني هو حكماً الذكر. وتالياً، فإن الحقوق والواجبات والحماية للبناني فقط، اما انت، اللبنانية فإمرأة ما يعني انك أخت او أم او زوجة او إبنة وبالتالي، مشمولة بحماية والدك او زوجك. وفي كل ما يتعدى رابطتك العائلية، أنت غير مرئية، او في افضل الحالات، محجّمة. وان كنت غير لبنانية، سورية او فلسطينية او مصرية او عاملة اجنبية مهاجرة من شرق آسيا او افريقيا مثلاً فحالك اسوأ، لأن لا رابطة عائلية- ابوية لك في لبنان لتشملك ببركاتها (وحقوقها)... الا اذا تزوجتي لبنانياً.

لذا، فإن ذاتك السياسية ومجمل مساهماتها غير مرئية، بحيث يتم التعامي عنك خارج المساحة الخاصة، وخارج دورك كربّة منزل، كمكّمل جميل للبيت.

وهنا يأتي التنظير مجدداً ليسعفك بتوصيف حالك. يتكلم المفكر والباحث في التاريخ، الفلسطيني هشام شارابي عن النيو- بطركية، التي نتجت عن محاولات المجتمعات العربية التقدم نحو الحداثة، وعجزها عن التخلص من ترسبات النظام الإجتماعي والثقافي البطركي. يحكي شارابي كيف فشلت النيو- البطركية (البطركية الجديدة) بإنتاج فكر جديد، كيف استغلت قدرات النساء الإنتاجية في المصانع والمعامل وضاعفت من إمكانياتهن الإنتاجية، دون ان تُبدّل في القيمّ الفكرية والمجتمعية، فأستخدمتهن كدعمٍ للرجال دون ان تلحظهن كندّ لهم. فأُقصين من مراكز صنع القرار السياسي، وطُُمس وجودهن ومساهماتهن السياسية التاريخية والحديثة، واليوم ومع تراكم وتعدد وتنوّع ادوار النساء، ما زلنا لم نحقق اي تبدّل قيّمي. عَلت التوقعات منّا فيما لا زلن غير مرئيات على المستوى السياسي.

وعليه، فليس بصدفة الا تجدي امرأة واحدة في لجنة تنسيق الحراك. كثيرات ناشطات ضمن المجموعات لكنك لا تريهن في القيادة، او ربما بلى، ترين واحدة، او إثنتين احياناً. وليس صدفة ان يجيب النائب الممدد لنفسه احمد كرامي، حين سألته المراسلة هدى شديد بعد اولى جلسات الحوار: "ماذا ناقشتم؟"، ب"ناقشنا جمالك". ليست صدفة ان يسأل وزير الخارجية اللبناني جبران باسيل، في لقاء على هامش اعمال الجمعية العامة للأمم المتحدة السنة الماضية، عن "كارولين" بتأشيرة من يده لتوحي بجمال جسدها، هي التي صادف انها القائمة بأعمال بعثة لبنان في الأمم المتحدة. من المفيد تذكر هذه المواقف لنتذكر انها ليست صدف ان يحكم البلاد ذكوريون، لا يرون في المرأة اي فعالية سياسية، بل زيادة عدد ومكمّل جمالي.

في مقال لها بعنوان "خطاب النساء الصامت في زمن الحروب والأزمات"، تتكلم الكاتبة انيسة الأمين مرعي مطّولاً عن إنجازات النساء التي غرقت ونُسيت خلال الحروب المتتالية في لبنان. وتشير الى مجموعة من الأسئلة طرحها الكاتب منذر جابر عن الرابط بين الذكورة والذاكرة، وبين النسوية والنسيان، والى إجابته المستندة الى كتاب "صِحاح في اللغة" للجوهري. يربط الجوهري بين كلمة "الذَكر" ومرادفها الصيت الحسن والتمجيد، وتضادها مع "الأنثى" ومعها "النسوة" وإشتقاق الأخيرة من "النسيان"، ليقول ان النسيان عكس الذاكرة والذِكر، القريبتين من الذَكر. تستنتج الأمين بعدها، ان نسيان انجازات النساء فطري يأتي مع تفكيرنا في لغتنا، فهذه الإنجازات لا يُعوّل عليها. حتى النساء يؤمنّ بذلك. تستنتج كذلك انه في تسلسل إشتقاقات النسوة اللغوية، نجد جمع المرأة، اي النساء بدون ذكر المرأة المفردة، ما يسّهل إضمحلال أثر الواحدة فيهن وذوبانها في المجموع...

***

اعرف انني وعدت بخلو هذا النص من التهكم، ومن الغضب غير المهذب لكنه خرج عن سيطرتي، ولا من يضبه... وهل من غضب مهذب اصلاً؟ ربما. ولكنني وبعد التفكير وإعادة النظر، بدلت رأيي. اتراجع عن رغبتي بعدم إزعاج احد. انا اريد الإزعاج واقصد خدش المبادىء الذكورية والمشاعر التي يفيض منها التيستوستيرون. وكلا لا يمثلني حراك يرفض اخذ معاناتي على محمل الجد، يتعاطى مع قضية التحرش الجنسي بخفة وعنجهية، يتعاطى مع الناجيات بأبوية، ويعاملنا كقاصرات. هذا الحراك، اريد ضربه، لأنه يشبه السلطة التي يدّعي مواجهتها، بل اسوأ لأنه يتكبد عناء الإدعاء بعكس السلطة التي تمارس ذكوريتها على الملأ. حراك بهذه الذكورية، طبعاً اريد ضربه، والمتحركين فيه، ما لم يعترفوا بذكوريتهم ويلفظوها، فهم ايضاً على شاكلة السلطة وهم ايضاً لا يعّول عليهم والتنكر لهم واجب.

اعرف انني وعدت بخلو هذا النص من الغضب غير المهذب، لكن ليس من غضب مهذب.

Publisher:

Sawt al' Niswa

Section:

Opinions

Category:

Nasawiya

Tags:

حراك لبنان، نسوية ، نساء في الفضاء العام، تجارب سياسية

Featured:

في أن نكون عبئاً على اللاحقات

deema kaedbey — Mon, 27 Jul 2015 10:20:48 +0000

عزَة شرارة بيضون، مواطنة لا أنثى، دار الساقي

عزَة شرارة بيضون

عزَة شرارة بيضون

من كتاب: عزَة شرارة بيضون. مواطنة لا أنثى. بيروت: دار الساقي، 2015: 239-40

أذكر أننا بعد عودة الوفد الرسمي من بكين—حيث عقد مؤتمر المرأة العالمي الرابع في العام ١٩٩٥—دُعينا الى اجتماع عام في دار الندوة في رأس بيروت للتداول حول ما يسع المهتمات من النساء (أفراداً وجمعيات) عمله من أجل استئناف النشاط النسائي الرسمي وغير الرسمي الذي أطلقه التحضير لهذا المؤتمر. في هذا الاجتماع تمَ تداول موضوع "التحرر الجنسي" الذي بدا أن بعض رجال الدين الذين عندنا قد أبرزوها في الإعلام، من بين عشرات المسائل التي طرحت في ذلك المؤتمر، ليشنَوا على المؤتمر حملتهم التي أخذت أشكالاً مختلفة في سنوات ومناسبات لاحقة، ولا تزال. وأذكر أن أكثر من واحدة من الحاضرات أعلنت أنها ضدَ التحرر الجنسي متبنيةَ، بذلك، ما أطلقه رجال الدين على فقرة من فقرات التقرير النهائي للمؤتمر.

تأمَلتُ الحاضرات فبدا واضحاً أن الغالبية الساحقة منهن متزوَجات وفي أعمار تجاوزت الخمسين. هكذا برز سؤال بديهي لا يحتاج طرحه لأكثر من فطنة متوسَطة: هل يدرك هؤلاء أنهن لا يمثَلن "كل" النساء وأنهن يجهلن، على الأرجح، رغباتهن أو مطالبهن الراهنة؛ وفي ما إذا كان موضوع التحرر الجنسي، مثلاً، أولوية لديهن أم لا، وأنهن غير مخوَلات، تالياً، للجزم حول أهمية الموضوع، أو عدم أهميته؟ في ذلك الاجتماع لم يرتفع صوتٌ واحدٌ للقول إن من الأجدى التريَث قبل "رفض التحرر الجنسي"، أو قبل تحديد أولويات الانشغالات النسائية، ريثما يتمَ التأكَد من رأي النساء، كلَ النساء، والشابَات منهن على وجه الخصوص.

يبعث اليقين الذي يسمُ كلام بعض النسويات الكهلات في حيرةً وبعض الإرباك، وأجده من بعض بقايا التماهي مع الرجال "المتأكدين" والذين يذكَروننا، في أكثر من مناسبة، بصواب تحليلاتهم التي قامت بتشخيص مسألة ما لا تزال راهنة. وهنَ، إذ يكرَرن في كلامهن أو يُسندن في تحليلاتهن مراجع متقادمة، يوحين بثبات الأمور وبأن نضال النساء منذ ذلك الحين لم يقدَم شيئاً كفيلاً بتعديلات في الوضعية تستوجب إعادة النظر في تلك التحليلات. بل إن بعضهن يرفضن، مثلاً، التعرَف الى الشابات بحجج مختلفة: هذه تنتمي لتنظيم إسلامي فلا جدوى من السعي لمعرفة موقفها "المعروف"، وتلك المنظمة النسوية انشقت عن منظمة للمثليين وموقف مجتمعنا غير قابل بذلك التوجَه الجنسي، فلا ضرورة لاشتمالها مع منظمات غير حكومية نحن بصدد استكشاف اتجهاتها، وتلك مجموعة نسوية ملحقة بتنظيم سياسي محافظ و"نساؤه" محافظات بالضرورة، إلخ. هو يقين طارد للفضول، الشرط الضروري للتعرَف الى نساء لا يشبهننا، معزَز لأحكام تُخفض من امكانية التضامن فيما بيننا.

ولا تُعفى بعض الشابَات من المواقف الغير الودودة إزاءهن. وتجربتي مع بعضهن بيَنة على أنهن لا يبذلن الجهد الضروري للتعرَف إلى النسويات اللواتي سبقتهن الى العمل النسوي. ومن الدلائل على ذلك، مثلاً، أنهن لا يحضرن الى مواعيد ضربنها لنا لأسباب مختلفة، وهو أمر حدث معي أكثر من مرَة، وحدث مع أكثر من باحثة من زميلاتي.

لكنني أخشى، مع ذلك، أن يكون حضوري "عبئاً" على الناشطات الشابات وأحرص على تذكيرهن، والى تنبيه نفسي، بأن موقعي بينهن ينبغي أن يكون، على الدوام، مشروطاً بإصغائي الى نبض هواجسهن، ومشروطاً، كذلك، بصحَة استجابات أبحاثي لحاجاتهن. ويتعيَن عليَ في كل مرة تذكيرهن بأن لقبي الأكاديمي لا يصحَ، في مقام نقاش مواضيع راهنة تهمَهن، سبباً لصواب ما أقول، وأن "نسيانهن" ذلك اللقب ذو جدوى لنا، نحن الاثنين؛ فهو إذ يحثَني على عدم الركون الكسول الى معارفي، يشحذ حسهنَ النقدي لما يُقال، فلا يعشى على ذلك الحس بريق الألقاب التي أشعر، أحياناً، أنها تستخدم عندنا كي تهوَل على الآخرين وتحدَ من حريَة قولهم، بل إن هذه الألقاب تعمل بوعي على قمع استجاباتهن، وعلى استدعاء صراحة نقدهم.

أقول: إن نسويَات "الموجات" السابقة، تماماً كما هن نسوَيات الموجات اللاحقة، محتاجات الى بعض التواصل وإلى القليل من المغامرة: ننسحب نحن من مواقع يملكن هنَ معرفة أوسع فيها وتعبيراً أصدق عنها، ويحاولن هنَ الإصغاء الى الدروس التي تعلمناها من تفعيل النسوية عندنا، لأن تكرارها إضاعة لوقت ثمين. الانسحاب والإصغاء، كلاهما، فيهما من التواضع ومن المغامرة الضروريان لدرء التكرار—الموت.

Publisher:

Sawt al Niswa

Section:

Opinions

Category:

Nasawiya

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Featured:

Shadow Feminism in Lebanon, Part One

deema kaedbey — Tue, 27 Jan 2015 18:09:18 +0000

Shadow Feminism in Lebanon, Part One

by deema kaedbey

I Intro

In the summer of 2011, Sawt Al Niswa issued a call for papers (CFP) for an upcoming new anthology, called Banat Tariq, that will explore histories of Arab feminisms.^{^[i]} The CFP was circulated at a time when a feminist movement in Lebanon seemed to be gaining momentum. It also came in the context of North African and West Asian popular revolutions, with their inspirational victories and painful setbacks, and the discussions that these uprisings stirred. The anthology was seeking to participate in these discussions through a critical feminist reflection on the political and social changes taking (or not taking) place. In addition, it aimed to push for more meditation on the history of Arab feminisms, and to invoke alternative narratives from women in Arab homelands and their diaspora. As the call for papers stated, “Writing about women’s presence while their past isn’t fully revealed is a dubious way to move through the future or change the present… When we look at our pasts, what pasts are we looking for or writing about?” (Abu Ghazal, email to anonymous mailing list). The anthology, then, recognized the political act of choosing what past to highlight in order to explain our present.

Banat Tariq—forthcoming in 2015, thus reveals a need for movements to ground themselves in their local contexts and to look for resonance and purpose in their history, rejecting colonialist lenses, and accusations of being “westernized.” It also reflects the need for many feminist groups and movements to challenge male-centered histories, and feminist narratives seen solely through middle and upper class women’s experiences. Banat Tariq proposes that writers connect to West Asian and North African indigenous myths and figures to re-assess the present, while also relying on the women’s lived experiences to personalize history. What this anthology offers may not be a mainstream feminist position in Lebanon, yet it is similar to tried feminist strategies around the world that search for women-centered, non-western paradigms (Anzaldua; Moraga; Allen; Perez).^{^[ii]}

One of the reason I was attracted to the idea behind Banat Tariq is because I truly believe that there is more to our feminist history in Lebanon than narratives of mainstream women’s rights organizing—such as the one that Rita Stephan recounts in “Four Waves of Lebanese Feminism.”^{^[iii]} I am more concerned with putting together a different, more complex narrative assembled from histories of women's participation in various struggles across multiple time periods.^{^[iv]}This obsession with finding an alternative feminist history led me to write my PhD dissertation on exactly that: shifting our perspective on what constitutes feminism, how we tell its story, and who its subjects are. To do so necessitated a centering of women in Lebanon who are not Lebanese, for example, such as refugees and migrant workers, as well as Lebanese women who do not identify as activists or feminists. For this reason, I called this feminism shadow feminism.

My dissertation used what I called a queer feminist methodology, informed by queer of color theories, as well as indigenous and women of color politics. I also relied on the concept of a non-linear serpentine, multi-directional and cyclical temporality—also found in many indigenous and women of color writing and theories. These foundations allowed me to draw the connections between different movements throughout different time periods. This paper thus seeks to challenge boththe separation of feminism and labor organizing, as well as a linear conception of time and history.

To go briefly into what I mean by a queer feminist methodology, I cite some theorists who have informed my way of looking at feminist struggles in Lebanon. Queer theorists of color in the U.S, such as Cathy Cohen in “Punks, Bulldaggers and Welfare Queens” (1997), Jose Esteban Munoz in Disidentifications: Queers of Color and the Performance of Politics (1999), Gayatri Gopinath in Impossible Desires: Queer Diasporas and South Asian Public Cultures (2005) and Jasbir Puar in Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times (2007) question the norms of sexuality and gender. Yet in doing so, they underline how norms of class, race and citizenship (that are closely tied to sexuality and gender) also need to be challenged. As Black feminist scholar/activist Cohen explains, queerness is not only tied to same-sex sexuality, but to the crisis that some individuals and groups pose to the dominant system by their mere existence and daily resistance (24). For Cohen, working class women of color in the U.S, even if they are heterosexual, are pushed to the margins of a standardized white well-off heterosexual norm in ways that wealthy white gay men are not. More importantly, working class women of color are also being kept at the margins of queer politics (21-5). Therefore, queer of color politics recognizes the interdependence of struggles, and it is this movement towards mutuality that also informs my work about feminism in Lebanon.

In similar attempts to theorize privilege to understand interconnection of privileges and struggles, in 2012, queer activist/theorist, Ghoulama, wrote a critique of sexuality politics in Lebanon. In “نقاش في آليات التنظيم المثلي في لبنان" (trans. “Discussion around LGBT Organizing in Lebanon”) Ghoulama argued that class, race andgender divide the LGBT movement, and that “weas sexual rights activists arenot the mercyof the law.” Ghoulama explained thatclass privilege protects activists from state persecution based on their sexuality, for“how manyofus have sexin their cars because theydo not have the means to lead afinanciallyindependent life?” (Bekhsoos).

Queer theory is also relevant to my project in its breaking away from linear temporality. Elizabeth Freeman, for example, challenges a linear mode of thinking and asks that we examine “relations across time and between times” (quoted in Puar xxi). Jasbir Puar makes use of Freeman to explain how different histories are at play in any given act or discourse (xxii). Similarly, I argue that at any given moment of contemporary feminist activism in Lebanon, there are histories of women's resistance that are at play. Some feminists in Lebanon, as I show, recognize and underline how the past lives in the present. My methodology is also heavily influenced by the challenges in temporal paradigms that indigenous epistemologies pose to linearity. M. Jacqui Alexander critiques the separation of disciplines, practices, and temporalities, divisions that we have inherited from colonialism (5). She urges us to seek interdependent frameworks that “interrupt inherited boundaries of geography, national, episteme and identity” (281). Accordingly, my paper aims at challenging boundaries of time, communities and identities, as well as of social justice struggles.

II. Serpentine Time

In Lebanon, what a different feminist history—a shadow feminism—necessitates, I argue, is a different understanding of time and how we re-narrate women’s history. One image that I rely on throughout this paper is that of serpentine and cyclical motions of time. Using Chicana feminist philosopher Gloria Anzaldua's descriptions of the serpent, the serpentine moves underneath, in the shadows, connecting issues, past and present, and twisting binaries into wholes. For Anzaldua, the serpent represents a feminine energy that moves through paradoxes and different levels of consciousness to make manifest what has been suppressed by patriarchy and colonialism (48-9). The serpent is the repressed and feared sexual, and instinctive feminine energy of individuals and collectives (57).^{^[v]}I find the image of the serpent useful for my own visualizing of a non-linear movement of time, gliding across various histories and geographies, making time multi-dimensional. What I will argue in a later paper is that a cyclical and multi-directional temporality is already operating in present day feminist organizing in Lebanon.

In Dreaming the Old Council Ways: True Native Teachings from the Red Lodge, Forest explains that for the Mayans, cycles of time move in “clockwise and anticlockwise motions” simultaneously, with “currents of energy penetrating each other.” She continues:

In their infinite concept of time, time itself cannot be seen as linear, for it is not a single continuum. Time is circular, moving inward and outward at this very moment…. Our current linear perception of time merely conceives of time as a line that goes away, in a progression of moments we are leaving and ones that we are heading towards. If humanity could adopt this new vision of time, clockwise and counterclockwise at the same time, we would have no need of making or holding onto human history. Our societies would be perpetually stable and centered (205-6).

Time, then, moves in different directions simultaneously— in a cyclical fashion, moving away and moving towards any given moment at the same time. History is not a series of events in the past that we leave behind. And can such a concept also mean that we may also access, on an individual and a collective level, a kind of hindsight, if future possibilities are already latent in present moments, just as the past is?

A unidirectional motion of time feeds into both historical amnesia and a disregard for the repercussions of our actions, while a multi-directional understanding of events acknowledges how the past lives in, and informs, the present. Forest visualizes this movement of time through the image of the “cosmic serpent.” In one illustration of this concept, she shows two serpents, one facing clockwise and the other in the opposite direction, each holding its tail in its mouth, forming two layers of full circles. I too have found that the serpentine imagery useful to connect time periods and to weave together seemingly isolated themes or political struggles.

Alexander connects non-linear temporality with the decolonization of spirituality, and of colonial, heteropatriarchal capitalist history. For Alexander, part of an activist’s spiritual and political responsibility—as these two are tied together, is a process of “rewiring the senses” (310). Such rewiring includes our sense of Time, so we are able to do the healing work of understanding “who walks with you” and thus of knowing the work that we are meant to be doing (300-3). In feminist organizing, I see the relevance of Alexander’s theory through a desire to deeply understand all the political, socio-economic and historical factors that influence any situation that we are involved in.

I started above with indigenous and women of color thinkers based primarily in the Americas because they were the theorists that I found first, who encouraged me to think beyond linearity. Yet I also found similar conceptions of time in ancient and contemporary narratives from West Asia that do not follow a direct chronology. Here I am thinking of examples such as Elias Khoury’s باب الشمس(Gate of the Sun), where past and present, fact and fiction are inseparable. There are also ancient narratives that reveal a more complex movement of events, and thus of time. When Firas Al Sawah, for example examined Mesopotamian myths, he observed two models of storytelling: a simple/straightforward model and a complex model. The first model is linear and chronological (49-50); while the complex model of narrating myths sees “events move in more than one direction, and intersect within a [more complex structure]” (50; my translation).

To begin with, the story that Al Sawah presents to exemplify the complex model is a Babylonian origin story where the gods are creating the four directions; hence, we see that the structure of the text (its complexity/non-linearity) and the content of the text (the creation of the four directions) mirror each other. In this particular ancient narrative, the sub-stories seem to be disconnected, yet they ultimately return to each other. This is not unlike the complex cyclicality of ألف ليلة وليلة, or A Thousand and One Nights. In this epic tale, there are multiple stories and digressions, yet we always come back to the original point with the story of Shehrazad and King Shahrayar. This point of origin and return, then, is also the larger framework that holds all the tales together.

What I see in this examination of the models of storytelling in ancient myths not only a study of narrative structures, but a different consciousness of time. Linear time does exist, just as the simple chronological model of narration exists, but it is to be understood within a bigger structure, a more complex model. Like the stories of Shahrazad and the Babylonian creation myth, time moves in cycles, patterns, and seeming breaks, yet it is always connected. As Forest explained it, movements of time are always meeting each other at any particular point. And as artist-scholar-activist Nia Witherspoon once said, indigenous thought “maintains several fundamental features” throughout different geographical locations (personal conversation, April 2012).

Like Banat Tariq-- the upcoming anthology that I highlighted at the beginning of this article, I see some aspects of feminism in Lebanon attempting to reveal these connections between older repressed histories of organizing and more contemporary mobilizations. Additionally, I also perceive in many of these feminist attempts an insistence on understanding the links and mutuality between different social/political struggles that are seen as separate. Such an inclusive lens would embrace women in Lebanon who are not Lebanese, or who have never identified as feminists. While I am not imposing a feminist label on them, I am arguing that their stories need to be remembered and acknowledged by those of us who do identity as feminists in Lebanon. We do need to remember the stories of women working in factories and mobilizing for their rights; of Palestinian and Lebanese militant women resisting occupation in the 1980s; of women in prisons. And we do need to incorporate into our feminism the stories and resistance of women/mothers/housewives (Lebanese, Armenian, Palestinian etc.) who are not activists, but who, in times of crisis and violence, mobilized to help their families and communities; the stories of domestic migrant workers resisting exploitation, racism, classism and sexism; and the resistance of queer women who break the shame and taboo of talking about sexuality. A serpentine understanding of time works best to unleash these histories that are not always apparent or acknowledged, because it is the temporality of what has not yet been resolved or healed and lives on in the shadows.[vi] These are some of the narratives that appeared in my dissertation, and some of which I will be publishing here in Sawt al Niswa, beginning with women in the labor movement.

III. Queer Feminist Thought and the Labor Movement

A vignette:

The beginning of May 2012 witnessed the contract workers of EDL (Electricite du Liban), Lebanon’s electric public company, declaring a strike against layoffs, demanding permanent employment and fairer wages (Abouzaki). Holding their protest inside the EDL building and its courtyard, the workers wanted the public to know that their pay had been withheld, and that the injuries some workers suffered on the job had not been compensated. Twelve of their fellow workers had been killed on the job (Abouzaki “Electricite de Liban”; Kob “Intifadat”). The strikers were also making a statement against privatization, arguing that it would take away their rights, their social security and other benefits (Kob).The strike would continue for two months, garnering national attention, both in sympathy and criticism.

I am not claiming that all feminists in Lebanon engaged with this strike, yet the feminist thought that I propagate here is one that connects with labor rights, materially and conceptually. In true serpentine cyclical motion, I open this section as I close it, by presenting feminist responses to the events that I recount in the above vignette. I will show how these responses supported labor struggles from a feminist perspective, contextualizing them within older histories of workers’ mobilization, and connecting them to different social struggles. Similarly, I also position this strike within the histories of women’s participation in labor and labor struggles from the 19^th century, to the 1940s and 1970s. Yet I also call attention to the queer presence of women in factories historically, and the challenges that they posited to heteronormativity.

Feminist solidarity with the 2012 EDL strike appeared not only in feminist spaces, but pushed into more widely-read national publications. In an example of the latter, journalist Rasha Abouzaki wrote “Electricite du Liban: Striking Workers Test Their Powers” in Al Akhbar newspaper. Abouzaki gave an overview of the workers’ demands and the government’s response, yet she interviewed only women strikers, of different political backgrounds. She was thus reminding readers that women are a central part of the demonstrations. And when workers burned tires in the company's courtyard in protest, Abouzaki revealed, it was the women workers who were “closer to the smoke than the men. Their voices rising with others calling for an end to the injustice.” In other words, if feminist journalists, scholars and activists, do not deliberately focus on women and document their participation in organizing, the history of labor struggles will continue to be told in the male pronoun. Centering women in the narrative allows us to see a continuity in women's resistance. It also reveals gendered anxieties and demands that are rooted in older histories of women's labor struggles, as well as historical perceptions of working class women in Lebanon.

When Abouzaki interviews women workers, she highlights their struggles-- the human suffering, as well as their radical voice, and their coalitional consciousness. The significance of this tactic is that public opinion of the strike was cut across political (and sectarian party lines), as well as class lines; political analysis that dismissed class struggles, or that was loyal to the Minister of Water and Energy and the political party he represented, portrayed workers as angry and irrational people (Kob). Workers were accused of trying to score a political gain rather than fighting for their rights.[vii]Alternatively, Abouzaki may have introduced the women's voices to counter such reasoning. Importantly too, Abouzaki presents the past by recalling history as a cyclical movement, and by drawing connections between the current event and demonstrations that drew national attention in the 1970s.

In November 1972, workers of the Ghandour candy company went on strike to demand “higher wages, equal distribution of wages between men and women, and the right to organize in unions” (Traboulsi A History of Modern Lebanon 167). Calling attention to the “echoes of the Ghandour strike” that she believes were still reverberating in the 2012 protests, Abouzaki writes that in 1972 “1,200 workers from the Ghandour candy factories took action that shook Lebanese public opinion. Their demand was similar to those of EDL’s contract workers, but their numbers were less.” The 1972 demonstration were met with brutal suppression, as police fired on the demonstrators, killing and injuring workers (Abouzaki; Traboulsi; Abu-Mjahed).[viii]What Abouzaki does not mention was that one of the workers killed was a woman organizer-- Communist party member Fatima Khawaja, as well as Yusuf al Attar, another communist organizer. While a mainstream middle class perspective may not remember these events, women face double erasures, as even contemporary feminists are not always aware of this history.

Looking through a serpentine framework reveals that the strikes of 2012 and of the 1970s were themselves a continuation of earlier movements from the late 1960’s. During the labor organizing of the 1960's, workers demanded “equal pay for men and women, family allowances, maternity and sickness leave” as well as “outlawing sexual harassment” in their jobs (Traboulsi A History 167-8). Women, therefore, were able to include their demands and experiences into the labor movement. And in order to demand protection against sexual harassment, the workers must have talked openly about their experiences, therefore breaking what we assume has always been a taboo subject for women. Moreover, in 1972, the heads of the Ghandour company must have acknowledged women as leaders, because both men and women were considered agitators, and were not allowed to go back to work when the strike ended and the company resumed operation (Traboulsi A History 168; Traboulsi “Al Harakat Al Ijtima'iya fi Tarikh Libnan”).[ix]

Labor struggles, therefore, have long been feminist sites; these are sites were women took leadership, and were they called for gender equality as part of improving work conditions. Yet if we only equate feminism with a mainstream women's movement, and labor organizing only with men's experiences, these feminist stories will continue to be repressed. AbouZaki also observed that the workers she talked to, who are often from poor families, worked collectively. Amhaz, for example, was not only striking for her own benefit, “but for those of all her colleagues.” Hers was therefore a collective consciousness that insisted on justice for everyone involved in the struggle. Another interviewee, Rida, countered negative publicity that showed them greedily agitating for unearned rights. Rida declared “we are from good families, we have pride” (Abouzaki).

I pay particular attention here to Rida’s quote “we are from good families,” as a response to a history of questioning the morality of women working in factories. It is this history that I turn to next, as I show that feminist alliances with labor movements today is grounded in multiple sites of historical struggles. I read the 2012 strike as containing echoes of women’s struggles dating back to the 19^th century, and to consecutive decades, such as the 1940's tobacco strikes that led to the killing of labor organizer Warda Butrus Ibrahim.

Historically, women’s entry into the workforce has been a dilemma for the heteropatriarchal system in Lebanon. In the mid 19^th century, Mount Lebanon experienced its entry into the global capitalist system, with the French-backed silk industry, manufacturing the silk in factories, and exporting cocoons to Europe. This industry changed not only the economy and its labor, from one based on land to one that is part of capitalism and factory work; it also transformed gender and class relations and expectations, as women and girls from poor families were the prime workers in silk factories (Khater 325-6). Akram Fouad Khater describes the changes in peasants' economic patterns, where “French mercantile houses” would lend farmers money to purchase silkworms, thereby tying them to debt. In addition, with the monopoly over the industry, farmers were no longer growing food that sustained them, they had to borrow more money to buy basics, such as wheat and other grains (328). Fluctuating prices (and French control of these prices) meant that farmers were not prospering (328).

The poorest of the peasants, threatened by debt with the loss of their lands and livelihoods, had no choice but to send their daughters to work in the factories. For those who could not--or would not, have their daughters work in factories, male immigration to the Americas was the only other option (329). Yet women were also seen by the French industrialists as better options for industries. They were considered more submissive and therefore less likely to protest their conditions than men; they were believed to be naturally endowed with “nimble fingers”; and they were undervalued, and could thus be paid less than their male counterparts for work they were supposedly better suited at (329-30). Fawwaz Traboulsi also writes that the girls and women recruited from orphanages were not paid at all (Hareer wa Hadeed 128).

By the 1880s, “one out of every five families had a daughter working in these factories” (Khater 330). And they worked in horrible conditions. Girls (some as young as seven) and young women labored in the cramped, dark, unventilated, hot spaces for ten to twelve hours. On the one hand, the money they earned did eventually give them “the power of independent and individualized decision-making” in their families, which they did not have before (333). On the other hand, their work in factories “tainted” their reputation. Eyes followed them disapprovingly when they passed by the village. Their job, which included contact with men, meant that their morality was questioned. As a result, their chances of marriage were also jeopardized (334).

The image of the factory woman/girl turned into a salient image in Lebanon, and it was one that attracted negative connotations. Parents would reprimand their daughters by yelling at them “are you going to behave like a factory girl?!” (331). Thus, the “factory girl” became a queer presence in her context, a representation of what “good girls” should not be and behave like. Khater describes this change in gender and class dynamics as a “crisis in patriarchy” (332). Yet a crisis in gender relations was also a crisis in heteronormativity, as the “factory girl” disrupted gender roles and sexual norms, and triggered anxieties of family's “honor”. Thus when Rida, the organizer in Abouzaki's piece declared that “we are from good families,” her statement carried the hauntings of this past, where women working outside the house damaged their reputation as good women, just as agitating for their rights damaged their reputation as good workers.

Patriarchy may have been challenged, but not smashed in the process of these economic and gender changes in 19^th century Mount Lebanon: in fact, it was women’s work in the factory that allowed men to not work there, and to continue to do the more socially accepted labor in the fields (331). Still, when we look at the intersection of sexuality, gender relations and class positions, we see how this historical period created a new queered segment of society, and an image of the factory girl that represented this crisis. It may be worth noting here that after the decline of the silk industry in the early 20^th century, some of the factories were said to have been turned into brothels (Al Raida Women and Work editorial 3), another venue that only the more impoverished women would work in, and would be further queered by. One factory was converted by the educator, Emily Trad (whose father was the owner of the factory), into a school that was devoted to orphans (Al Raida 3; Khairallah 235).

One may also wonder about the shifts in relations amongst women workers, as what bound them was not blood relations, but shared spaces of exploitation and struggle. Even though the factories were commonly too loud to allow conversations during work (Khater 333), it is likely to have produced different ways of relating to women from outside one's immediate kin networks. What were those relations, and how were they lived, sanctioned, and forbidden? While such homosocial relationships are not the focus of my project, they are worth pointing out to. Though we may never have answers for these questions, they are nevertheless part of a shadow feminism because they are part of the histories, relationships, and resistance that have been erased, particularly because they were threatening to heteropatriarchy, and to colonial domination.

In addition, given that women were seen as less likely to defy those in power at the factories, the threat they posed was both effective, and unexpected to colonial and local patriarchal powers. Women in the silk industries gained awareness of competition among different factories, and started to negotiate their employers for better salaries. The women would have factories compete for them, as they chose the factory that offered better wages (Khater 332). Women workers came to recognize the value of their labor to the capitalists, and they were thus able to exert agency in the hiring process. Workers also slowed down the pace of the work, in order to slow production. Yet women's resistance was also direct and public: they resorted to strikes to demand better working conditions. In one particular strike, the workers were able to secure their demands within a week, as the managers agreed to grant them “twenty days of paid vacation and fourteen months of pay per year” (332).

Moving in a serpentine motion to connect past and present, when we come to understand the direct and indirect ways that women workers in the 19^th century resisted exploitation, we can start to recognize similar patterns of resistance in later decades. Furthermore, we can begin to see recurrent anxieties around gender and sexual norms that working women provoked. In the 1940s, for example, while women in factories pushed for justice based on gender, class and national independence, many elite women's rights activists stood in opposition to changing gender roles. The 1940s was a watershed decade in Lebanese (and Arab) history. It was the decade that began in the midst of the Second World War, and ended with the loss of Palestine. It was also the decade that saw the independence of newly formed Arab nation states, including Lebanon. Elizabeth Thompson shows that the 1940s was a turning point in terms of colonial/nationalist and gender relations in the region. Class based struggles interconnected with nationalist aspirations, and gender dynamics. In the early forties, communist groups-- among other parties, organized hunger marches in Lebanon and in Syria, and women were at the center of organizing (233).

The Aleppo march went on for several days, as the women chanted, “We’re hungry, we want bread!” In Beirut as well, thousands of women filled the streets, and their slogans called for low bread prices (Thompson 233-4). These public acts of defiance focused on workers’ livelihoods, and were influential enough to lead to changes in the politicians’ rhetoric (which is what I also observed from the 2012 EDL strike). One main reason that women played a large part in those mobilizations was the dire economic circumstances created by World War II, which propelled them (back) to work in the factories (Thompson 238-9). Anxieties were high that time: World War II had triggered memories of the famine and locust invasion that had devastated Lebanon during that previous transnational war (233), but many women may have also been carrying traumatic histories of genocide, exodus, rape and forced marriages, such as what Armenian women had experienced in the early 20^th century before they settled in Lebanon (Tachjian 66).These histories, from Armenia and from Palestine, also have to be remembered in the feminist history of Lebanon.

Thompson and Abisaab point out that well-off women responded to the economic difficulties of the forties mainly through charities, and through writing about socio-economic issues in women's magazines. Yet it was frequently a discourse where women’s domesticity was emphasized rather than challenged. Thus, well-off women supported those working in charities and in schools, but distanced themselves from women laboring in factories. It was more important, they stated, to make men appreciate the work women provide in the home “before even thinking of replacing men in the job market,” as Al Mar'a al Jadida stated (Abi Saab 40).

As in the 19^th century, more women were entering the paid workforce in the early 1940s, which provoked (yet again) a crisis in gender relations, challenging the dynamics of the home and workplace (Thompson 238). It is through this crisis, Thompson argues, that in 1942, Mother’s Day became an official holiday in Lebanon—to remind women that their personal glory and their patriotic contribution should happen through motherhood. In 1943, birth control was outlawed. In that year too, the first president of the independent Lebanese state, Bshara El Khouri, refused to grant women the right to vote. And that same year, the Women’s Social Democratic League was formed by school teachers as a forum to reprimand working mothers (240-1). Simply put, in the midst of the struggle for national independence, colonial rule and the anti-colonial Lebanese elite were working together to ensure the institutionalization a specific concepts of gender that was upheld by elite women. Simultaneously, the activism of working class women, struggling against gender and class inequality, as well as against colonialism and capitalism, were being erased, even by women's rights activists.

Upper class women were therefore acting as the guardians of class-based heteropatriarchy and respectability. While they called for education and medical care to be available for all segments of society—it was more of a charitable stance than any of a desire for social change and cross-class coalitions. Instead, they considered only the well- off as the ones deserving of political participation. Rose Shahfa for example, head of the women’s delegation to the 1944 Arab Women’s conference in Cairo, stated her belief that educated women have “more right to political privileges than the ignorant man who enjoys these privileges” (Thompson 273). Clearly this was not an analysis of socio-economic conditions and their effect on access to education for all, but an offense at the idea of “ignorant” working class men having more rights than upper class women[x].

These classed dynamics are predecessors of what contemporary feminist activist, Leen Hashem, calls “"حركات فنجان القهوةor the “cup-of-coffee movements.” Referring to the social custom in which Lebanese/Arab women regularly visit each other and talk over coffee, Hashem sees a branch of organizing that is similar in its social conformity. The “cup-of-coffee” movements consist of socialites, wives and relatives of wealthy men, who meet in luxurious spaces, take part in charities, and then advertise their charitable donations in magazines. Their organizing is thus centered on a politics of respectability, on maintaining their social positions and on preserving the status quo. These women, Hashem declares, seclude themselves from communities outside their socio-economic class and individuals who are not like them, including individuals and communities who defy heteronormativity (“Cup of Coffee”, Sawt al Niswa).

Hashem's critique of the wealthy and charity-based facet of the women’s movement is crucial, because it challenges the privileged position of elite women as the primary women's rights activists. However, paying attention to working class women's struggles also reveals that women-centered practices such as visitations and meetings over coffee has been mobilized by working class women too, as I will later show. That is, less privileged women may also meet over “cups of coffee” and use these meetings as grounds for politicized and mobilizing for their communities; these tactics may additionally hold some potential for alliances amongst feminists of different age groups and political orientations. Indeed, since then, Hashem herself has come to self-reflect on the term, and to see the potentials of “cup-of-coffee” organizing beyond that of “wealthy charity wives.” But she has also come to critique movements that see themselves as radical and inclusive, and to see the elitism at work in them (personal correspondence, August 2013).

Historically and presently then, it would be too limiting to circumscribe feminism only within upper class women’s organizing—or only within self-identified feminist circles. Searching for women's participation in various struggles also opens up different aspects of gendered relations. AbiSaab shows that in the 1930s, bourgeois women tied their anti-Regie discourse (Regie being the tobacco company, Régie Co-Intéresse Libanaise de Tabacs et Tombacs) to their position as mothers of their family and their nation. The women who worked in factories, on the other hand, had a different discourse and a different way of organizing, as their activism drew correlations between anti-colonial protests and demands for better working conditions (42-6). Abi Saab lists, describes and analyzes a number of strikes from the 1920s till the 1960s. One of the more prominent action was the 1946 strike in the Hadath branch of the Regie, which was predominantly organized by women (and which was helped by the solidarity of the workers in Syria).

During this particular 1946 tobacco strike, the management wanted business to go on as usual, distributing cigarettes to the market despite the protest. Yet the workers, in Lebanon as in Syria, disrupted the trucks’ movement. In Beirut and its suburbs-- Mar Mikhayil then Furn el Shebbak, the strikers—predominantly women, lay on the ground to block the truck from unloading, as they shouted, “let the truck pass over our bodies!” The police, in line with management interests, rejected this act of rebellion, and they clashed with the protesters. One woman worker and prime organizer, Warda Butrus Ibrahim, was killed. As unionist, Dr. Mary al-Dibs, recounts, “some workers that day backed down [and] Warda yelled at them to return to their positions and stay put. Suddenly, a policeman stepped forward, drew his gun at Warda’s chest, and fired” (qtd. in Al-Hajj, Al Akhbar 2012). Sixteen other women and thirteen men were wounded and rushed to Hotel Dieu hospital in Beirut. To help their injured peers, the workers raised money to cover the costs of their hospital bills and to provide support for their families (75-6).

This deadly confrontation between workers and authorities, as I have shown earlier, would emerge again in the late sixties and the early seventies, as with the 1972 Ghandour strike where women also sacrificed their lives and their jobs. Yet as I've also argued earlier, women are seldom remembered in these histories. Women workers are absent, for example, in the monograph of union leader, Aziz Saliba, whose work is an otherwise meticulous documentation of the history of the Lebanese syndicate movement in the agricultural valley of Beqaa. When Saliba mentions women, it is usually in official women’s rights organizations, such as the branch of the Lebanese Women’s Rights Committee in Zahle (in Beqaa, a region east of Beirut). Through the Women’s Rights Committee, women mobilized mainly around issues of teaching and education, gathering petitions and meeting with the Minister of Education around issues such as free education and building more public schools in the region (65-6). While Saliba notes women's participation in labor rights events (143), he does not address their contribution to labor movements in Beqaa.

Saliba does mention the renowned writer Emily Faris Ibrahim and her involvement in a festival for Labor’s Day in 1946, though he does not give any details of what she may have said during her speech at the event. Ibrahim was an icon of the mainstream women’s movement, as she headed the Lebanese Women’s Council (LCW) for twenty one years. Like many mainstream groups, the LCW, which was launched in 1952 and which is currently an umbrella group for hundreds of organizations, is focused on legislative changes. Its tactics include forming close connections with politicians and figures of power to lobby for change.[xi] In 1966, Ibrahim published an important manuscript that documents individuals and organizations across Lebanon, and in different parts of the world, that are dedicated to women’s rights. Her book, الحركة النسائية في لبنان, or The Women's Movement in Lebanon, was useful, for example, for my own research into groups that once worked on women in prisons, and on labor rights; her inclusion of intellectuals and artists was also informative; and her documentation reveals another significant issue: that women’s rights organizers understood the importance of being aware of each other’s work and networking with each other, despite their different approaches and backgrounds (Zeidan 44). That, however, may not always have translated across class lines (38). Because despite women's networking with each other, what should we make of the fact that Ibrahim was part of the Regie administration, working as its head of publicity?[xii]

But there are, and have always been, feminists (whether or not they identify as such) in different sites of protest,[xiii]from different backgrounds (though many of them were working class), who were able to articulate their position as women and as workers. Linda Matar is an icon who represents such a segment that held both feminist and class consciousness. Coming from a working class background, she has also been part of the Lebanese League for Women's Rights since 1953,[xiv]and she headed the Women's Rights Committee in 1978. In one radio interview, Matar recollects how she left school at the age of 12 to work in a factory. Later, she would go to night school and work during the day. Having been employed in a silk factory as well, Matar experienced the realities of the workers. Their arduous labor, the discrimination they faced, long hours and minimal pay deeply impacted her politics(Sharika wa Laken episode 5).

Thus, despite the ideological distance between the mainstream women's movement and the workers' movement, there were few women who connected these positions, and contributed to a feminist thought that is steeped in socio-economic justice as well gender equality. As I've been developing an analysis of these struggles historically, I also connect them to more contemporary organizing. That is, these histories relate to contemporary feminism that connects different struggles and multiple margins together. Present day manifestations of such connections were evident in 2012, as a feminist perspective revealed that women were principal organizers in the EDL strike, as Abouzaki did. In 2012, many feminists in the Beirut-based feminist anti-racist collective, Nasawiya, were at the forefront of the supporters, with members often joining the strikers and propagating the workers' perspectives and their demands. Farfahinne Kob, member of Nasawiya who constantly blogs on workers' rights and resistance in Lebanon, continues to follow up on this particular story despite its disappearance from mainstream news.[xv]And in March 2012, journalist Fatin El Hajj reminded readers of women's accomplishments in Lebanese unions, historically and in the present day, by including the story of labor organizer Warda Ibrahim and her death during the 1946 strike (Al Akhbar March 2012).

As the events of the 2012 strike were unfolding, Hashem wrote the essay “I am the (Female) Contract Worker… and My Tent Reaches the Sky,” (my translation), a feminist article that was published in Assafir, a mainstream Lebanese newspaper. In it, she personalized the workers’ struggles, identifying with the contract workers, working women, and working class women. Through this identification with different struggling groups, Hashem linked the struggle for labor rights to the feminist push for a legal protection of women from domestic abuse—another urgent cause that feminists in Lebanon are working towards. Hashem’s title phrase, “reaching the sky,” is indicative of workers’ pride, but it also represents expanding an issue as widely as possible, by showing its connections and parallels with other struggles.

The attack on women’s rights is therefore, she shows, similar to the attack on women’s bodies. She writes:

I know that who ravages my body by force and arrogance, supported by power dynamics that privilege men, is the same as that who abuses our rights as workers, male and female, supported by power dynamics that place its very wealthy corporations and its protectors on the necks of the hard workers (my translation).

In what is a clear feminist coalitional stand, Hashem makes connections between different groups who are oppressed and exploited by entrenched power structures. In her essay, she urges the exploited and abused to stand together in solidarity, as she also defies the shame and repression that keep both women and workers from rebelling against those who abuse them (Shabab Assafir). I find her essay another example of shadow feminism that connects different struggles against the social-economic and political system by aligning with marginalized groups.

In conclusion, the methodology that I put forth here allows us to question assumptions of women's passivity, whether they are working in factories or in their homes. Instead, I look for resistance to different aspects of violence and exploitation. Another facet of shadow feminism, for example, questions the absence in documenting women's resistance to familial and domestic violence. As activists Rasha Moumneh and Ghoulama argue, women in abusive situations are more often portrayed as passive victims by Lebanese feminist and women's rights organizations (Moumneh, “Queering the Domestic Violence Law” May 2010; Ghoulama, Rihla 'ala Mal'ab al Dahiyya” Oct 2011). Also hidden inside the homes are the migrant workers, who have been historically Lebanese, Arab or Kurdish women, but since 1990, increasingly come from non-Arab Asian and African countries (Jureidini 77). Their stories and struggles, as I show in another chapter of my dissertation, for example, may also intersect with feminist and queer struggles in Lebanon. Migrant women, forbidden from creating or joining unions, as Amrita Pande argues, also form collectives that resemble unions in their resistance against exploitation and isolation (385-6). Whether in collectives or as individuals, the work that migrant women provide, and their resistance to exploitation and abuse also has to be a central aspect of shadow feminism from Lebanon.

Therefore, a feminism that is informed by the shadows presents a different picture of women's activism in Lebanon, and represents women who challenge norms of gender, sexuality, and class. As I will show in part two of this study, shadow feminism may also find its roots in histories of women's militancy,in the narratives of Communist women, for example, who were reputed to be sexually liberated, and prone to have “free and easy amorous exchange[s]” (Bechara 55).

This paper is dedicated to Sara Emiline Abu Ghazal, Faouziea AlChahal, Nia Witherspoon, Samia Abou-Samra and Lamia Moghnie.

I would also like to thank the wonderful members of my dissertation committee: my advisor, Guisela Latorre, and committee members Theresa Delgadillo, Nadine Naber and Cricket Keating. It was also Cricket who came up with the term "shadow feminism" and-- along with my friend, Yu Chen (Brena) Tai, encouraged me to think more about this term.

[i] Banat Tariq can be translated as Daughters of Tariq, or daughters of the morning star. The anthology also shows how the term refers to “a tribe of Arab warrior women who lived on the periphery of the new-found Islamic community” (Banat Tariq CFP).

[ii] In Sri Lanka, the 1970s saw a feminist longing for a mythic pre-colonial past (Jayawardena and de Alwis 250). See also Robin D.G Kelley's Dreams of Freedom for a discussion of Black activism through looking at the past.

[iii] See also Stephan, Rita. “Women’s Rights Movement in Lebanon” in Mapping Arab Women Movements: A Century of Transformation from Within edited by Nawar Al-Hassan Golley and Pernille Arenfeldt. Cairo: American University of Cairo Press, 2012.

[iv]My methodology resembles that of Maylie Blackwell, whodocuments Chicana feminist history through an intersectional lens grounding it in multiple sites of oppression and resistance (25-9). Nadine Naber also looks at the “multisited feminist” strategies of “diasporic feminist anti-imperialism” embraced by Arab American feminists in the Bay Area. These are strategies, she writes, have long been part of radical women of color and third world women's politics (221-2).

[v] Anzaldua argued that the serpent was once revered, and that it represented the earth for the Olmecs (56). This reverence was lost with colonization, as Christian religion emphasized the body/soul split. Thus, for Anzaldua, to ‘enter into the serpent” means to get in touch with one’s instinctual ‘animal’ side (59; 48).

[vi] Here I am reminded of an online exercise by Black feminist Alexis Pauline Gumbs, who asks viewers about repressed violence in the places where we live. In her words, such exercise also asks “what are the voices of the forgotten, erased and violated ancestors teaching you today?” including what we can do to heal this violence http://vimeo.com/14916291

[vii]For newspaper articles that report biases against the workers, see Ibrahim Al Amin, “Lebanon's Electricty Crisis” Al Akhbar English. Jan 12, 2012. http://english.al-akhbar.com/content/lebanon%E2%80%99s-electricity-crisis last accessed Feb. 27, 2014; Farfahinne, “Intifadat al Mouyawimeen.” Farfahinne: Socialist from Lebanon. http://farfahinne.blogspot.com/2012/06/blog-post.html last accessed Feb. 27, 2014.

[viii]Abouzaki writes that three workers were killed, while Traboulsi names two, Fatima Khawaja and Yousef Al Atar.

[ix]Fawaz Traboulsi’s article is the source I use where he states that men and women—a hundred of them, were not allowed to go back to work, punished for allegedly leading the strike. http://history8archaeology.yoo7.com/t31-topic. Last accessed 20 April 2013. Fawzi Abu Mjahed, on the other hand, on the Lebanese Communist party website, writes that the company (and the government) terminated the jobs of four people, and not hundreds; yet he does not say if they were men and women. Abu Mjadeh, Fawzi. “A Nidaa 211: Mahatat Nidaliyya fi Tarikh al Tabaqa al Amila wa al Haraka al Niqabiyya.” Lebanese Communist Party. 8 May 2013. http://www.lcparty.org/website/index.php?option=com_content&id=2120:-211-. Last accessed 20 April 2014.

[x]In making this argument, I was influenced by Angela Davis' analysis of the women's suffrage movement in the U.S in her seminal work, Women, Race and Class, where she pointed the racism of the women's movement.

[xi]See the “Friends of LCW” page on their website http://lcw-cfl.org/en/Home/FriendsofLCW/tabid/319/language/en-US/Default.aspx. Last accessed 20 April 2014.

[xii]Be'ayni, Najib. “Emily Faris Ibrahim: Muhariba Anhakaha al Yaa's.” Assafir. 30 March 2011. http://www.assafir.com/Windows/PrintArticle.aspx?ArticleID=233098&ChannelID=0&ref=Toolbar. Last accessed 20 April 2014.

[xiii]See Walid Dao’s article on the history of workers’ struggles in Lebanon for these different sites of protest. Dao, Walid. “Al Haraka al Niqabiya wal Ummaliya fi Lubnan.” Al Thawra al Da'ima. March 2013. http://permanentrevolution-journal.org/ar/issue3/brief-history-oflabor-movement-lebanon. Last accessed 14 April 2014.

[xiv]Who is She in Lebanon? n.d. http://whoisshe.lau.edu.lb/expert-profile/linda-matar.

[xv]Nasawiya's headquarters was also a few-minutes-walk away from the EDL company; Kob, Farfahinne. Socialist from Lebanon http://farfahinne.blogspot.com/ last accessed Feb. 27, 2014.

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Reflections on Queerness in the Arab World: An Interview with Dr. Samar Habib

Lamia Moghnie — Tue, 29 May 2012 21:00:00 +0000

Nayrouz A.

Ghaida Moussa

Before the last decade, all we could focus on – as Arab queers – was looking back to the past, determined to uncover our roots, our trajectories as Arab queers living in the Arab world or in the diaspora. Today, the paradigms are shifting, making us reflect on our present and future, all the while feeding on histories unearthed by the scholars and activists who came before us. Among these scholars is Dr. Samar Habib, an academic who – for many Arab queers – has offered a starting point to question past and current narratives that characterize us as estranged and displaced in our embodiment of queer identities. Through her publication of works such as Female Homosexuality in the Middle East: Histories and Representations, Dr. Habib has revealed textual and cinematographic representations of what we can today call today our actual and representational ancestry. She has provided us with accounts upon which we can reflexively base our understandings of ourselves, our communities and the cultures that we belong to. Much of these revelations have brought with them a shattering of the conception of culture as static, of queer as foreign/Western, of sexuality as singular, and of Arabness as monolithic.

As Arab queers who are personally invested – on the ground, in the classroom and in the spaces inbetween –we – the authors – wished to open dialogue with Dr. Habib. At the time of the interview, our memories of home(s) were being shocked and stirred with the images and stories being broadcasted to us in the daily newspapers and television news channels. The fall of dictatorships, the rise of peoples’ movements, the confusion and evident failures of the West, the bloodshed, the simultaneous plea for nationhood, civil factionary clashes, and rebirth of trans-regional solidarity, the demand for basic rights and the voices of women at the frontlines were brewing in our minds and in our hearts as we watched from afar. Simultaneously, our reflections concerning the relatively recent surge of queer activism and literature in the Arab world and in the diaspora infused our academic, artistic, and daily projects and experiences. The works of authors, such as Dr. Habib and Dr. Sahar Amer, as well as, the autobiographical works of queer groups such as, Meem (Lebanon) and Aswat (Palestine), the spoken word poetry of local queer Arabs in our cities, our own academic projects, and the emergence of multiple queer Arab social movements in countries such as Morocco, Egypt, Jordan, Sudan, Lebanon, Canada, the United States, England, Palestine, etc. – have inspired art, political and anti-colonial discourse, community-building, and social movements. Within these projects some common themes surfaced and are currently being explored: the quest for self-definition; the quandary of definition by an Other; the longing for a sense of belonging; the permanence of a sense of displacement; the reality of the colonization of our minds, tongues and bodies; the thirst for community; and the dilemmas of solidarity among others.

It is within this very real and grounded cloud of thoughts that we approached Dr. Habib during the following interview. Out of this state of mind emerged a series of themes from which we built our interview questions. We were first interested in knowing about Dr. Habib’s past and present work, how she came about choosing the topics for research and why she approached these topics the way that she did. We were also interested in understanding how she defined concepts such as homosexuality, queerness, and homophobia, and how these definitions were rooted in her historical analysis of queerness in the Arab world. Conjointly, this meant engaging in a very current debate concerning the provenance of queerness and homophobia (were they a project of Western colonialism/imperialism?). These questions were not only self-involved, but also implied better understanding how to work with non-queer members of our communities. Furthermore, the topic of ‘solidarity’ and its implications – as a neocolonial effort to manage and oppress and as a strategy to find a common front for unity – was a heated topic of discussion. Finally, Dr. Habib shared with us the future directions of her work. While many subjects were left aside or only dealt with in a more superficial manner than was deserved, we hope that this discussion can inspire a continuation of the many conversations that queer Arabs are having amongst each other, online, and across borders. Furthermore, as Dr. Habib brings forth, these conversational and action-based bridges are also pathways to further empowerment, self-knowledge and definition, as well as community building.

We interviewed Dr. Habib in Toronto, where she was a guest speaker at the Inside Out Toronto LGBT Film Festival: “With Love from Le(z)Banon and Pa(lez)tine” program.

How and why were you interested in current and historical queer/homosexuality issues in your work, such as: Female Homosexuality in the Middle East: Histories and Representation, and “Queering the Middle East and the New Anti-Semitism”? In the first book you trace written evidences of female homosexuality in the Middle-East, while in the second article you focus on queer political related issues. What brought about your interest in these themes?

I think it was a question of trying to uncover what Foucault would call an ‘archeology of knowledge’ on same-sex relations or desire in the Arab context. It was really a question of trying to reconstruct that kind of desire in ways that were meaningful to my cultural identities. So those primary identities being: Lesbian or queer identified woman, gender atypical queer bodied and also my Palestinian heritage, being born into a condition of statelessness. It began as a question and I was not sure what I was going to find. So my work, my written work, was defined by the material and primary evidence that I collected over the years. As to the question of Palestine and queer politics, I really became interested in that since I was interested in finding something remedial: ‘How do we get beyond this issue of Zionist and Arab? How do we start thinking beyond national borders and nationalism?’ – And queer politics seems to be an appropriate framework. Naturally, the very first article I published, which was “Queering the Middle East and the New Anti-Semitism”, just happened to be about this convergence of my Palestinian identity and my queer identity, through going back to the site of trauma: occupied Palestine. Going back to the site of trauma, I realized that within these homo-national LGBT groups in Israel, there was this really small contingent, at the time represented by the Jerusalem Open House, who really spoke out about Israeli state oppression of Palestinians in the Occupied Territory and in Palestine itself. For me, there was something healing about identifying groups in Israel that were sympathetic to the Palestinian cause. It was also healing to locate myself as an Arab in our history and our Arab history and as a queer Arab to find other non-heteronormative gender and sexual identities going as far back as the 9^th century. So, I think it was a process of healing and of remedy.

How do you define concepts such as ‘queer’ and ‘homosexuality’ in your work?

I am not sure if I have ever defined it explicitly, but over the years I have come to realize that when using “homosexuality” I wanted to use the term as an a-historical neutral term, like a clinical term, such as same-sex. I did not want it to be used based on its actual origin from medical discourse or as a clinical diagnosis. I like the word “homosexuality”. Queer is also transhistorical; we tend to use “queer” as a sort of umbrella term to identity people across histories. When you say “lesbian” the term is very specific to the island of Lesbos or to Sappho; the term has all these implications. However, somehow, the term “queer” has been dehistoricized in the way “lesbian” and “homosexual” has not but one day we will be talking about “queer” in its historicity too. Because “queer” has its very own construct here in the late 20^th century, in an academic, privileged, bourgeois discourse. But also, the difference between “homosexuality” and “queer” is that “queer” carries a political identity with it. It is anti-hegemonic; homosexuality does not necessarily have to be anti-hegemonic. Homosexuality also, is a very well defined and specific term, while queer, by its very nature, resists definitions. It is always open to re-definition; it is never a closed concept in the way homosexuality is.

How do you draw on the continuity and change in the conceptualization of the terms (queer/homosexuality) and the experiences of them through looking at these current and historical periods? The traditional or classical terms suhaqiyya (lesbian) or luti (gay man) in Arabic saw shifts in the past ten to fifteen years, and the terms mithli or mithliya were introduced. In what way is this transformation in terminology a political and social transformation?

The way to answer this question is to look back at the terminology itself. “Suhaqiyya”, سحاقية, “luti”, لوطي, these terms have a derogatory origin (also, “queer” has a derogatory origin). Let’s start with “suhaqiyya”, for example. It is misogynist, and anti-lesbian or homophobic on a number of levels. It implies that a woman who has a sexual relationship with another woman is entering into a non-copulative sexual act and therefore she is annihilating herself, suhaq, ‘annihilation’. Also, it is a very phallocentric expression because it refers to suhaq as in grinding, so it is this idea that sexual relations between two women cannot be penetrative, which is absurd. So, it is very phallocentric, patriarchal and misogynist. ‘Luti’, of course, brings with it all the textual drama, and damnation of the story of Lot in the Quran, which is the most essential text for the Muslim clergy, and that Christian and Jewish orthodoxy rely on to justify homophobia in the whole world. So these are not nice words. In contrast, I know for example that in the 13^th century, Ahmad Ibin Yousef al-Tifashi said that same-sex-loving women used to call themselves tharifat, which means ‘witty women’. So at the same time that society had generated derogatory labels, same-sex-loving women of the Arabic classic period, had these names that were nice names like gay, which is very similar to tharaf (wit). By the same token in the present we have translated the word “homosexual” to mithlya or mithlyi, from the word ‘same’; the sameness is important here, and we also dropped beautifully the history of the word being connected to an oppressive medical discourse. So the word mithlya is more radically empowering than the word “homosexual”, which was never really empowering, but even more empowering than the word “gay” or “queer”, which has its origin in weirdness or in a kind of non-normativity that can be derogatory.

In Female Homosexuality in the Middle East, you present the main discourses used in the Arab World to entertain homophobia, such as medical and religious frameworks. Despite the importance of this work, it seems like you rarely tie these discourses – their emergence and sustainability – to colonial processes which brought them to the Middle East. Why is that?

That is a brilliant question but let me challenge that idea that the Middle East or the Arab World did not know homophobia until it was imported from the West. We have had our own brand of homophobia long before there were Western colonial impositions and conceptual migrations of that kind. We have had homophobia wherever gender and sexual minority persons have existed. There is a Hadith about Caliph Abou Bakr, for example, that says that two men were brought to him who were engaged in a same-sex act and the Prophet hadn’t really made any pronouncement about what you do with that sort of thing (weak ahadith to this effect notwithstanding) and he made the pronouncement that you kill them. That was way before that medical discourse that the modern Islamic scholars use, especially the ones I address in Chapter One of Female Homosexuality. I would hesitate to say that we did not know homophobia, or whatever you want to call it, because it is so hard to use these words because they are such modern terms. Let’s just say ‘revulsion against gender and sexual minority persons’.

However, that is a very important critique of Female Homosexuality in the Middle East, that it rarely – if ever – engages with the colonial processes which brought a very important thing to the Middle East, which is the legislative criminalization in a modern state of same-sex sexual acts. For example, what Helem are trying to do in Lebanon is to repeal penal code 534, under which gender and sexual minorities get prosecuted. That penal code was brought in by colonial intervention. Lebanon itself in its current statehood was founded by the French after World War 1. The situation in Egypt: the debauchery laws were brought in by English colonists,. That would have been a very important point to address, to say that under Ottoman occupation – which lasted 600 years – and under the Ottoman brand of Islam, and certainly under the Abassid brand of Islam before the Ottoman takeover and before the fall of Bagdad to the Mongols in the 13^th century, there was nothing punitive legislatively. So yes it was condemned in some cultural circles; the Imam in the mosque might say ‘that’s wrong and you shouldn’t be doing that’ but people did it. It was frowned upon but nobody got punished for it in those particular geographies during those times. So yes, who brought this back and who inspired modern Shari’aa laws? Yes, it was the colonists and that was a very important point that clearly I missed in the book.

I would also want to address the institutional cringe: you know, I was working within a department that did not encourage that kind of critical work about colonial interventions in the Middle East and any kind of criticism in that vein. For some reason, it is okay to be critical of colonial intervention in India. I am not sure why it is so depoliticized. It is probably the case because it is not current, it is not still ongoing. I always have to attribute that omission in Female Homosexuality to the institutional constraints that are placed on research in one’s early career. Surely as I progress, I am better able to address these things and better able to liberate my research agenda from institutional constraints.

Considering that homophobia did exist, could we agree that the ways in wish we frame our homophobia – whether it be through the legal system which creates certain widespread campaigns against homosexual or the pathologies that are created in the medial system – is in fact internalized from the West? In other words, while communities in the Middle East may be thinking that they are rejecting the West by rejecting homosexuality, they are in fact internalizing Western thoughts related to homosexuality brought in through colonial processes?

Absolutely – it’s not only Western, it is both contemporary to evangelical discourses in the US but it’s also the same discourse used in 1950s sexologies in the US, Europe and in North America generally. None of the arguments that these modern critics of homosexuality come up with haven’t already been proposed or are not already being circulated, particularly in ex-gay style institutions. But also we have our very own culturally specific brand of homophobia and we bring in this residue from religious discourse as well, from the weak or unauthenticated Hadiths about the Prophet, from the Quranic version of story of Lot (lut). In fact, recently in India the repeal of the law that criminalized homosexuality was largely based on a desire to eliminate this remaining colonial law. So I think rhetorically that is a really good strategy, to say ‘you know what, we used to let people do what they wanted. It is their business. It is up to Allah to punish them. You don’t have to police people on the street. You don’t need a vice squad, you don’t need a moral police.” But in the modern Islamic republic and the modern Islamic monarchy such as Iran and Saudi Arabia, that is exactly what they have. But I’m also quite certain that if there wasn’t a Western discourse with which to engage, that the Arab modern scholastic institutions would have created their own discourse to pathologize and medicalize gender and sexual non-normativity, because we can come up with our own homophobia, but that we didn’t need to, that we can rely on these outdated discourses is also true.

Do you believe that bringing the colonial processes narrative to mainstream audiences in the Middle East would help counter homophobia?

I think you’ve identified a very good rhetorical strategy because what I am seeing now is that we – us queers of the Arab world - have always had this accusation leveled at us, that we are West identified and that we are also agents of Western sabotage, that they are trying to infiltrate our culture by imploding it from within.

What I am seeing now as well is that a lot of these groups are also showing political solidarity with the mainstream Arab World that rejects them, saying we are against all forms of oppression, be it colonial, be it imperial, be it capitalistic in nature from within (like class oppression) and we are also as Arab as you: We work in the same institutions, we cook the same food, we love the same music, we have the same families and the same ties to those families. Many of us have the same aspirations like reproductive aspirations, for example. That very idea that homosexuality is a Western import also comes from the West. It is also a Western discourse that is relied on in the Middle East to establish queer identity as a Western concept and precedent. It is a very popular academic discourse and it really works to sabotage the authenticity of what it means to be a sexual or gender minority person outside of a Western framework.

But I digress. Let’s return to talking about bringing mainstream colonial processes and their relationship to homophobia to the mainstream of the Arab world. I should add that I’m seeing such efforts undertaken by groups like Helem and Meem and Al-Qaws and Aswat. These groups are building their rhetorical strategies around supporting the very communities that reject them. For example, during the second Israeli invasion of Beirut in 2006, Helem turned their premises into a shelter for all people from the area. They were engaging the outer community and saying ‘we are with you in this struggle. We are discriminated against by this West you think we are agents of in the same way. When we get bombed too and we die with you.’ The vocal work of al-Qaws and Aswat in addressing occupation and pinkwashing, also goes a long way in engaging this rhetorical strategy, or reminding our communities that we share in the same institutionalized oppressions they face.

The problem with homophobia is that it doesn’t change overnight. It is something we need to work on in a very long process.

It is said by many authors that the new wave of imperialism (possibly rising post-September 11), which is justified by a ‘human rights intervention’ discourse, has granted Western queer and gay movements a new neo-colonial role which resembled the one played by Western feminist movements currently and in the past. Do you imagine this rise in what is said to be “transnational queer solidarity’ to be a dangerous or fruitful one?

I think that you have identified here Edward Said’s thesis: the idea that Liberal Western feminism played a critical role in justifying military interventions in the Middle East. And then you have also identified Joseph Massad, Said’s protégé’s thesis replica in relation to the LGBT or gay international as he calls it. What interests me is that I would really like to make a distinction between transnational queer solidarity and LGBT NGOs. LGBT NGOs can be problematic in the way they approach gender and sexual minority oppressions in third world contexts, that much is very true. There is this issue which can be problematic and I think the person who actually illustrated this much more effectively and not simply polemically is Jasbir Puar in Terrorist Assemblages. She really shows where this problem lies: how these discourses can be inherently racist and culturally remain without nuance. At the same time, I would like to envision transnational queer solidarity as different from LGBT NGOs. Solidarity is just a sense of affinity, a sense of political convergence, whereas when NGOs come down to it and do the hard work, it really depends on the cultural sensitivities of the people devising policy and setting the programs, who is donating and how are they influencing the agenda. But also I don’t think there is a monolith within LGBT NGOs either, and what about NGOs that are formed as grassroots groups and organizations from within the third world, or the non-western world? It’s a very peculiar generalization to say all of these are complicit with neo-imperialism. Or that you can’t do anything, you must sit in a straight jacket because you are cooperating with Western incitement to discourse. I think we need incitement to discourse – that is exactly what we need, but to do so responsibly.

Do you believe that queerness, in the way that is understood in the West, can be superimposed on queer MENA realities? For example, in Female Homosexuality in the Middle East, you talk about the suhaqiyya (grinder) to refer to more masculine women who only engaged sexually with other women and you make a distinction between the more masculine Lesbian suhaqiyya and the bi-sexual women who was not called suhaqiyya. In Western LGTBQ contexts this could be called butch-femme, in your opinion did these binaries exist in the Middle East during the period you speak about (9th-13th century Middle East)?

I am not sure that I ever said that only masculine same-sex loving women were identified as suhaqiyyat. It was actually just believed that the feminine ones could be reconverted. I very much think that is untrue… but again it is in that male, patriarchal imaginary that we understand her: She wants to be a man, but, you, what is wrong with you? You just haven’t met the right man. That is the distinction – they still use these discourses to delegitimize feminine female homosexual identities throughout the world.

I wonder if queerness is even understood in the West. Maybe the West understands Lesbian and Gay much better, but this concept of Queer is really very much understood by fewer in the West and fewer people within the Lesbian and Gay community or transgender community even. You have to remember that we have homonormativity, we have transnormativity, we have people who only wish to engage in Lesbian or Gay as a lifestyle issue: who want to marry, who want to have kids, own property, and we have trans people who do not want to acknowledge their birth biological sex and want to identify as exclusively female or male. Not that there is any issue with that but I think that this “Queer” is not even understood in the West.

Thirdly, in Western LGBT contexts – and this could be called butch/femme – can these be superimposed on the period I speak about? Well, in what way can they be superimposed, I would ask? Can we say that there were masculine women who had attractions to feminine women who had attractions to masculine women? Yes of course. Is it butch/femme in the style of New York City in the 1950s where masculine women would pass off as men, and hence be able to live with their partners? Probably not because that is a condition of a modern metropolis, a post-industrial society of alienation and condensed populations. How can you pass that off in a small city where everybody knows everybody and that’s so and so’s daughter. I mean, it could happen but then they would only be phenomenologically butch/femme, only in a cursory way but not in any kind of deep and meaningful way. But have there always been masculine female attractions to feminine female attractions and vice versa? Of course. I don’t see why not and it’s in the literature as well: there are two kinds of grinders, say Al Samaw’uli and Al Yamani. There are the masculine ones and there is nothing you can do about them, they say, and then there are the feminine ones and maybe we can do something about them, they say. They just have to meet the right man. Is that true? Of course not. And does a masculine woman necessarily have to be homosexually inclined? Of course not.

While ‘radical movements’ often feel like they might be immune to reproducing oppression, when we speak of transnational alliances, colonial histories demand of us to acknowledge power relations. Do you believe ‘solidarity’ can exist and express itself outside of a neo-colonial framework, and in this sense benefit all parties involved?

Yes I do believe that solidarity can exist and express itself outside of a neo-colonial framework. I just do not know how transnational organizing can achieve that. I think on an individual atomic level, from person to person, that sense of solidarity to understand that there are other people undergoing your struggles is important. A very good example are the LGBT communities in Israel which have been co-opted by a nationalist discourse and this kind of homonationalism permeates the LGBT community in Israel precisely because the Israeli state, in comparison to many other modern states in the region, gave its gender and sexual minority Israeli citizen a bit more recognition. It is not like there is gay and lesbian marriage in Israel, it is not like there are equal inheritance laws. But the idea that I want equality for just me and my lot, rather than I want universal social justice is really problematic and it is not Queer. The whole point of Queer – and that is why I say to you that I believe that there can be queer transnational solidarity — is that I want social justice for all, for everyone who is oppressed: for the gays, and lesbians, and transgendered, inter-sexed, queer people and bisexual people, and the differently abled, and the poor and the racially oppressed and so on. I would also want it for religious fundamentalists should they happen to exist in contexts where they are being persecuted. It’s ironic, how universalist queer can be, in relation to social justice. So, of course I do not think you can have a queer identity or have a radical movement that doesn’t identify transnationally with those other oppressed groups and wherever those groups maybe not just gender and sexual minorities, but also Palestinians in the occupied territories, and not just Palestinians in the occupied territories, but oppressed persons wherever and whoever they may be.

Finally, we would like to hear your reflections on your past and present (or future?) work.

Currently I have been looking at the autobiographical narratives that have been emerging from the Middle East on gender and sexual minority autobiographical narrative. There is the autobiography called Randa the Trans which came out of Beirut. There is also the books by Aswat Haqi an Akhtar an A’eesh an Akoun and Waqfet Banaat, and Bareed Musta’jil from Meem. I have been so far looking at the intersection of religion and gender and sexual minorities and provide an intensive reading as to what these autobiographies have in common across the Middle-East and North-Africa. I am really also interested in this amazing new rise in grassroots organizing within the Arab World for gender and sexual minority rights, and not just activism for rights to try and enter the hegemony or the state, but organizing really for social support, for having a cross regional Queer Arab transnational counterculture that I see is flourishing.. So I want to document that.
If you were to revisit your work, what critiques would you have towards it?

I have a lot of critiques of my work. Every time I read I think I would love to change things but I think this is the nature of scholarship. I think a good critique of Female Homosexuality in the Middle-East I would have is not having engaged sufficiently with the concept of “queer”. I think I handled in great details the issue of essentialism and constructionism and the issue of a-historical narratives of gender and sexual identities across time and space, but I did not address the issue of “queer”. Mainly, I did not acknowledge how the term “lesbian” can be problematic and how “queer” – just by its potential to be redefined unlike the terms “lesbian” and “homosexual” – could have actually served better. It could have been Female Queerness in the Middle East.

The other thing is the issue that you raised. Originally I had in the introduction a lot of criticism of Western imperialism and this Arab identification of homosexuality as a Western conceptt being itself born of colonial dialectics and as a result of colonial imposition. Arabs were trying to define themselves by everything their oppressor was not, so if the oppressor has gays we don’t have gays, if the oppressor does not execute, then we do. That is how we define ourselves in relation to the other. So I really did not take up that issue which was also very important. I began to but I remember taking out these passages.

Other passages that I removed involved my critique of then Public Culture article, of Masaad’s “Reorienting Desire” (Desiring Arabs, then, had not come out yet). I remember being critical of that article, but in my revisions I decided to leave it for another project.

I am sure there is a lot in my critique that can and will be disputed in time, but this is the very essence of scholarship. If a work does not become out of date and remains forever current then I am sure it is not a work of scholarship.

Samar Habib is a writer, researcher and scholar. She has published widely on homosexuality in the Arab world, including the books Female Homosexuality in the Middle East and Islam and Homosexuality. Her latest novel,Rughum & Najda, is a ficto-historical narrative involving same-sex love among women in ninth-century Baghdad.

* The Turkish version of this interview is published in Feminist Yaklasimlar which is an online peer-reviewed feminist journal in Turkey. For the website of the journal: www.feministyaklasimlar.org.

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Politics of Closeness and Alienation

sara — Fri, 13 Apr 2012 21:00:00 +0000

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Sara Emiline AbuGhazal

To Audre and Adrienne,

Prologue

Because a true vision holds much power, if it is not killed into this reality, it will have no place to go, and all its power will destroy the one who received it. A vision is a responsibility, and to kill the vision into reality is a complete act of power.

Dreaming the Council Ways, Okhy Simine Forest, p.92

I sit down to write to Audre and Adrienne a letter, and in this letter I mean to explain to them who I am, and what is my vision of womanhood and change. How do I insist that this notion of feminism is more ancient than the programs for economic empowerment, and how it goes beyond what we understand of violence in the modern world, that it extends to a memory I invoke by understanding my particular history, of this land and this culture, of knowing that I will continue to evolve as long as I unfold my ancestral roots, the forgotten history, where the feminine / female was sacred.

That this kind of feminism, if we wish to call it that, runs deeper in our blood than any other “identity,” that it allows me and many others to know that what they call an “act of rebellion” is nothing more than an instinctual pulse that we have followed. That regardless of what they say, and however they say it, what women have suffered from and continue to suffer from, is not normal. That patriarchy in its sectarian, national and capitalist faces will not fall down, until women, especially those in the south of the lands, change their consciousness and remember who they are and what they have always represented, that they meet, and create spaces free of that.

I wanted to write about the layers of identities, sexualities, class and privileges that prevent us from moving towards the ways of true change. How every time people use English my heart gets broken, as I feel our mother’s tongue is being cut over and over again, and we are forgetting what we are, and how to look at ourselves from that language in particular, and how we invent ourselves through it, distancing ourselves from what the colonialists told us. That I feel ashamed of having to write this in English, because many of my sisters choose the easy ways of communications, that the sum of what we know and we don’t know about is not being documented, that we often don’t practice what we preach.

That we are surrendering to the system, and it is luring us to a change that happens a certain way, into a revolution that fits the market, a revolution that doesn’t not challenge our brothers and sisters into an understanding of how working with feminists is not an issue of diversity; it is an issue of saying that your spaces, your attitudes and your actions are women “friendly,” that you don’t treat women in meetings as either princesses or as hysterical, as an object of love or as an object of liberation. That women’s spaces and their work is about shifting the paradigms of work and politics.

I have realized that I don’t have a vision, that the sum of my visions has been killing parts of myself. The parts where I’ve fought battles to cultivate. I realize that I’m so detached from the person I wanted to give birth to. We all give birth while we transform into the people we want to be, we mature in labor, while we struggle against conforming or holding onto our new-found beliefs.

We all understand that liberation and emancipation is an act of individuality, before it is an act of collectiveness. We all change, we all cultivate this change, adding to it and taking from it, so that we become what we are meant to become. To have visions is to have the desire to change, to have a desire means that the power to create hasn’t been taken away from you, and your chances of survival are stronger. We don’t live in the wilds to worry about survival, but we do live in a globalized economy, our identity crises are becoming more or less crises of consumers and consumerism. Can I afford this house? Could I afford this lifestyle?

To survive is to constantly make sure you can consume. I’ve consumed enough of the promoted individual lifestyle, I’ve consumed enough of love stories and emotions, I’ve consumed enough of activism. I’ve consumed enough of being an individual living in Beirut. I’ve consumed enough. I’ve consumed enough coffees at Younes’, and drinks in Hamra, I’ve consumed enough of polite greetings, I’ve consumed enough ways to tame my sexuality so it doesn’t freak people out, I’ve consumed enough betrayal from those who are confused about the difference between friendships and social networking. I’ve consumed enough of not being visible as the only Palestinian in a room, and that needs to count for something, I’ve consumed enough of being the token of diversity. I’ve consumed enough of promises of change. I’ve consumed enough of hatred because if we can’t deal with one another, then we’ve got to hate one another. I’ve consumed enough of avoiding connecting with anyone, because I’ve consumed enough experiences to learn that trust means honesty. I’ve consumed enough lies to understand that everything that we live amidst is a lie, that everyone consumed a little bit in it that it became our reality. I’ve consumed enough assimilation to fit in my Lebanese surrounding, that my need to return home had grown tremendously. I have an unmistakable urge of returning home. I want to get out of here, if “here” will not change.

Dear Adrienne and Audre,

I’m old as my wounds are, and they seem to be growing older but preserving their freshness. I’ve been meaning to write to you both, but now that Adrienne too has left and the letter I’ve been meaning to write you both became a metaphor, of having this urge to write to those who wish to listen; a metaphor of good will and wishful thinking, that words build bridges, and words destroy them too, that words are the gems of survival and salvation, they are manifestation of faith, they have the ability to shift what is stagnant into motion, they are the components needed to heal, of all potions, of all healing recipes, words are the catalyst of change. .

I live in Beirut, a city that is the living and breathing example of the world we live in today, a city that represents short memory, with an outstanding privatized downtown that screams in your face: nothing happened here. Nothing of importance at least. A city that hosts migrant workers and shove them off its balconies, a city that is welcoming and generous to the visitors from the west, that it caters to all their needs, and transforms itself into their homes, even at the expense of its local sons and daughters while they leave the city slowly to those who can afford living in it. Soon, Beirut will know no poverty, soon Beirut will hide them well in its peripheries, suburbs and towns, with houses and balconies overlooking Beirut, as it becomes an ultimatum for internationality .

I’ve been meaning to write to you about an outline of a story concerning a group of friends, a group of friends that once had the ability to create change and sustain it. A group of friends that represented the core of what you both talked about, a group that understood queer, feminist and the baggage that each brings on the table. A group of friends each with a talent, each with a history of her own, each with a shadow of insecurities, and fears. A group of intellectual and artistic talents, of witches, seers, visionaries, healers and so much more, a group of friends, that understood that womanhood unfolds to become the secret of life itself. But I couldn’t. I was afraid if I had a vision of this group, and this vision doesn’t become true, it could kill me. Kill us.

II.

I had a few questions for you, but it’s too late now. I wanted to ask you about your communities, were they harmonious as they sounded? Did you not belittle each other’s work? Did you not betray one another? Did you exclude one another, until everyone excluded everyone? Did you become what these wounds made of you? Did you try to survive against all odds, but also against one another? Did you take in all the violence, all the discrimination, all the tactics of patriarchy and reflected it onto one another? Did you? Did you become a feminist version of your own societies– resources and power in the hands of the few? Did you hate one another, and did this hate drive you to silence each other? Blackmail one another? Did you fight, and did those fights preoccupy you from challenging what’s out there? Did you have to protect yourselves from your communities as much as you protect yourself from racism, sexism, and homophobia? Did you forget about what brought you together in the first place? Did you not learn how to forgive one other, and have faith in one another? Did you use your privileges against one another? Did you host parties and screenings in your own private houses so that you intentionally isolate one or two individuals? Did you use language against one another? Did you use academic achievements to delete the experiences learned by another through surviving what you theorize about, but never experienced? Did you compromise what is not yours so that you seek revenge against one another? Did you not read each other’s stories in a book that you all worked on and understand that you all came from such battles, and some of you are more bruised and more wounded than others? Did you mirror each other’s fears, and feared what you saw in that mirror? Did you make alliances with brotherhoods that neglect, belittle and use women’s presence in the struggle as it fits their apologetic politics, so you guarantee a space for yourself? I wonder if you did.

III.

I think about what I lose on a daily basis, if I’m not conscious and aware of how feminism is multidimensional, how it penetrates to the details of the details of my everyday life. How much do I lose, when I don’t understand that sisterhood is what saved me, from myself at times, and it’s what broke me at times. How much do I lose on a daily basis when I don’t make the effort to protect myself, by protecting others, by understanding that no (wo)man is an island, that anything without a sense of community to contain it and to engage with it, will not liberate me or my sisters.

Dear Audre and Adrienne, dark times are coming. I don’t know if you can see it from the other side, times where we need to make use of every single individual that believes in change, were we need to change something amongst ourselves, fear each other and one another less, for we complete each other.

I want to write more, but for now, I can’t write about any vision until I have the guarantees that this vision, will not kill me. Will not kill us.

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اللغة تحت الإحتلال

sara — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 21:00:00 +0000

Sawtalniswa

نسرين مزاوي

حيّفا

لما أول مرة قلتيلي “واو بتحكي مباشر” إنبسطت، حسيت إنك بتقوليلي إني جريئة، وإني قوية وإني بحكي بدون لف ودوران وإني واضحة، وانه اللي بقلبي على لساني.

لما تاني مرة قلتيلي “واو شو مباشر”، حسيت مثل اللي حدا لخمني ستميت كف، وإندار عليّ سطل ماي مسقّعة. من زمان كان هذا الحكي، إكيد انت نسيتي، بس أنا بعده الكف معلّم علي، و أواعيي ‫(‬ثيابي‫)‬ بعدهن ميّ. كثير فكرت كيف بدي إشرحلك، إيش هذا الكف اللي اكلته، بس القصة شوي طويلة ومشربكة، مثلي انا مش مبين أولي من أخري.

القصة هي قصتي مع اللغة، في المكان اللي فيه اللغة هي أكثر من مجرد جمل وكلمات وبدايتها كثير قديمة. في المدرسة كنت أضعف إيشي باللغات، كل ما عليت صف نزلت العلامات. بشهادة انهاء الثانوية، عندي ثلاث ستينات الانجليزي، العربي والعبري، 60، 60، 60.

‎في مقابلة الدخول للجامعة (بالعبري) فهمت كل الأسئلة وأجبت عليها كلها بإجابات جدا مختصرة “نعم” أو “لا”.في لحظة معينة اجتمعت مصالح رئيس الكلية بمصالحي وقرر يقبلني للتعليم. في علم الأحياء ما في حاجة تناقشي الأستاذ المهم تفهمي عليه، واللي ما بتفهمي بالصف بتفهمي بعدين من الصاحبات، وعادة كمان هني بكونو مش فاهمات وبشكل او بأخر بتطبشي راسك معهن أو بدونهن وبتنجحي بالإمتحانات. سنة كاملة قعدت على مقاعد الجامعة بدون ما افتح تمي‫.‬

‎ 1994-1995 كانت سنة حامية من الناحية سياسية، فيها إستفزاز كثير، وعنصرية. وبهداك الوقت كنا حاسينها كثير بس نسبة لليوم منقدر نقول انها كانت عنصرية “لايت”. أكثر ايشي بقهر لما حدا بحكيلك ايشي مستفز وما بتلحقي تردي عليه، وعبين ما ترتبي الجملة براسك وتحوليها من العربي للعبري، بكون الموضوع صار متغير والحديث منتقل إلى مكان ثاني، وبتبقي انت مقهورة مرتين، أول مرة على اللي قلولك اياه وثاني مرة على اللي كان بدك تقولي وما طلع منك. طيب والحل؟!!! جدا سهل وبسيط، ما تفكري بالعربي فكري بالعبري. ليش معلمات اللغات ما حكولي عن هاي الحيلة من زمان؟

بنساش اليوم اللي فيه حكيت لحالي “نسرين من اليوم عقلك لازم يشتغل بالعبراني، لازم تفكري بالعبراني”. كنت صغيرة وكل هدفي كان انجح بالجامعة، وحتى انجح بالجامعة كان بقدر اضل قاعدة ساكتة اربع سنين بس افهم على المحاضر شو بشرح، بس حتى ارد على كل الناس اللي بعصبنوني، وما اترك الجامعة من الطفر والقهر، كان لازم احكي عبري بسرعة وبسلاسة وبطلاقة. وهيك كانت هاي اول خطوة بسلّم فيها للاحتلال. حتى ارد عليه كان لازم افهمه، افهم كيف بفكر وكيف بحكي، وحتى افهمه كان لازم عقلي يجي على عقله.

‎تاني سنة 1995-1996 فتحت تمي ورديت على كل الناس، ومن يوميتها بطل حدا يسترجي يحكي معاي، صار جوابي تحت باطي ويا ويلوه اللي بعلق معاي، وهيك بديت اشتغل بالسياسة. تربية علديمقراطية وحل النزاعات، وبعد الانتفاضة الثانية خليت التربية على جنب وبقيت مع الديمقراطية ومع النزاعات.

لما بتقوليلي “واو قديش بتحكي مباشر”، بتذكريني بطالباتي العربيات سنة أولى علوم اجتماعية بجامعة حيفا. كثير بشبهوني هذول الطالبات، الفار ماكل لسانهن، بفتحوش تمهم غير تيقولو نعم او لا. بشي محل بدي اكشفلهن السر بدي اقلهن ابدو فكرو بالعبري، وبمحل تاني بديش اياهن يفكرو بالعبري، بديش العبري ييجي محل العربي، بديش اياهن يسلّمو للغة ولا يسلّمو عقولهن لانه مش بسهولة راح يقدرو يستردوهن.

واحد من المقالات اللي بدرسها لطالباتي هو للباحثة تمار كتريئيل، واللي بتحلل فيه أنماط الحديث الثقافية ودورها في حل الصراعات، أو في زيادة تأزمها ما بين اليهود والعرب. حسب كتريئيل ان اليهود الاسرائيليين بتبعوا نمط حديث مختلف عن نمط الحديث عند العرب. اليهود الاسرائيليين اللي اجو على البلاد من أوروبا، طوروا نمط حديث مغايير لنمط الحديث المقهور والمهزوم اللي تعودوا عليه واتبعوه في أوروبا.
‎اليهودي المطفوس باوروبا اللاسامية، بفلسطين بدو يسترد رجولته وقوته، وبدو يبني حاله من جديد بدو يرفع راسه المدعوس عليه على مدار سنين، ويكون قد حاله ويعبر عن حاله بدون خوف او تردد، اليهودي اللي تعود يساير الاوروبي عن خوف وعن وقهر ما بدوه بعد يساير حدا، بدوه يحكي “دُغري”، بدوه يحكي اللي بدوه اياه بدون خوف او تردد، بدون حساب‫.‬ هاي بالنسبة اله هي اللي بتعبر عن احترامه لمن يتحدث اليه، وعن المساواة والطلاقة والانفتاح الحر والمطلق بين المتحدثين. اما بالنسبة للعرب فكتريئيل بتشوف ان نمط الحديث اللي بيميزهم يعتمد أكثر على “المسايرة”، الكبير بساير الصغير، الأب بساير ابنه، الابن بساير ابوه، الجار بساير جاره ،الرجل بساير مرته، والمرأة بتساير زوجها وكله من منطلق المحافظة على مشاعر الأخر، وانه حتى لو في عندك اشياء صعبة تقولها بتحاول تقولها بطريقة اللي ما تدايق الأخر، وبهدا الشكل انت بتعبر عن احترامك اله، وبتمرر له الرسالة بدون ما تصدمه او تدايقه، وبدون ما تجرح مشاعره وما بتقوله الأشياء خبط لزق، بشكل مباشر و زي ما هي، انما شوي شوي، للمنيح وللعاطل وهيك بتحافظ على الانسجام العام وعلى الروح الطيبة في المجتمع.

لما بتعيشي نص نهارك بالعبراني ونصه بالعربي بتفوت كثير كلمات دخيلة على اللغة، واذا بدك تنجحي او تتقدمي في إطار معين، لازم تتقني لغته والقواعد تبعته. لما بحكي معك بنتبه انه ما استعمل كلمات دخيلة هي بس ال “بسيدر” اللي بتطلع مني بعفوية مطلقة، وكل مرة بتنفد من تمي هالكلمة بعض لساني وبتمنى انه ينقطع قبل ما تطلع منه كمان مرة. لما قولتيلي اني بحكي مباشر، بدون ما تعرفي ضربتيني ستميت كف وصداهن بعده برن بداني لليوم. لما قولتيلي اني بحكي مباشر ذكرتيني انه اللغة مش بس جمل وكلمات، انما إداء اللي بعبر عن ثقافة وهوية وانتماء، لما قلتيلي اني بحكي مباشر بدون ما تعرفي درتي علي سطل ماي مسقعة، ورجعتيني ميت خطوة لورا وبعدني بستنى اوعيي ‫(‬ثيابي‫)‬ تينشفو ومش ناشفات. لما بحكي معك بخاف يطلع مني المحتل ‫”‬تبعك‫”‬… و‫”‬تبعي‫”‬… ‫”‬تبعنا‫”‬. لما بحكي معك بتكون شغالة براسي المعادلة 48+67=1. معادلات جذرية وعشرية وتفاضلية بتعيد تنسيق العلاقات “بيننا”وكل اللي بنفسي انه لما أحكي معك المعادلة الوحيدة بينا تكون 1+1=1″.

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Nasawiya

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فلسطين 48، اللغة العربية والاحتلال

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