Cooking and Eating; A Creative Recipe Femininity (My opinion)Could cooking be a feminist act? Could one resist, fight and make changes by cooking? Being involved in 'traditionally feminine' activities may be stressful, painful and even embarrassing for feminists. Sometimes I wonder; is it really conforming to patriarchal norms? Isn't stigmatising activities that are traditionally seen as feminine a patriarchal norm? We we shouldn't be embarrassed to be engaged with 'feminine' activities:
Food is Important Food is a very important part of our lives because of its survival-value but it is also important because of the symbolic value which it acquires within our societies. The stories of foods and ingredients are interwoven with the lives and fates of people. Food is part of peoples' work, business, mental health, interpersonal relationships and so much more. The process of preparing and consuming a dish may be necessity, celebration, resistance, a ceremony, declaration of love and caring. That’s why Fermina Daza in 'Love in the time of Cholera' despises her mother in law’s most cooked ingredient; eggplants. That's why her journey towards emotional maturity includes embracing this ingredient as part of her diet. A creative RecipeThis is a recipe I once found on the internet. I have changed it so heavily that it only vaguely resembles the original: 
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 Sometimes we know our friends' stories because we grew up together. Sometimes we can't imagine what brought our friends where we met them. That's why I asked my friend that day: 'How come you live here?', I asked and he answered, and I listened. I realised that his life had been a little bit different to mine. And that day at school I learned that wars are real, that wars actually affect the lives of people. I realised that very few things are as permanent as I thought, that every time you see someone it may be the last one. So this is his story from his perspective: "I am Palestinian. I was born in Iraq and lived there for the 15 first years of my life. I wasn't given Citizenship but I was given travel documents... which I could not use by 2007. I knew exactly why we had to leave Iraq that first time in 2007 even though my dad wouldn't tell me. I had been through so much danger so I kinda knew what was going on; it was either leaving or getting killed. I witnessed many assassinations and killings; militants killing civilians. The reasons were mainly political and religious. We ran away to Syria using illegal Iraqi passports; the plan was getting to Sweden via Turkey and settling down there. At the airport in Turkey some of our money was stolen. Our money couldn't get us to Sweden anymore so we had to get a smuggler who'd sell us tickets that we could afford. The smuggler said there was somewhere cheaper and closer; Cyprus. That's how we ended up there. After a month in Turkey we got in a fishing boat and travelled to Cyprus from a city called Antalya. I am not certain as to how many hours we spent in that boat. Something like 20 hours (or even more) before we arrived at the Cypriot shores of Kerynia. We walked for several hours, I remember walking through some farms and passing some fence. At around 2am we found ourselves in Larnaca. I lost track of time while travelling but I know that we probably spent 28 hours travelling because we left the apartment in Turkey at 10pm and we arrived in Larnaca at around 2am. In Larnaca, we surrendered to the immigration office where we got registered. We were allowed to live in Cyprus but we weren't given permission to work, travel or attend the University before we get asylum as political refugees. I could go to school though. It was a new beginning and as such it was hard. I was a 15 year old boy in a new country where I couldn't speak the language. It really was difficult for me. I couldn't speak Greek and the kids at school would make fun of me for not being able to talk with them in their language. My english was good enough to communicate with people who could speak English. Some student helped me find the way to the classroom and some tried to talk to me and be friendly. I had a classmate from Palestine, he couldn’t speak any English or Greek but we could both speak Arabic... The first year was the most difficult. The second year I managed to communicate in Greek. Everything changed; my classmates were friendlier, they 'd invite me out, especially to birthday parties. That's when I became good friends with my classmates. My life went back to normal, I was actually having a good time. I felt loved by so many people who didn't make me feel like I was different. Just like always, there were a few racist people. Some teachers, some students, some people in my environment... But I did have friends who helped me feel good. I graduated high school in Larnaca. It was tough because of the language but I finished high school with good grades, I guess. I still could not make it to the major I dreamt of. Another year passed by, I had been living in Larnaca for 7 years. In 2013 the government's decision as to whether we were accepted as a permanent residents was taken. The decision was negative. We received a rejection letter which mentioned that we did not have good reasons to leave Iraq and therefore we couldn't be given asylum in Cyprus. The allowance we were getting was cut and so we couldn't keep living there. I guess, if we had some more money we could stay there as 'investors'; it could be easier to get permit for permanent residence. There was the option of fleeing to another European country. Some people went to other European countries from Cyprus but we didn't have enough money to buy our way out. At the time the cost was around 8000$. Keep in mind that everything was actually illegal. Staying was illegal, going to another country was illegal, even leaving Cyprus was illegal. There was no other option but to go back to Iraq; where I was born. We went back to Iraq in 2013; the situation was still tough. Militias were killing civilians, the government were killing civilians because of political and religious reasons. The situation wasn't ideal and I wanted to escape again. I still had my Palestinian passport; I left to Malaysia in 2014. These experiences changed me a lot; the way I think, the way I live. Before these, I thought life was simple, I wasn't interested in politics or economics. Now, I am so much into it, now I see. I never cared about people and I never thought of what they may be going through. Now, I know how difficult life is for people like us. I know what people go through during wars. I know what it means to be a refugee your whole life. As for Palestine... I can’t really describe my feelings about it. I’ve never knew how it feels to live in your own country. I always felt unwanted. In Iraq, in Syria, in Turkey, in Cyprus, and now in Indonesia. I always am a foreigner. That's why Palestine will always be a concept that words are unable to describe." Mohammed Alshaban This entry includes two poems. 'A Different take on Confidence' by Demz and my 'Protest Femininity'. The initial idea was to describe our experience as women who have to survive in male dominated fields. The entry could have been a conversation, a narrative, pictures, drawings, a play, a recording...anything. We both chose to put our thoughts to words. My friend's poem describes certain features of her behaviour that lead others to perceive her as 'not confident' and therefore 'less competent'. In this poem she is re-assessing the value of the very properties of confidence. 'Protest Femininity' can be seen as a continuation of 'A different take on Confidence'. I have tried to write about my impression that certain behavioural qualities are seen as connected to 'femininity' and carry negative connotations. If you have any similar experiences within environments that misunderstand you or ascribe to you properties that do not correspond to your perception of self you can send your own work to pinkpapayasblog.gmail.com Despina      We are very excited to have shared our opinions with Young Feminist Europe. You can visit our reflective exercise on The concept of the genius, lad culture and mainstream misogyny through their site or read it here.  Two individual book reviews Kris Kraus’ “I Love Dick” (1997) and Max Blecher’s “Adventures in Immediate Irreality” (1936). Two seemingly unrelated reviews aim to illustrate the normalisation of misogyny in mainstream culture. We suggest that “I Love Dick” , a work of great magnitude is not recognized because of its ‘feminine’ character as opposed to “Adventures in Immediate Irreality” ‘s reception as ‘ingenius’. Feminist Reflections “I LOVE DICK”, a review by Theo Ioannou I read this book in my first year of university as a theatre and performance undergraduate. At that time, I was way too deep into lad culture. Embarrassing as it is to admit, I was in love with Seth Rogan comedies and Family Guy (to be honest, I still find laddy humor pretty funny, irritating but, funny). As a fresher, I was also discovering the wonders of modern art, so my perception of cultural products was slowly changing. To be honest, I did not buy Kraus’ “I LOVE DICK” because of how fascinating an intellectual I knew her to be but because the sensational title caught my eye. Clearly, Kraus knew what she was doing, she was appealing to edgelords like myself.But when I started reading it, I was absolutely fascinated. I had never before encountered this blend of fiction and journaling and it excited me as much as it confused me. In “I LOVE DICK”, Kraus recounts her obsession with a sociologist named Richard (or Dick). She initially pursuits Dick as an artistic project together with her partner, Sylvere Lotringer. When it becomes clear that she will always be seen as Lotringer’s assistant, she leaves him and starts to pursue Dick in real life. What makes her work incredibly powerful is that it is not a ‘feminist’ book, it is simply an account of her life. Inevitably, her life is shaped by the fact that others attach their prejudices on her. But as she accurately predicts in her book (in an almost prophetic manner) “I LOVE DICK”, a work of immense artistic value that deserves a place in every major category, always ends up in the ‘women’s category’ and in that category alone. Kraus obsession with Dick comes to an end after he unsurprisingly ignores, mistreats and disregards her after they have sex. This is not a commentary on ‘hookup culture’ (the book is pretty sex positive as one can infer from the title). It is an introspection on the girl-who-has-an-imaginary-crush trope. A ‘girl’ who obsesses over a man has no salvation. Feminists can often belittle such obsessions and proclaim that you should rather focus on nobler causes like, a career or academic achievement. Society at large on the other hand, views all ‘feminine’ obsessions like One Direction, Twilight or Justin Bieber as frivolous and stupid while at the same time elevating ‘masculine’ obsessions like South Park or, Rick and Morty. Kraus makes a deep dive into the unexplored territory of ‘feminine’ obsessions. They are so much more than just some frivolous fantasy of tricking some guy into a relationship. She reveals with the utmost sensitivity that such fantasies are a way of coping with the reality of a lifetime of humiliation and rejection on a professional and a romantic level. They are fantasies of respect and acceptance. A defence mechanism of sorts that counteracts the harsh reality of having to be the side-kick, the helper, the loving but silent subordinate. Kraus is never ashamed of her fantasies and she unapologetically chooses to be herself. This book inspired me to do the same. And thus, she keeps on moving forward.  “Adventures in Immediate Irreality”, a review by Despina Ioannou In an attempt to read books that wouldn’t irritate me during lockdown I chose to read ‘Adventures in Immediate Irreality’. I fell for the idea of sinking in the dream-like ambience which the introduction had promised. Max Blecher, the author, provided an impressive description of the psychosomatic effects of his illness through the lens of sincere existential anguish. At the time of writing Blecher was suffering from spinal tuberculosis which had completely immobilised him and would eventually kill him. Under the threat of fast approaching death Blecher’s recollections of childhood and teenage memories were put together and formed this autobiographical novel. One of the central themes of the novel is the exploration of the protagonist’s sexuality.The main character likes Clara, his friend’s sister. Every day he (should we say Blecher?) visits the shop where Clara works to hang out with her brother. The narrative arc could have developed to be a decent love (or lust) story but it takes an unexpected turn when Clara reveals that she would like to spend some alone time with him: “When Clara’s legs touched mine new hopes, vast new expectations were born in me”. Clara’s unintentional touch led to the character’s “first complete and normal sexual adventure” (where complete = penetrative sex and normal = heterosexual). After accusing Clara of having “a violent way of provoking (him) and taking a sordid joy in watching (him) suffer”, the writer feels justified to proceed to the climax of the chapter: “I was at her in a flash. I grabbed her hand (…) She pulled away. ‘Let me go’ she said, annoyed. ‘Come on Clara please…’ I touched her feverishly all over (…) I pulled her off the chair by force. She let me drag her along the floor”. What is a context where someone would let you drag them along the floor? I wonder. Oh well, I thought, this was in the 30s; and I proved to be naive enough to have believed that I could find at least one modern review that had spent one word to address this issue. Blecher was characterised as “a genius (who had) suggested a way that rediscovers life and radiates beauty from suffering”; he had created a “world open only to the genius of child wonder and adolescent desire”. As of his encounters with Clara: “He agonised over his insecurity” “he (was) (…) no different than most other adolescent boys”, “exploring the dark and mysterious depths of sexuality” a masterpiece of “sensibility” and “intelligence”. Blecher’s exploration of his own sexuality was justified and romanticised by critics. It was seen as a standard and accurate representation of adolescent male sexuality. The representation not only is false (just like any other generalisation) but it also maintains and encourages violence. It is as if the concept of ‘the genius’ is itself part of a male culture where many of the characteristics of the newly re-emerged lad culture are present. A culture where women are seen as ‘fascinating’ but ‘incomprehensible’ and a place where interaction with women in any intellectual way is difficult to be found. Although the stylistic virtuosity and the uniqueness of the content go without question I can’t help but wonder; should something like this go unnoticed? Afterthoughts; A Duologue.Despina:
Should something like this go unnoticed? Theo: This is why almost everything irritates me. Despina: Tell me about it! Even reading Kris Kraus was upsetting for me. Theo: That upset you!? Why? Despina: I felt upset because Kris had to live off her husband’s success while her work was not recognised. I felt that I personally have to either endure or fight against this kind of inequality. I tortured myself with wondering whether the enduring undermining of women’s work is real or if it is just a way for me to justify my failures. I always end up being disappointed and confused as to what is going on around me, how I should perceive myself and others. Ironically, I feel the same type of alienation as Blecher. Theo: I get it. Kris can be ‘too real’ sometimes and when I’m in a bad headspace I don’t want to read and watch things that are too real either. Also the enduring undermining of women’s work is real and it’s not a ‘justification’ of personal failures it is a real problem! I mean it’s only recently that women have created their own cultures that are in the public sphere. Even stereotypically ‘feminine’ things like rom-coms and the like, had been exclusively created and marketed by men until recently at least. Despina: You are right, It could be that the contemporary (re)emergence of ‘lad culture’ is just a reaction to the appearance of public female presence… Theo: Wait what do you mean? Because I understand ‘lad culture’ as the ‘boys will be boys’ sentiment which was probably not around when Kris Kraus was writing and was definitely not around when Blecher was writing. Despina: Frankly, that is what I meant. Although the term did not exist when the books were written, I believe that the sentiment did. I get the feeling that some elite intellectual circles had features which resemble university lad cultures. Although ‘Lad culture’ may appear to be a childish banter in its core it is a culture that excludes any group that is not perceived as white and male and unapologetically aims to maintain privilege over other groups. Theo: I guess it could be seen as progress to talk about a ‘lad culture’ coz it means that there are cultures and communities in the public eye that are not laddish. But then again is it really progress when the products of lad culture are seen as super intellectual? Like some people talk about Rick and Morty as if it is written and produced by an elect group of intellectuals who are deeply concerned about scientific enquiry, when it’s probably a bunch of guys who wanted to do fart jokes. Despina: It feels as if there is a thread connecting the culture of the 20th century ‘genius’ to the 21st century’s lad culture. It’s like Blecher, Silvere and Dick from ‘I love Dick’ belong exactly to that ‘elite lad circle’ which was licensed to decide whom to regard as a genius. For me, ‘Adventures in Immediate Irreality’ provided some kind of proof that the connection wasn’t just in my head. Theo: That connection is definitely not in your head. It’s almost like that label attaches itself on a very specific group of people. They don’t really need to do much more other than exist to be seen as geniuses. Despina: Just like the serial killer documentary; do you remember watching that? Theo: Ted Bundy! That guy could have very much just gone to the police and said “I have raped and murdered many many women some of which were also underaged girls” and the police would not bat an eye. I mean the guy was an idiot, he left a trail of evidence behind him and he was still seen as a genius somehow. Despina: Exactly… it is almost as if gender performance (in combination with other things: class, race etc) is a rather accurate predictor for perceived intelligence. This is why I always felt that my performance was not acceptable in ‘intellectual’ environments because (I assume) that it is more feminine than it ‘should be’. Theo: I think I’ve always been more ‘masculine’ or ‘laddish’ in performance than you but that’s not really accepted either. You know I realised one day that no matter how ‘masculine’ I performed everyone was still going to perceive me as a woman, so I just let myself perform however I wanted. Despina: You probably are right it is not about performed gender. It is rather perceived gender that enables us to ascribe intelligence. After all, misogyny is embedded in our culture is not something you encounter only when you feel like encountering it. It is in modernism, in banter, in having fun, it is in surrealism, it is in existentialism… Theo: So what are you supposed to do when things trigger you beyond recovery? Despina: I don’t think there is ‘beyond recovery’; there are times when identifying how a representation is problematic will permanently change your views on a given topic. I think we should just accept that sometimes it will be painful. Theo: Sometimes it’s really hard to forgive that something so established can be so blatantly sexist and even apologetic to rape and violence. I’m sure there was plenty of sexism in the 18th century but Groupchkaya was still the first ever female character I could actually identify with. Despina: We shouldn’t forgive any such representation; we should however understand such violence in its context. I agree that empowering female characters can be found in classic works and I don’t even consider it surprising. There may have existed non-misogynist writers who still functioned as part of patriarchal structures and were able to create empowering female representations. Theo: It’s not and it shouldn’t be because at the end of the day the truth is varied and complicated. We should find the balance between speaking truth to power while acknowledging that sometimes we might have become the power that truth needs to be spoken to. Vanessa and Despina decided to co-write a reflective-text. They chose an inspiring topic; language and identity. Despina jotted down some questions. In trying to answer them Vanessa wrote short stories related to the languages that she speaks. Despina wrote her own reflections. Despina, then, weaved the language-stories of the two girls together. The result is the following text, one that they realised was made so much richer by the reverberations and echoes that danced between their voices... A conversation between Vanessa and Despina English; our common ground Mother tongue Other languages and thoughts English; our common groundVanessa: I first realised the power of language when I was in high school. A former student from my town came to talk about his job during our English class. The town where I lived is very small: 7000 people at most. Hence, I already knew him by sight. I knew him for being a rather shy person. His gait exposed insecurity, his stammering voice was normally low. To be honest, I cannot be sure that he stammered, but that’s how I remembered him, the impression I had of him. The person who spoke that day was very different. Clothed in the sharp sounds of English, he emanated confidence. He stood straight and delivered his speech with calm and assurance. It was as if he knew something we didn’t. That day I learnt that you can become someone else by learning a new language. You can even become a confident person. And that’s what I went on doing, as I enrolled in the faculty of foreign languages and then moved to the UK, and to Russia, and to Portugal. Each of these languages and each of these places revealed someone different within me. When I am in England, I am law-abiding, I work tidy and tirelessly, I gain a confidence that only that language gives me. Despina: I feel that my story with English is a much sadder one and my relationship with it is still kind of difficult. English is like a toxic friend to me. I was very young when I moved to England, very far from being fluent (or even able to communicate basic things); it was impossible to follow the lectures without Greek subtitles; let alone write an essay about music and modernism (yes, that was the first essay topic we were given). However, the lecturers were rather understanding. I never failed an assignment even though some didn’t really make sense. I think they guessed what I was trying to write. The first time English made me feel happy was when I managed to read Dorian Gray; the first time I realised that learning a language opened a door for me. I gradually loved the English literature, the English language and culture. It was the English literature that enabled me to see the world through their eyes; understand their struggles, their anxieties; their history. Without ever forgetting how it feels... to not be able to communicate. Without ever managing to shake off the impression that other people criticise me for not being fluent (enough). Vanessa: right after coming back from my year in Sheffield I went to the beach with my mum. Re-enacting my habits, I flipped through the pages of her women’s magazine and I could not help notice a subtle but threatening sentence. Below the photograph of the “model for a day” the journalist wrote: “This is Valentina and she dreams of becoming an accountant”. My English-filled eyes stumbled shocked at those words: if the same photo had been published in an English magazine, they would have written “This is Valentina and she plans on becoming an accountant”. She wants to. She is studying for. But not dreaming. Dreaming becomes to the realm of unreality, planning to that of the possible. And becoming an accountant should reside within the realm of the possible. What ideological operation is realised in using dreaming instead of planning? Is it telling us that getting a steady, lay job in Italy is not within reach (which is indeed probably not)? Is it moulding us to think that we are extremely lucky (a dream!) if we find the job we have been trained for? And what confidence gives you instead, saying in English, I am studying to be an accountant and then go on becoming it? Is that related to the no-more-stammering voice of the guy I had listened to in that high school class? Mother tongueDespina: Could it also be telling of our confidence as well ? I usually find that (although this is a personal observation and it surely would take a lot of discussion/research to suggest something like that) but I feel something like nation-confidence exists. Smaller, poorer (or even countries that were hit harder from the crisis) have a collective low(er) self-esteem; which is surely imprinted in the language. I always find the ‘Collective Greek Self Esteem’ (creating terminology along the way ) erratic. A Greek person may be complaining on and on; sinking in their personal drama for absolutely no reason. Nevertheless, beyond the contents of their words one can always identify a constant overtone, some kind of pride colouring whatever it is they are talking about. My guess is that it is stemming from the very fact that their culture comes from Ancient Greece. Even non particularly nationalist people (even I, it is myself I am sketching here, I am not looking to offend anyone haha). Such sentiments,though, are so complicated and ever-changing that I am never sure that I get it; and then I don’t feel fully entitled to talk about the Greek language as if it were my own because if I had to choose one mother tongue I ‘d choose my dialect.. Vanessa: It’s not clear what a mother tongue is. The embarrassing truth is, I don't speak Italian. I like writing in it, and I even teach it, but I never really speak it. When I speak Italian, I speak my dialect, Pergolese. Despina: I didn’t know that you also speak a dialect.. Vanessa: Maybe it’s the burden (and the joy) of those who grow up in a little town, to be always wanting to run away and to catch oneself looking back once one is far? I hold onto my dialect like on a log of wood in a shipwreck. In my dialect I find connection to the ground. But my dialect also estranges me, because it brings me back to a me that I wanted to leave behind when I moved away. The uncertainty, the gaps between words, the shyness, the sensation of unbelonging surface through the language and I, who am witty in English, loud in Spanish, scandalous in Portuguese, decisive in Russian, stand still without words. The biggest shock was going back to Bologna, once the place I called home, after years of living abroad. I was a complete stranger. People talked to me and I wanted to speak other languages. I wasn’t privy to their cultural repertoire. I didn’t know how things were done anymore, and yet everyone expected me to be at ease, ‘cos after all this is my country. I ended up making friends with a French, a Canadian, and a German. In the small enclave of people who didn’t belong, I belonged. Is there a nation of unbelonging people, who nevertheless belong to each other? When I speak Italian, I am the insecure girl who gave up on her dream because of fear of failure, I am the girl who didn’t know what to say at parties, the one who, even then, didn’t belong. I seek refuge in the shelter of other languages. Despina: It almost feels like an obligation; we are obliged to perceive our native language as our first tongue. But how could the language of our thoughts and dreams be foreign? I always think that. How about dialects? Does that count as mother tongue? The emotional bonds with the dialect are so strong; it is the only form of the language that makes me feel at home but at the same time it is a source of irritation when certain assumptions are made about me and my personality because I have a different accent. I think it goes back to what you ‘ve just said; I guess I just feel exactly the same.. It is very painful for me because I would really like to use it for so many more things; I would be so happy if I could write just one Cypriot poem. But I can’t; I just cringe every time I start doing this and the cringe is so strong that won’t let me finish my poem. Other languages and thoughtsVanessa: And what about Spanish? Spanish is the only language I speak without having lived in any of the countries where it is spoken. I didn’t even study it: I learnt it by trial and error as it was the language of conversations between me and my ex. I never read a book in Spanish while we were together, I only used it for talking and writing texts that must be still populating the nightmares of linguists. However, when we broke up I could not accept breaking up with the language as well, and I sought it in novels and poems, in my trips to Andalucia, in the taste of a beer that brought me back to the tascas and tapas and tortillas of the Galician shores. As I never studied it, I absorbed this language from my ex: the words he used more often I would also use, the mistake he made I would replicate myself. Who am I when I speak Spanish? I am the trace of a faded love; my Spanish speaks of us. Despina: What about Spanish? To be honest Spanish in my mind was an opportunity to realise how much I like languages. I got so much into Spanish that after a few months of lessons I was reading literature in Spanish and watching Spanish TV. I just feel that before Spanish I was passionately looking for something to like rather than passionately liking anything. Maybe that is an exaggeration; but I am allowed one.. Vanessa: The Opposite Stories of Russian and Portuguese When I am in Russia, I’m on a rush - I run, I am tense, I don’t wait. I am governed by strict and insistent internal rules. I move on straight paths, approaching my directions without turning on my steps. But also, I can melt in exquisite bursts of diminutive ka and iusha (smotri-ka! Mishula! kotionka!). Linking dots on the map, the same diminutives come up like sobs in my Portuguese - um cafeziiinho, que fofiiinho..beijiinhos. But, if in Russian they drop down like guillotines on a sharp and dry ending, in Portuguese they stretch the words and force my mouth to bend on a forced smile. Right in step with my Portuguese slower, lazier, chattier self. This Portuguese me likes strolling and going in circles; she talks louder and often breaks into laughter; moreover, she learnt to sing when there’s no-one around. Failure- Aspirations French is the last language I tried to learn before moving to Canada. Here, I got stuck and I have spent the last months in a perpetual state of waiting. I was supposed to practice the little bit I knew and become fluent, but the truth is, I barely spoke to anyone since I have been in lockdown, so how could I practice it? Now people ask me, oh, you live in Montreal, did you learn French? And my heart sinks, because I am aware that I spoke it better when I arrived than now. French is the knot in my throat, from which sprouts insecurities and guilt. It confronts me with my fears and my failure. This language belongs to a hollow body that wants to puke. I don’t know yet how I will find my way again through this language. Despina: See some languages are attached to people. At least in one’s mind. My mum is fluent in Russian and also a teacher of Russian. She loves the language, the culture, the literature; quite everything related to it. I, on the other hand, only know my mother’s perception of Russia and the Russians; I have no other contact with it; and in a sense, my repeated, almost always failed, attempts to learn Russian with her are somehow a reenactment of our relationship. I tried to learn for the first time when I was 7 years old, then again when I was 15, again at 17 and now at 25 I am finishing level A1! Many and constant attempts to maintain and deepen a relationship with a language and a person; many times failed; but it seems like there is hope.  We have compiled a list of books by female writers that we believe capture different facets of the female experience. We begin from 1950's Argentina and travel all the way to Jamaica, America, South Korea and Ireland. This list can be seen as a collection of female experiences from the mid 20th to the early 21st century.
Some books that we haven't yet read but we believe would complement our list nicely: It’s not about the burqa; Muslim Women on Faith, Feminism,Sexuality and Race by Mariam Khan (2019) Women’s weird: Strange Stories by Women, 1890-1940 by Melissa Edmundson (2019) Down Girl: The logic of Misogyny by Kate Manne (2017) Bad Feminist by Roxane Gay (2014)
The idea was writing a poem in Greek and then translating it to English and Spanish. However, it appeared almost impossible to stick to my original poem. I realised that each translation was re-telling a different part of the story of the original poem. This is why the three resulting (almost identical) poems have different titles. Also, as I am not yet fluent in Spanish I apologise for any mistakes or awkward phrasing. -p1    This poem is to appear in a zine anthology called "Meu útero é uma bomba" a publication by the Centre of Comparative Studies of the University of Lisbon which will be edited by Vanessa Montesi and illustrated by Prisca Milanesi. You can also find this poem on Mouthing off Magazine! The link to the page can be found below. In IsolationMy house is now the ocean floor
Serene, so silent; so left alone Some nights are dreams of noise and life Dark nights of phantom, starry skies Bright, blue waves; warm, grey gravel Salty, humid, sandy marvel My joined hands towards the surface but right before I make the move, a music. Loud, distorted, out of tune shatters the layers of the sea Voices. Ugly, rude, chaotic yelling, singing, laughing. What else is left apart from skies? Apart from warm, bright, salty sights? Violent howls, deceitful yearnings Dirty funds to buy more waste Walls with signs for sunny summers Built by bricks of blood and burgers Eyes toward the ocean floor. The greenest bed has turned to fire The pain has spilled The torment spoils Who am I? I float as air. I fly as water. As passing wind, as flowing stream, the cliffs, a tree What else is left for me to be? |
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