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(en) [Spain] On anarchism and relations of power. The hidden feminist. By ANA (pt) [machine translation]

Date Fri, 16 Mar 2018 09:02:05 +0200


It is not necessary to be specially formed to be an anarchist, in my opinion. The concept of Social Justice is a thread that sews each person with reality, until it makes you feel really uncomfortable. To get rid of the internalized concepts and face the experience from the perspective of the struggle, this has been my learning. Organic life, assemblies, the opportunity to have a voice and a body, and being a change agent forces a twist on you in an indescribable way. And little by little the rest, the theory, is learning. ---- Writing can be a personal learning exercise, too. Write about what it means to be a woman. It could fill pages of letters and allusions, lives in quotation marks, references in the struggle, but in the end they are no longer acts of others. It is absurd to deny the influence of other thoughts on one's own life, but perhaps it is by my personal moment, by the ever closer perception of the passage of time in myself, but by this time, having to look around to see what happens in me as a person, as a woman, as a worker, and as a mother annoyed at the impositions of what I am supposed to be.

I do not have any modesty anymore. No more than they require me. I still can not maintain a healthy relationship, without having shaved because I veto my own nature. While I make an appointment with the beautician of the moment, I dedicate myself to sharing angry images that represent my struggle against the aesthetic impositions of the system. It comforts me to think that many like me do the same. Claiming our space between wrinkles and gray hair as we struggle against every sign that makes us feel erased before ourselves. Capitalism and illusion of eternal youth. It's not easy to touch a cracked skin for years.

However, I claim my right to my sexual self. I refuse to feel wanted, I refuse to desire myself. I do not fit into the measurements of the mannequins of the underwear stores, I do not fit nowhere. I walk in the limbo of those who can still look at each other in the mirror by closing one eye. But I want, and I want to be wanted. The woman as an erotic self-demand, that's me. Fucking without complications and pursuing one's own satisfaction is also one of life's learning exercises. Not to feel submissive, to know how to impose a no, and to take on the weight of feigned orgasms that we carry on our backs, women who, like me, have learned from childhood that virtue was a gift submitted to your masculinity.

Free love, relational anarchy, sexual freedom, open relationships ... Metaphors of people seeking new models embedded in old clothes.

Safe environments no longer exist. Not even within anarcho-syndicalism. Contrary to what one might think, respect and feminist learning is not acquired by infused science when they give you the membership card. And you discover that once again your voice and your struggle dissipate in your genitals. Companion is just a word, not a reality. I remain in my effort not to quote, but if I want to create here a space for reflection for all those people who have ever claimed the feminist struggle as inherent within the anarchist and not as a separate process. Your struggle for better working conditions does not make you a feminist. Reading or sharing in networks a handled summary of Durruti speaking of her responsibilities at home does not make you a feminist. Plan a fraternal snack at the union site and contribute a lunchbox with whatever you have prepared your partner at home, that's what you say. Attending assemblies while your partner does the home care work alone, that's what you say.

The statutes are but words. Being a feminist organization by definition is no more than that. A debate is urgently needed to reflect on what it really means for an anarchist organization or to include the word feminist in its description.

Feminists are not mothers. We fight between education theories, some with flavor at more rancid times of fixing the woman to the baby. If we wish to incorporate ourselves into the world of work, we are criticized for being slaves to the system and an additional cog in the production scheme. Staying at home and playing the role of absolute mother, drawing Montessori toys with your own hands and weaving the early stimulation blankets begins to be an option for many women. It is certain, however, that this second alternative needs a capitalist partner as maintainer of the home. And that, in my view, annuls many facets of the woman-person, making her a mother-woman. But who am I? A mother educated by a pediatrician.

And soon we are this mass of women that we reconcile our personal and labor progression with a suffocating maternity for what it demands. And we, precisely, are the ones who have been expelled from the Confederate Eden. We, the ones who teach our children equality, those we play as judges and parties, have no place in late assemblies, week-long meetings at times of imperative child-repose, which we carry with three rucksacks to attend demonstrations. We are alone.

There are few unions that listen to the demands of a collective that we do not really want to be anywhere else. That union organizations continue to be eminently masculine spaces does not make anyone feel and reflect on what we are doing wrong so that we, who we know to concilia because we have no remedy, occupy our space in the fight. And if we do not fight, who does it for us? We are alone. Appealing to sorority in these cases is nothing more than evidence of the isolation of our existence.

It's March 8th. It calls for a feminist strike, a labor and care strike. I wonder if the convening organizations will take care of sending someone to my house to do all this invisible work each day or whether it is directly assumed that I will feed my son with a nasogastric tube, or leave him the snack in a feeder for cats with a yellow note on it: "See you tomorrow. Your mommy who loves you. " I also wonder if all the couriers that are coming to me with information on how to join the strike are being received by people who, at least for one day, should wear my high-heeled shoes and let me exercise my right to shout through the streets that I am still a person.

It's March 8, anyway. And I'm a woman. And wherever I am, I am anarcho-syndicalist. My incongruities between what I feel and how I live unite with other women who also speak in a low voice about the hope of what we would like to do when we grow up. Women who fight, comrades, we are not old. We are not mothers, we are not workers, we are no one. And we have one day a year to claim dignity, to remember that in any environment, but especially in the anarchist, we are on the same level as you. We are not Emma Goldman, we do not want to be Emman, nor Susan Brown, nor many others. We do not need models of reference because we are growing and we realize the emptiness around us. We, comrades, are there. We invisible feminists.

Cristina Cobo Hervás

Source: http://nosotras.cnt.es/opinion/anarquismo-las-relaciones-poder-la-feminista-escondida/

Translation> Sol de Abril
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